A:N: When writing what is now chapter 1 of this story I had no plan for it to continue beyond the one-shot format, but plans can be changed, and so here is another chapter, which at this stage is definitely the last one!

And again, I remind readers that the opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily my own.

The home of Harry Pearce – London, Sunday March 29, 2020, 7.08am:

"I have an idea," she says, her breath whispering like a breeze across the skin of his bare chest. They are lying in post-coital quiet, the world outside the bedroom almost as silent. Harry patiently waits for her to share her idea. He hopes it doesn't involve DIY, or tidying kitchen cupboards. "Why don't we invite Bob over to share breakfast with us? You mentioned last night that he spends all day every day alone. I thought, given we have each other, and Bob has no-one, he might -"

"He won't, Ruth. He'll only come over if I'm home alone."

"Two old bachelors together."

"Enough of the old," Harry says quickly. "I'm young enough to be his son."

Harry feels her move in the bed beside him as she lifts her body to bring her head level with his. "It's just that this … thing we're living through, this virus, or whatever it is, it's made me think about some things more than usual. I've been thinking about the homeless – the rough sleepers – do they have to isolate? And if so, where do they go to isolate themselves? How can they possibly maintain social distancing when they rely upon others for warmth, or a shared blanket?"

Harry has no answers for her. He doubts anyone has answers to those questions, and by rights they should have. If there is no solution for the homeless, then they as a society are all culpable.

"Surely those living on the streets will be more susceptible to any illness which passes through the population," Ruth continues, dog with a bone. Slipping one hand around her shoulder, Harry pulls her closer, his attempt to reassure her, this woman who often cares too much.

"Some problems are insurmountable, Ruth," he says quietly. His unspoken belief is that there are those in places of unmitigated power who would breathe more easily were the rough sleepers to simply disappear. These same people would welcome the prospect of an illness sweeping through the population who live on the streets, and they would turn their backs and look the other way while it happened.

"Well, they shouldn't be," Ruth says bluntly. "There are enough of us who have everything we need, and if we can't make a difference to the lives of those who haven't then what is the good of us being here at all?"

Harry sighs. He knows that unless he changes the subject, Ruth will gnaw away at the issue until she gets angry, after which she will likely blame him for the homeless being homeless in the first place. "I have a better idea than breakfast," he says.

"So you're reinventing the first meal of the day?"

"Not exactly. Rather than inviting Bob for breakfast, why don't we invite him to dinner this evening? Maybe that can become a ritual .. at least, while we're trapped inside our respective houses. Sunday night can become Bob Night."

Ruth turns to him then, her face relaxed, her eyes sparkling in that way they do when she's happy. "Do you know something, Harry Pearce?" He shakes his head. He's sure she's about to tell him. "You are a gem among men."

Harry twists his mouth in distaste. "Gem? That's a bit … feminine for a bloke like me, don't you think?"

"Not at all. It means you're precious, and held in much love and esteem … by me."

Harry pulls her close enough for him to kiss her, a kiss which lasts for some time. It is Ruth who pulls away first. "I need more than a kiss for breakfast, Harry."

And so does he.

Harry's house, same day – early evening:

"You had no need to bring anything, Bob," Harry says, examining the label on the bottle of red Bob had brought with him. "We were just after your company."

"Complete tosh," Bob replies, nodding to Ruth, who has just closed the oven door after checking the state of the lamb roast. "You felt sorry for me being alone in my house, but you forget that I've lived alone for a long time. I'm also a talker, and I can maintain a conversation with myself for hours on end."

Harry doesn't doubt that at all. "Ruth and I have talked, and while this home detention is in place, we'd like to share our Sunday evening meal with you each week."

"Thank you, m'boy. Shall we take it week by week? You might tire of my stories."

"Never," Ruth chips in, having taken the chair beside Harry. "Your stories brighten my day."

Having already opened a bottle of his own red wine, allowing it to breathe for fifteen minutes, Harry pours them each a glass. "Here's to Sunday nights," he says, lifting his glass towards Bob, and then to Ruth.

"And to good friends," Bob adds before taking a gulp.

"And to love," Ruth says quietly. "May we never forget how to love."

"Quite right," says Bob, lifting his glass before he takes another swallow.

Harry has shared many a drinking session with his neighbour, and apart from his propensity for increasing loquaciousness, he has never witnessed Bob becoming untidily inebriated. Harry himself has a rather high tolerance for alcohol, while Bob, rake thin, could comfortably drink him under the table.

Two bottles of wine and one roast dinner later, Bob has shooed Ruth to the living room so that he and Harry can clean up after their meal.

"Don't ever take that little lady for granted," Bob says to Harry while they are washing and drying the dishes. "She might be the best thing that has ever happened to you."

"I don't doubt that," Harry replies.

"She's much younger than you, so you must keep up." Harry turns to look the older man in the eyes. Does he mean what Harry thinks he means? "Women can be … active .. in a certain way for many more years than we men, so … I think you know what I'm saying." Harry does. He's all ears. "My Marjory was eleven years my junior," Bob continues, "which is why we didn't marry until I was thirty-four. She was only fifteen when we met, so we had to bide our time, and I had to convince her parents I was the right man for her – no easy task. Then once we were married we had trouble conceiving, so Andrew was born six months before I turned forty, and Madeleine came along three years later. I always believed Marjory would outlive me, but she was dead three months before she turned sixty-five." Harry waits, knowing there is more. "I never expected that, and so you shouldn't expect Ruth to be there when your end is nigh. She probably will be, but there are no guarantees."

Harry nods, but can no longer give Bob eye contact. During all their years of friendship Harry has never heard Bob speak about his personal life in this way. He has heard every tale, and more, about the Korean War, but Bob's personal past had remained a closed book. He feels he should contribute in some way, but doesn't know where to begin.

"I do value Ruth," he says quietly, drying a dinner plate over and over until it shines.

Bob stops washing, and turns towards Harry. "You have to more than value her, son. You have to love her enough that she'll never ever think of leaving you. You have to love her with so much more than your heart; you have to love her with your whole life." Bob goes back to washing a saucepan. "Marjory taught me that," he adds quietly, his last words on the matter.

Despite the protestations of his hosts, just before ten o'clock Bob Rundle leaves, hurrying through the back door and across Harry's garden with a wave of his hand. Just after they'd finished dinner a light rain had begun to fall, so that the pathway and the adjoining fence between the two properties glistens in the glow of a streetlight.

Returning to the living room, Harry sits on the sofa beside Ruth before grabbing the remote control to mute the sound of the TV.

"I might have been watching that," Ruth complains.

"And were you?"

"Not really. It's all bad news." She smiles weakly at Harry, who is staring her down. She is aware that the stare-down is one of Harry's control tactics, and rather than taking it personally she accepts that this may be an automatic response Harry has to that which he sees needs to change. She'd like to say: We're not on the Grid now, but she lets it slide.

"I just watched a rather disturbing report from Australian TV," she begins quietly. "There was this guy saying openly to the news reporter that they have checked people's movements by tracking their mobile phones, and he's pleased to report that most people are staying at home." She watches Harry closely. He knows what is coming next. "Don't you find that … disturbing?"

"The intelligence community has been tracking people for years, Ruth. And the mobile phone has just made tracking people's movements easier."

"That's the intelligence community, Harry. This is the government of a democratic nation tracking its own people … without their knowledge or permission, but presumably `for their own good'. That's … Orwellian."

Harry suppresses a sigh. He has lost count of the number of times during the past month or so he has heard George Orwell's name mentioned. Welcome to 2020! "Ruth, you must also know that what the police and the government get up to in the next six months or so has already been in use by the intelligence community for at least two decades."

"But that doesn't make it right." Ruth is standing her ground, and the last thing he needs now is an argument about citizens' right to privacy.

"I know, Ruth, and I understand your point of view -"

"But you don't agree with it."

Harry hesitates. Ruth will recognise any attempts he makes to please or placate her. He knows he needs to be honest. "Maybe I spent too long in counter-terrorism, and maybe I justified actions which had little to justify them, but if the situation is serious enough, and the technology already exists, then .. perhaps it needs to be made use of."

Ruth is not about to give up. "But don't you think the people should have been forewarned?"

"Had they been warned that their phones were being tracked, then they may have turned off their phones, or left them at home whenever they left the house, thus giving false results."

"That's all very well, but the way I see it democracy – by definition – is dying as quickly as those unfortunate people who contract the virus."

He certainly agrees with that, but he can also see both sides of the argument, and in his mind, both are valid. Maybe he needs to rethink the present situation, and perhaps it is time he views their world with the eyes of the man who loves this woman, rather than the man who once headed counter-terrorism in Mi5. Harry reaches out to grasp one of her hands, stilling its constant movement back and forth along the material of her skirt. With his touch he feels her body relaxing.

"There's something which has been bothering me," she says at last, staring at their clasped hands, before she lifts her eyes to his. "I've been thinking about this whole … situation, and I can't help wondering why it is the governments of the world are so concerned about the coronavirus deaths, while all along they ignore the homeless, and turn their backs on those who are struggling to make ends meet now their jobs are gone. It seems to me .." and she looks away from him to gather her thoughts before her eyes return to his. "It seems obvious to me that this … epidemic, as tragic as it is, is being used in some way to change the way we live. People are bound to die from the illness, but so will people die from suicide, or stress-related conditions, or spending too many cold nights on the streets of Leeds or Newcastle or Manchester. I even read that many more people die in road accidents each year than will be lost to this virus." She watches Harry for a long moment. "If governments are so invested in saving human lives, then why don't they ban the car? Why now? Why this illness, and why didn't they initiate the same measures with SARS, or swine flu? It makes no sense to me."

Harry nods. He has thought the same thing, but now in retirement doesn't wish to ponder the imponderable. "So what you're asking, Ruth, is if the changes being implemented since this virus appeared on the scene are for the greater good."

"I suppose that's what I'm saying, yes."

"I have no easy answers, and nor do I have the ear of government, and even had I, they are unlikely to listen to me."

"Harry, I'm not asking you to fix this. I just want you to say that I'm overthinking this, and my concerns can't possibly be true. Tell me I'm a neurotic, middle-aged woman, and that I should take a Valium."

Not if I wish to live to see my next birthday ...

"But you're not, Ruth. You're an analyst, and so you analyse, and I think you see things as they possibly are."

"So … what does it all mean? What is behind it?"

"You work in the Home Office. You're closer to the truth than I can possibly be."

"Nothing has been said, and I work at the micro-level, rather than the macro."

Harry squeezes her hand, smiling into her eyes. "So we let it go, Ruth. Nothing can be done to change that which we can't see."

Ruth returns his smile, but he notes that her smile is weak, and perhaps a little forced. "And you don't think I'm over-thinking this?"

"Only a little. The longer I'm away from work, the more I realise that there's little point in stressing out about that which is unseen, or can't be changed."

She nods, and this time her smile is wider. Ruth is smiling her natural smile. "Thank you," she says quietly.

"Good things will come out of the current turbulence, Ruth. If the world we'd lived in can be torn asunder in a couple of weeks, then how strong was it in the first place? How useful was it to the most vulnerable among us? All I can see is how fragile our existence has been. What replaces that will be different, and it must be better. I need to believe that."

"Listen to you," Ruth says playfully.

"What?"

"Harry Pearce, the optimist. I never thought I'd live to see the day."

He watches her for a long moment. She is teasing him, but not sending him up. "Of course I'm an optimist. For the past fourteen years I've not once given up on us. Ever since you turned down my second invitation to dinner I haven't given up hope. It takes a special kind of optimist to do that."

"A very persistent one."

Harry nods. "I'm a persistent optimist."

"The very best kind."

Harry is relieved when Ruth snuggles closer to him, tucking herself beneath his arm. "Are you ready for bed?" he asks.

"Not really. I'm just happy sitting here with you … like this, knowing that we won't have to wake up tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn to an alarm which jolts us from our dreams."

He's happy with that. Perhaps, in these uncertain times, these silver linings are all they have.