Harry's continuing silence, was beginning to have an unsettling effect on Ros and Malcolm. It had been a full ten minutes since he and Ruth had disappeared into the sitting room and if the muted voices were anything to go by, it was still Ruth who was doing most of the talking.
'Is she absolutely sure?' Malcolm asked Ros, without turning round. He was standing by the kitchen window and looking up into the night sky, in a vain attempt to distract himself from the reality of what they'd been told. Of all the scenarios that this evening could have thrown up, this one was bordering on the insane. Insane enough to be true, in view of what Ruth had said. Which was not only damaging in its content, but made a mockery of the years that he'd worked with Lucas and the trust that he'd presumed had been reciprocated.
'As far as she can be, without us actually confronting him,' Ros told him, in her usual matter of fact way, whilst pouring herself a glass of wine to replace the one that she'd abandoned at the restaurant. What should have been a short and very successful evening thanks to Ruth, was beginning to feel like anything but. Not helped because she'd barely started her meal before they'd bailed and was still hungry.
.
Had they been on the grid, or had he been mistaken and Ruth had proved that Lucas was the innocent that he'd so wanted him to be, Harry might well have asked her for a moment on his own. A moment to assemble his thoughts. Except that his thoughts weren't formulating properly, they were all over the place. This wasn't a death that he was being asked to cope with, it was a betrayal that eclipsed all the others, and that included Connie's. Now only bearable, because the people he trusted most in the world, were the ones who were here with him. More than that, he could barely think and his breathing was bordering on the erratic. Worryingly so for Ruth who was now kneeling in front of him, with all thought of Lucas gone, she'd reached the point where she no longer cared whether Ros or Malcolm might walk into the room and in Ros's case, imagine a totally different act taking place.
'Someone bring me a glass of water,' she yelled in the direction of the kitchen, continuing to rub both of Harry's legs, whilst encouraging him to breathe in and out in time with her. A full explanation as to how she'd known that it wasn't Lucas and so quickly, gone until she was sure that Harry wasn't going to collapse on her, as an equally worried Malcolm, on her say so, retreated back to the kitchen after delivering the water. Only arriving back after what he and Ros thought to be a reasonable amount of time, with a round of hot drinks and in Ros's case, a plate of sandwiches. By which time, she'd resumed her usual seat on the sofa next to Harry and reached for the notes that she'd made earlier in the day. A prop in this case, not a necessity.
How had she known? Because not only had she spent the best part of the morning, delving into every aspect of Lucas North's life, she'd looked at a lifetime's worth of photographs. Starting with his schooldays, when not only had he been the Head Boy, but the captain of almost every sports team at his school. He'd had a confidence even then, that had smiled back at her from each and every one of the pages. Academically brilliant according to his reports, something that didn't always go hand in hand with being sporty, the clearest photograph and the most up to date, had been taken with his parents at his degree ceremony. The one that had clinched it, even before Ros had finished the introductions in the restaurant. The overall shape of the face was rounder. The angular line of the jaw and the shape of the nose, were all different from the man who had sat opposite her earlier.
'I'm not denying that there are close similarities, but I have no doubt that I'm right,' she told them. All the time trying to choose her words carefully, whilst still keeping an eye on Harry's reaction. As were the others.
Two weeks ago, her only priority had been to deliver news to Harry in person. Now she was doing it again, only now it was even worse news. More importantly, her priorities had changed and it was Harry's well-being that needed to precedence over whatever else was going on. She knew she'd be able to console him and help him to calm down, but now wasn't the time. Not until the others had gone home.
'And presumably Vaughan knew this and that's what got him killed,' Ros suggested, cutting across her thoughts and bringing the room back to attention. Unlike Harry and Malcolm, who'd worked with Lucas before he'd been sent to Russia, she hadn't. Which meant that her reaction to the news, although fuelled by the same disbelief, was also full of questions that were preceded by how, why and where. Namely, how could someone pose as an MI5 officer and get away with it for so many years? Why had he wanted to and more crucially, where the hell was the real Lucas North? The man who had been so determined to join the service and had passed every aspect of the course with flying colours?
Something that none of them had an answer to and besides it was getting late. Far too late for any of them to be thinking clearly. Which made sense that they called it a day and started again in the morning. But not before concluding, that whether it was at the Foreign Office, at GCHQ or in their own archives, that somewhere there would be a list of British Nationals who had been in Dakar, at the same time as the Embassy bombing and Vaughan Edwards. Crucially they had an ace up their sleeve, well two actually and no matter how long it took them to find it, if Malcolm and Ruth worked in tandem, they'd eventually be able to cross match names with the thousands of photos from the passport office, that had been registered at the same time as the bombing. Only then, when the identity of the impostor was proven, would they make any decisions.
.
'You know Harry better than I do Malcolm. How the hell does he cope with all these disappointments and keep bouncing back?' Ros asked him, as they sat side by side in the taxi on their way home. Despite her desire for answers, she wasn't entirely devoid of empathy, and had been equally concerned about Harry's initial reaction and his lack of involvement in their discussion.
'He doesn't, which is why it's so damaging,' Malcolm emphasised. Hoping that by using a word that didn't go hand in hand with Harry's perceived reputation, it might make Ros understand him better. 'I'm guessing that the news about Lucas is the inevitable final straw,' he told her, knowing he was probably saying more than he should, whilst at the same time breaking a confidence, that he and Harry alone shared. Justified in this case. Because although it was Ruth who was Harry's emotional rock, it would be Ros that he'd need to help him confront Lucas. Until continuing, he implied that he had something that he needed to get off his chest.
'I've always compared what we do to taking drugs. Not that I've ever done it of course. But I imagine the result is pretty much the same. The highs and the lows, but most of all the adrenaline rush, that always comes after a successful conclusion. Or as in this case an absolute downer. Which isn't something that a therapist can rectify. Let's face it, we can't even admit it to ourselves, never mind tell anybody else. Whether or not this will change, now that Ruth's back and I know Harry's told you that they've formed a relationship, so I'm not telling tales, I have no idea? I just hope that he'll somehow find a way to have what approximates to relaxation, when he's away from work. However difficult that transition might be.' Didn't produce a verbal reaction. Not that he'd been looking at her, during what to him had felt like a monologue. She had however squeezed his hand. Which hopefully meant he'd got the message across, that for all Harry's bluster, he was just as vulnerable as the next man and needed their support.
.
Harry who by now was in bed, hadn't often been faced with the prospect of not having sex when he wanted it. The one never to be forgotten exception, being the night when Jane, with a veiled threat to castrate him, had found out about his affair with Juliet. The result of which had been widely broadcast on the international spook grapevine. Something that years later, and in the case of those with nothing better to do with their time in his opinion, were still registering as a means to get back at him.
Now though the boot was firmly on the other foot and resorting to the tried and tested used by women, although god forbid that he'd ever voice what men talked about, he was pretending to be tired. The equivalent of, 'I'm sorry I'm busy tonight,' if they didn't want to go out with you, although never having been aimed at him, was one of the many questions that he still didn't have an answer too. Not that he'd asked anyone out for years, let alone wanted to sleep with them. Until Ruth Evershed had walked back into his life and dare he say it, his heart.
It wasn't that he didn't want to have sex with Ruth tonight, because he did. But unlike the other times, his motive would have been to use her as a form of release, which in his present state of mind, would have been fuelled by aggression. He guessed she knew that, because she'd wrapped herself around him like a protective blanket and was forcing him pour his heart out instead. Role reversal big time, it was her that was pulling the strings. Not only was it what he needed, but miraculously she was making it happen. A thought that was raising an emotion in him and increasing his heart rate again. This time in a good way.
Love wasn't something that went hand in hand with who he was. Self-imposed maybe, but his job demanded that he kept his innermost longings to himself. He loved his children, of course he did and the long gone Scarlet. The little dog that he still missed and to whom he'd told all his secrets. Until now, when in the silence of this bedroom, at a time when there were so many negatives and unanswered questions, there was a living and breathing person beside him. One who was offering him everything, including the possibility, that despite everything that he'd ever done, he was worthy of being loved. Improbable as that was. A thought that with the anger gone, he closed his eyes. His breathing even and steady as he drifted into sleep.