20 July 2006

It was so late as to be early, Wednesday night having slowly given way to Thursday morning while Ruth stood in the doorway to the pub, her arms wrapped around her daughter, trying valiantly not to weep, not now, not yet, not where Maren could see. As she ran her hands soothingly up and down her daughter's back she caught sight of her own skin in the dim glow of the lamp and a chill coursed the length of her spine; her hands were stained crimson with Harry's blood. A wave of horror, sickening and fierce, washed over her, and she released her hold on her daughter at once, stepping away and taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to hold the pieces of her heart together, just a little while longer.

Maren was staring up at her, blue eyes wide and round with shock, still, hysteria lingering in the lines and planes of her face, but before Ruth could offer her any reassurance the agent Harry had referred to as Peters came walking up to them.

"Ruth?" he said softly. She turned to face him, wondering numbly when he'd learned her name; she couldn't recall having introduced herself. Not that it mattered. There were only two things in the entire world that mattered to Ruth in that moment; Maren, alive and well and unscathed standing before her, and Harry, shuffled off into an ambulance, taken from her, in God only knew what sort of condition after the trauma he'd suffered.

"I know you'll be wanting to join Harry as soon as you can," Peters said apologetically, "but we have to take your statement now, before you leave the scene. Is there somewhere we could go to talk?"

"This way," she said, turning on her heel and leading him back towards the dining room. She wanted, very much, to reach out and wrap her arm around Maren's shoulders, to cling to her daughter, to find reassurance through that comforting nearness, but she could not bear the thought of her bloodstained hands touching her child. There was something unseemly about it, something terrible and violent in the implication, and Ruth did not want the hideous reality of all she had seen to sully her daughter's heart. It didn't matter, really; Maren came with them without prompting, following along in their wake like a frightened puppy.

Ruth kept right on walking until she was behind the bar, drawing some confidence from the familiarity of her surroundings; this was her place, her domain, the only spot in all the world where she felt truly in charge, in command, in control. She turned her back as Peters and Maren took their seats across from her, busying herself with scrubbing Harry's blood from her hands at the little sink on the back wall, trying not to stare at the swirling scarlet flood that burst forth the moment the water touched her skin.

"What happened tonight, Ruth?" Peters asked her gently. The softness of his voice threw her off balance; she had expected this conversation to be professional, impersonal, direct. She had not anticipated empathy, and for a moment she wondered where it had come from, the compassion he was directing her way. How much did he know about her situation? Ruth asked herself as she continued to mechanically scrub her hands. How much of a confession was he looking for here? Did she need to detail all her many sins, explain all the nights she had spent in Sean Kelly's bed, explain all the myriad salacious twistings and turnings of the road that had led her to this point?

Beneath the stream of scalding water, Ruth's hands began to shake. Start at the beginning, she told herself.

"Sean came round to see me," she began carefully. "It was about...I don't know, just gone eleven, maybe. He said he wanted to speak to me. I didn't want to speak to him, but then he showed me his gun, and told me to take him upstairs."

Even with her back turned, even above the sound of the water and the frantic pounding of her own heart loud as a drum in her ears, she could hear Maren's sharp intake of breath, could practically feel her daughter's distress. Though she longed to shield Maren from the horrors she had witnessed this night, she knew it was a story she needed to tell.

"I didn't want to cause trouble; we had customers in the pub and Maren was behind the bar. So I took him up to an empty room. He told me that it was Ryan who killed your friend tonight, that Ryan was the one who...who killed my husband."

There was a stubborn stain beneath one of her fingernails that would not come clean, no matter how hard she scrubbed it, but Ruth redoubled her efforts, wanting to prolong her distraction at the sink, wanting to put off the moment when she would have to turn to face her daughter, and see the heartache written across her face. Ruth was certain that the moment she locked eyes with Maren her artful reserve would crumble, and she would shatter under the weight of her grief.

"Did he seem rational? Did he threaten you?"

That word, threaten, seemed to contain within it a world of insidious meaning. Ruth knew what he was driving at, couched in such a delicate turn of phrase; she had been alone in a hotel room with an armed madman for an hour. A shudder went through her, as she pondered how close she had come to calamity.

"No," she breathed. "He told me the gun was for protection from Ryan. I believed him. He seemed...frightened, not aggressive." She fell silent, recalling the emotions that had coursed through her, while she waited in that room with him. Though the gun had made her uncomfortable, and Sean's demeanor had been more distressing still, she had trusted him, had believed in him; after all, she had always suspected Ryan's guilt, and Sean had always been so kind to her. He had touched her gently, had never pushed her, and the thought that it was him, this man she had given herself to without reservation, and not his dastardly brother who had brought this devastation down upon her head still boggled her mind. How could I have been so foolish? She berated herself.

"Then what happened?" Peters prodded her gently when she had remained quiet too long. Her hands had begun to sting, from the constant, vicious scrubbing she was giving them. She knew she ought to stop, that she was as clean as she was ever like to be, but she had become mesmerized by the movement, and she carried on, heedless.

"Then Harry came," she answered. "I was so relieved to see him, I thought if anyone could help me it was him. And the minute the door closed behind him, Sean shot him."

The tremors that had started in her hands slowly spread out, her whole body shaking with adrenaline, with fear, with guilt, but she carried on, knowing she was nearly finished with her tale, reminding herself that all she had to do was speak, and then she could go and see to Harry. Could hold his hand, could tell him how she loved him, could see that warm smile light up his dear face, and know that he was well. Not long now, she told herself.

"I tried to help him," she said, her hands finally coming to a stop as she willed herself not to break. "Sean said he had to get rid of Harry, and then he said he'd have to get rid of me, too. That's when Harry shot him. I didn't even know he had a gun. And then I stayed with him, until you arrived."

All the time Ruth had been talking, Peters had been taking notes, furiously scribbling in a little book. She finally turned off the water and reached for a rag to dry her hands, steeling herself as she turned to face him. Beside him Maren was staring at her in slackjawed horror, as if she simply couldn't believe the story she'd just heard. Ruth longed to reach out, to comfort her, to remind her that what was done was done, and they were all safe now, but she held herself back, not wanting to share such a private moment with the hard-faced man sat next to her.

"And that's it?" Peters asked as he completed his notes. "Did Sean say anything about his business, or why he might have killed your husband?"

A small, troubled sound passed Maren's lips at those words; inwardly, Ruth cursed Peters for stating the truth so bluntly, but she gave no outward sign of her distress. For three long years she had kept her suspicions about George's death to herself, had shielded her daughter from the terrible truth she feared to speak aloud, and now that truth had been unceremoniously dumped in Maren's lap, and Ruth herself would be left to pick up the pieces.

"He didn't explain," she answered. "Before he...died, George told me he saw something, on the docks. Something that scared him. No doubt word got back to Sean, and he took steps to protect himself. You are certain it was Sean?" she added a bit desperately. Before this night she had been so sure that Ryan was the one to blame, and now that she had been proven wrong, she wanted only the truth, wanted only reassurance that the last of her doubts could be dispelled, that George's troubled memory could be laid to rest.

"As certain as we can be," Peters hedged. "Ryan told a convincing story, and some of the other lads have backed him up. Sean's been taken to hospital; if he survives the night, might be he could tell us himself."

Ruth nodded glumly; as far as she was concerned, that was an unlikely prospect. She'd seen Sean, seen the state of him before he was trundled out of the room, and she could not believe that he would live long enough to confess his many sins.

"Right," Peters said, rising to his feet. "That's all for now. The Garda will follow up with you, probably tomorrow." He reached out, offering his hand, and Ruth took it, shaking it once before allowing the man to depart in silence.

It was a silence that lingered, growing stronger and more uncomfortable with each passing second, as Ruth's eyes fell upon her daughter's face. That face she loved so well, that face so like her own, ravaged now by fear and weeping; what have I done? Ruth wondered, tears welling up as the moments continued to tick by. Oh, my darling girl, you deserved so much better.

"Mam?" Maren asked in a shaking voice. That voice shattered what little remained of Ruth's composure, and with a gasp she dropped the rag she'd been worrying between her hands, and all but ran from behind the bar, catching Maren in her arms and holding her tight as her daughter began to weep.

"It's all right, love," Ruth whispered, her voice choked by her own tears. "It's all right. It's all over now."


The coffee was thin and greasy, the chair hard and unforgiving, the lights overhead sterile, harsh, overbright; nothing about this place was inviting or comfortable, but Ruth would not be roused from her seat in the little waiting room down the hall from the surgery where the doctors were tending to Harry's wound. If asked about it later, she would not be able to explain how it was that she had managed to drive herself and Maren from the pub to the hospital, as wrung out and distracted as she was, but she had made a promise to Harry, and somehow she had kept it. Upon arriving she and Maren had been shunted off to the little room, and there they sat, two hours later, still waiting for word of Harry's condition. The doctors had refused to speak to her, explaining that she was not family and as such was not entitled to information about his care, but though she had bristled, Ruth had bit her tongue and agreed to wait.

Beside her Maren was resting, her head pillowed on Ruth's shoulder, and though her arm had long since gone numb, Ruth made no attempt to move her. The closeness was comforting, just now. It had been so long since last she'd held her daughter like this, so long since Maren had needed the calming touch of her mother, and Ruth was enjoying it, in a way, remembering how things had been when Maren was small and as yet untroubled by the chaos of the world around her. It was in her mind to think that Maren had fallen asleep, but then she spoke, her voice low and uncertain.

"Can I ask you something?" Maren asked timidly.

Ruth smiled, though she knew Maren could not see it. They were so alike in so many ways, Ruth and this child she had raised, and she knew the curiosity must have been gnawing away at Maren, knew that likely there were several questions waiting to spill from her lips.

"Of course, love," Ruth answered.

"Mr. Harrison isn't who he says is, is he?"

Clever girl, Ruth thought wryly, pressing a kiss against Maren's hair. "No, he isn't. His name is Harry Pearce. He works for MI-5."

"He's a spy?" Maren asked incredulously, sitting upright and turning in her chair to face her mother.

"He is. He was sent here to help with an investigation."

"Is that why he came here in the first place? Before I was born?"

That question skirted dangerously close to a wound Ruth was not interested in reopening, but she knew she owed her daughter the truth. Much as Ruth might wish otherwise, Maren was a child no longer, and Ruth could not protect her forever.

"It is," she said carefully. "He was sent here to find someone." And he failed, she added silently. Some instinct to preserve Harry's dignity stayed her tongue, and she did not voice that thought aloud.

"But I saw the book he wrote," Maren protested.

Ruth smiled fondly, reaching out to smooth Maren's errant hair. "I don't know how they managed that," she conceded. "But I can tell you Harry didn't write it."

"He wrote the introduction though, didn't he?" Maren asked shrewdly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

This was dangerous ground, and Ruth knew it, but she had decided to tell the truth, and she would follow through now, whatever the cost. She could see no other choice, save to lie, and that was one thing she had sworn she would never do. Oh, she had kept her secrets, but she had done her best to never lie to Maren outright, and she wasn't about to start now.

"He did," she allowed.

"You had an affair with him, didn't you?" Maren asked quietly. There was an accusation in her tone, all the fearful mistrust of a girl whose very world had given way beneath her feet, and Ruth could not fault her for that. There had been so much upheaval, in recent days, and she knew her daughter's heart was aching. It grieved her more than she could say, to know how much pain her own actions had caused, but she was determined to make it right.

"I was young," she began, though she paused for a moment as Maren withdrew, her face cold and afraid. "I wasn't seeing your father," Ruth forced herself to carry on. "I wasn't seeing anyone. And he was...you have to understand, Maren, we cared for one another, very much. I know it seems strange, but it's the truth."

"And then what, he just left?" Maren demanded. Somehow she had gone from being cross with Ruth to being outraged on her behalf, and Ruth found herself struggling to keep up, suffering from the emotional equivalent of whiplash. It had always been this way; Maren was a tempestuous girl, a girl who felt things so deeply, and a girl who had never learned to mask those feelings away behind a plastered-on smile.

"He had to, love," Ruth told her, keeping her voice gentle and soft, explaining to Maren the very same thing she had been trying to convince herself of for the last twenty one years. "He had to go back to London. He had a job -" and a family, she thought glumly -"and he was needed there. He didn't belong here."

For a long moment Maren mulled over this, the feverish workings of her mind practically visible in the shining depths of her eyes. "Did he…" she started to ask, faltered, looked away. "Is he…" she tried again, but came no closer to finishing that question than the first. This was it, Ruth knew, the moment when she would have to speak, to reveal the secret she'd kept so long, the secret that had tortured her heart from the moment her daughter was born. This was the moment when she would take the plunge, and risk ruining her relationship with her daughter forever. It had to be done, though, and she knew it. She took a deep breath.

"Does it matter?" Ruth asked her softly. "Your father loved you, Maren. He knew that there was a chance, a good chance, that you weren't his, and he loved you anyway."

Maren looked away, her shoulders tense, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "We were a family. Harry may be your father, and if you want to know for sure we can find out, but please, please, don't forget how much George loved you."

Beside her Maren had begun to weep, unable to hold her tears at bay any longer, and so Ruth reached out, wrapped her arms around her daughter and drew her close. And to her credit, Maren did not pull away, did not shout or damn her for a betrayer; she just collapsed, caving in on herself while her mother held her close and prayed for forgiveness.


The moment he was able to speak, Harry demanded to see Ruth. The nurse had taken her time about it, checking all his vital signs and chiding him about how he ought to be resting, but Harry would not be deterred, and insisted until finally she caved and went off to fetch Ruth, muttering under her breath all the while. It seemed to take an eternity for her to appear, but when she finally came walking through the door Harry was so overcome at the sight of her that he very nearly began to weep.

She was by his side in an instant, perched on the edge of his bed; she took his hand in her own, clutching him fiercely while her eyes devoured every inch of his face, searching for the same reassurance her presence brought him.

"How are you feeling?" she whispered, her voice hushed by the unnatural stillness of the hospital room.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," he answered gruffly. Even to his own ears his voice sounded scratchy and raw, but he was capable of speech, and he could feel the warmth of her skin against his own, and he counted himself lucky. The surgery had been a success, though he knew that he had a long road to walk before he recovered full use of his arm. The prospect of all that therapy was grim; the game of spies was one of survival, and the old and the weary and the wounded did not last long.

At his words Ruth let loose a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob, her whole body tense as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. He wanted to tell her to let go, that it was all right, that they were both safe now, but she spoke before he had the chance.

"I was so scared," she breathed. "I don't know what I'd do, if I lost you again."

His heart began to pound, some of her grief communicating itself to him, his need to declare his love, to comfort her rising to the surface. "Ruth-"

Once more she cut him off. "I love you, Harry," she said brokenly. It pained him, to think that she could confess such a thing in such a melancholy tone, but then she leaned across his chest, and kissed him firmly, her free hand cradling his stubbled cheek. Her lips were soft and warm, her kiss passionate, insistent, saying without words everything he had ever meant to her, and he matched her with equal ardor, trying to convince her of the depth of his own affection for her. There was nothing in the world he loved the way he loved this woman, and her declaration had filled him with boundless joy. They were both a bit battered, both a bit bruised, but they were both still here. Together.

"I love you," she breathed when they parted for air.

Harry grinned up at her, still somewhat dazed by the anesthesia, wondering if this were just a dream. Dream or not, it was everything he had every wanted, the words he had waited twenty-one years to hear her say, and he would not let this moment pass him by. He reached up, tangling the fingers of his good hand in her hair, and drew her back to him for another kiss.