"Mad, interfering bitch!" Kinkaid spat, aiming another kick at the fallen wardrobe.
The room was pure chaos. What had started as a search for signs of life, had quickly spiralled into a frenzied attack. Kinkaid had finally let loose all the anger, all the resentment that had been festering since Catherine's betrayal, and destroyed the house's master bedroom. The contents of the wardrobe lay in tatters on the plush carpet, whilst feathers littered the floor, courtesy of the massacred pillows.
He whirled around in his rage and seized the chair by the bed, bringing it down with an almighty crash against the flattened wardrobe. Shards of wood splintered off into all directions, narrowly missing his face and embedding themselves in the scraps of torn-up clothes.
"Useless, fucking CUNT!" he screamed out into the ether.
He had wanted to know. Wanted to be sure.
Call it journalistic instinct, but there had been something niggling as he made to leave Beechworth. The little girl had beenconvincing; had told him all the right things. The idea of Catherine storming off certainly seemed like something she would do. And yet... there had been a hint of... something in the child's eyes. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
So, to ease his worries, he'd returned to Beechworth Caravan Park with the intention of conducting a second, much more thorough investigation. Only, when he arrived, he found the place shut up. All the caravans had been vacated, with a large, hastily-scribbled sign informing him that the park was closed until further notice.
If that wasn't enough to rouse suspicion, what was? The fact that the park had become a ghost town the second he cornered that little girl was no coincidence. And in that moment of realisation, he'd wanted nothing more than to close his fingers around that scrawny neck and squeeze until the light faded from her eyes, until her tiny lungs screamed for their last, pitiful breath.
In an act of desperation, he'd broken into the house. Maybe a stupid, unrealistic part of him hoped the family were still there, hiding away, cowering in a corner, afraid of what he'd do. Because they should be afraid. They'd lied to him; cost him Catherine, the USB, and thus, the entire mission. And just who were they to lie to his face with such practiced calm? Why risk their lives for a stranger? Why run when most would call the police?
He roared again, driving his foot into a nearby chest of drawers. The wood groaned, but didn't break. For some reason, this only irked him further, and he yanked the top drawer out completely and hurled it across the room. It landed with a satisfying thud. Its contents spilled out over the dishevelled floor and he growled in triumph. He turned to do the same with the second drawer, but something caught his attention and he stopped.
Poking out from underneath a pile of vests was the smooth black surface of a very familiar object. He shoved the vests aside and clasped the handgun in one well-practiced hand. For an instant, all was silent. He didn't move, didn't breathe – simply stood there, blinking at the absurdity of the situation. Why would the mild-mannered owners of a Caravan Park own a gun? Surely guests weren't that much trouble. And if he wasn't mistaken, this wasn't any ordinary gun. It was a SIG Sauer – standard army issue.
Who were these people?
Stowing the handgun in his belt, he took out his phone and stumbled over to the bedside table. There, he examined the framed photo of two happy parents and one smug little girl. They looked so innocent, so... ordinary – and yet it was quickly becoming apparent that they were anything but. Flicking through his contacts, he selected the number he was looking for and dialled. It picked up after three rings.
"Akhi?"*
"I'm sending you a picture, brother. Find out who the people are."
"Hal kulu shay' ealaa ma yuram ya 'akhi?"
"She's gone. I think they had something to do with it."
"Olli – "
"Aifeal kama 'amar 'akhi."
There was a pause – a hesitancy to the young voice that spoke next.
"Hamza wants to know when you'll be back. He's... He's expecting the stick."
Kinkaid kicked impatiently at the dresser, "He'll get the stick – "
"But Catherine – "
"Ya lbn el Sharmouta – I'll find Catherine and bring it him!"
"But I know you and her –"
"There is no me and her. Only the mission. Hadhih harb ya 'akhi. And in war, the greater good comes first."
There was another, longer pause, and Kinkaid could practically hear the scepticism in the other man's voice as he replied, "Naeam 'akhi."
Kinakid forced himself to rein in his temper. It wouldn't do to shout at the kid who was going to bring him one step closer to Catherine, "You're the whiz kid. You know Sun Tzu?"
"Who?"
"Chinese Military Strategist. Said, 'If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles'."
"Akhi?"
"I know Catherine, Afif. I know how she ticks. Under that tough exterior, she's a frightened little girl. She's going to crumble, and that's when she'll make mistakes. Then – then we'll find her. But first we need to find the people in this picture. I think they've been hiding her."
"Okay," Afif agreed readily, ever the eager pup, keen to impress its master. "Send it over. I'll do it now."
"Good."
With that, he hung up and scoured the photo with narrowed eyes.
"Who are you?"
"Morning Catherine!" Lottie chirped, far too chipper for hour, or indeed for someone whose life had just been turned upside down.
Still, Ruth thought, they would always take a cheerful Lottie over the alternative.
Always.
They had all padded through to the kitchen, only to find Catherine already dressed and cradling a glass of water.
"Morning Lottie," she mumbled, cracking a wan smile.
Lottie halted, staring intently at her big sister. After a beat, she shuffled cautiously to her side and eased her tiny twig-like arms around her middle. Ruth tensed, ready for the tempestuous young woman to throw her off.
She didn't.
Instead, after a momentary flash of surprise, Catherine wound her arms around Lottie's waist and pulled her up on her lap, nestling her carefully in her embrace.
"What did I do to deserve this?" she asked quietly – much softer and gentler than Ruth had ever seen her.
"You look sad," Lottie murmured. "Mummy always likes cuddles when she's sad."
Ruth didn't fail to notice the way Catherine's eyes darkened at the mention of 'Mummy'. She was rather relieved to see that ire cool as Harry greeted her with a kiss to the forehead.
"Morning, darling."
"Morning, Dad."
"Coffee?"
"Not just now. Feel a bit..." she grimaced.
"Still?" Ruth asked, concerned, only to be struck down with a warning glare. It was then that she realised that maybe Catherine hadn't intended on telling Harry about her morning dalliance with the toilet bowl.
Harry however, was as sharp as ever, "Still?"
"I'm fine, Dad. Just the fish and chips."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Not used to that grease in Syria."
"Syria?" Lottie piped up curiously.
"Where I used to live," Catherine muttered, trying valiantly to smile, but not quite managing it.
"Before the bad man?"
Catherine's jaw dropped in horror, but before she could reply, there came a series of quick sharp raps on the apartment door. They sounded once, then three times, then three times again – the signal Malcolm had told them would signal 'safe callers'. Not a beat later, Malcolm himself entered, followed by two unknown young men, and, to their surprise, Calum.
"Good morning. I hope you don't mind that we let ourselves in," Malcolm said in that slightly awkward, sheepish way of his. "Protocol. We try to avoid you opening the door as much as possible. Anyone who knows the knock will know the entry code. Anyone who knows the knock but not the code is more than likely an unfriendly."
"Don't worry, Malcolm," Ruth smiled gently. This was neither hers nor Harry's first rodeo with safe houses. "Can we get you any breakfast?"
"I've already eaten, thank you," Malcolm nodded politely. "But maybe Calum would like...?"
"Calum?"
Ruth's eyes widened as she properly assessed Calum for the first time. The young man was no longer sporting an unwieldy beard or that wild mane of untamed curls. His strawberry-blonde hair had been trimmed to perfection; now sleek and shiny, and swept into a neat parting, whilst his beard had disappeared entirely. He looked like a new man – or rather, almost like the old man. In one way, it was heartening to see Calum more comfortable within himself. His worn eyes held a pride that hadn't been there yesterday. And yet, the change was so sudden, it left her quite perplexed. Ruth wondered what had inspired him to make such an effort. Perhaps he had taken Harry's suggestion of a shower and a shave to heart.
Calum flashed a charming smile the younger Dimitri would have been proud of, and grinned, "I wouldn't say no to breakfast if you're offering."
"What are you doing here?" Catherine asked bluntly, loosening her arms from around Lottie's waist as the little girl sat up, blinking owlishly at the new arrivals. "I thought you said you were a desk spook."
"Doesn't mean I live in a drawer," Calum snarked back. "Admiral Pretty Boy wanted me here. So here I am. Playing bodyguard."
Catherine smirked, "You? A bodyguard?"
"Sure, why not? I have a black belt."
"Really?" Catherine raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"Really. Look."
He lifted his jacket to reveal a plain leather black belt.
Ruth laughed out loud. She couldn't help it. It was a relief to see that Five hadn't entirely sucked the life out of Calum Reed. His humour had been what set him apart on the Grid, and, over the years, she had hoped it would be what kept him sane. If she had learned anything during her time at Five, it was to hold onto the things that you pulled you through the darkness.
Lottie giggled at Calum's antics, and even Catherine managed a small smile. Harry rolled his eyes and continued making coffee. Ruth was no fool. She could see him smothering a grin.
"You're funny," Lottie declared, and Calum turned to her, eyes sparkling.
"Why, thank you."
"Yeah, but are you funny weird, or funny ha-ha?" Catherine mused, and Ruth wondered just when she and Calum had begun this back-and-forth. It seemed as if they had known each other for years.
"Definitely funny ha-ha," Calum boasted.
Catherine smirked and turned to her sister for support. "What do you think, Lottie? Definitely funny weird, right?"
"Maybe a bit of both?"Lottie suggested diplomatically.
Calum gasped, clasping a dramatic hand to his chest, "You wound me, Lottie!"
The little girl giggled again, "Who are you? Are you Mummy's and Daddy's friends?"
"Yes, darling," Ruth said gently, pointing to Malcolm and Calum in turn. "This is Uncle Malcolm and Uncle Calum. They'll be taking good care of us."
"Uncle?" Calum repeated bewilderedly.
"Don't expect me to call you Uncle," Catherine muttered.
"Ew. No!" Calum blanched. "No, and also – no."
"You mean you're not my Uncle?" Lottie frowned.
"No! I mean – yeah, I guess. I mean... not – err – "
Ruth huffed a small laugh, sensing it was about time to put Calum out of his misery, "Only in the way you used to call Jamie's Dad, Uncle Jack, darling. They're just very good friends."
Lottie nodded and clambered down from Catherine's lap. She held out a hand to Calum, "Nice to meet you, Uncle Calum."
Calum shook it, taken aback at being 'Uncle' to this precocious child. Lottie repeated the motion with Malcolm, who, despite having been 'Uncle Malcolm' before, looked equally baffled. Lottie paused, comprehension suddenly dawning across her tiny face.
"There's a pink blanket from when I was a baby. Mummy said someone called Malcolm gave it me. Was that you?"
Malcolm blushed scarlet, "Yes... Yes, I suppose it was."
"I love it. Thank you!" She paused again, struck by another sudden thought that left her visibly deflated. "I'm sorry, Uncle Malcolm. I left it at home."
"Oh," Malcolm faltered. "That's... That's alright. Hopefully you'll see it soon."
"How soon?" Lottie asked keenly. "When are we going home?"
Malcolm, floundering, glanced at Ruth. Ruth glanced at Harry. Although he met her gaze with an encouraging smile, she could see that he was just as clueless she was. Slowly, ignoring the protest of her knees, she knelt down and grasped Lottie's hands.
"Right now, we're not sure when, darling," she said gently. "But we do know that we're going to be just fine here. Like I said, Uncle Malcolm and Uncle Calum are going to take good care of us."
"But what about Jamie? And Alfie? When will I see them again? What about school?"
These were all great questions, and Ruth, not for the first time, felt completely powerless to answer. This was what a life on the run did to you – it turned everything on its head, and inside out, and she'd sworn she'd never make Lottie live that way. So much for sworn promises.
They hadn't even thought about schooling – something which was so very important to Lottie. And although she was confident and outgoing enough to make many more friends, that wouldn't eliminate the pain of leaving the others behind.
"Mummy and Daddy will see what we can do about school, darling," was the only answer Ruth could give.
It was bland, and unhelpful, and hopelessly vague, but it was the only thing she could say when her daughter was staring at her with wide-eyed expectation.
"Coffee's ready," Harry announced on cue, much louder than necessary. "Now, who's for toast?"
"Me!" Calum called exuberantly, no doubt following Harry's lead. "Got to love a bit of toast. How about you Lottie? You want toast?"
The little girl turned to him forlornly, and mumbled a tiny, "Please."
The sparkle in her ocean eyes had dimmed, and Ruth's heart ached to watch it go.
"I tell you what, darling," she suggested, injecting any and all reserves of enthusiasm into her voice. "Why don't you show Uncle Malcolm your new Quadratics book? Maths was his favourite subject at school."
She glanced guiltily at Malcolm, hoping he would forgive the imposition. She was desperate to cheer up her daughter, and for some reason – perhaps because Malcolm was standing right there – she'd been reminded of their late night conversations on the Grid, when everyone else had gone home. After-hours Data Sweeps had been long and arduous, and they'd both talked long into the night to stave off boredom. Ruth generally tried to gloss over her own past, and thankfully, Malcolm never pried. In fact, he'd been more than happy to compensate. He would chat for hours about his University days, and his and Colin's antics. She'd got the impression, then, that not many people bothered to talk to Malcolm outside the job.
Except Colin.
And then, of course, he'd lost Colin.
After that awful day, Ruth started taking many of her meals in the canteen with Malcolm. She knew what it was to feel alone. She wondered, now, if anyone else had bothered to sit with him after her exile. She'd never asked.
"Really?" Lottie asked, bringing Ruth back with a jolt. She nearly sighed with relief to see the light returning to her daughter's eyes.
Malcolm, to his credit, didn't even flinch. He was old-fashioned in his morals, just as Harry was, and when he saw an opportunity for good, he took it.
"Yes, I loved Maths. One of my Masters degrees was in Mathematical Physics."
"And the other in Computer Science. Plus a PhD," Harry continued casually. "He's too modest to admit it, but Malcolm is the cleverest man I know."
Malcolm blushed and ducked his head.
"That's so cool!" The little girl enthused. "Quadratics are my favourite at the moment, but I'm getting into exponentials and logarithms! Just a sec – I'll just go get my book!"
And with that, she dashed off towards the bedroom. All but Harry and Ruth blinked in bewilderment.
"How... old is she...?" Calum asked faintly.
"Six," Harry sighed, no doubt recalling his own age.
"She's very bright," Ruth murmured, standing.
"Yeah, but there's bright and then there's..." Calum trailed off, gesturing helplessly towards the space Lottie had just been occupying.
"Don't say anything," Ruth pleaded. "She loves learning, but she hates to stand out."
"Like her mother in every way," Malcolm observed with a kind smile.
Catherine suddenly stood from the kitchen counter. Her eyes were cold and impassive, her face unreadable
"Someone come get me when it's finally time to go."
"Catherine – " Harry began.
"It's fine," Catherine muttered, drawing Harry's old shirt tighter around her thin frame. "You have your chin-wag. Don't mind me."
She disappeared from the kitchen.
"Don't you want toast?" Calum called, but got no reply. A few seconds later, the sound of a slamming door ricocheted through the flat.
A blanket of silence settled over the room. Ruth noticed the sadness in Harry's honeyed eyes and went to him, slipping her hand into his. He could only summon a bland smile in return. Malcolm and Calum shared a helpless glance, whilst the other two unnamed agents shuffled uncomfortably.
This was going to be a long, long, day.
Harry Pearce didn't get anxious. He'd been the stalwart Head of Section D for seventeen years, making crucial life-or-death decisions without breaking a sweat. Before that, he'd been a case officer, a soldier – he knew how to thrive under pressure. So then, why, when it came to those he loved, did he become a bumbling idiot? He'd had nearly forty years to ponder that question, plus a long, drawn-out car ride, and still, he had no answer.
The journey had been tense. Catherine had stayed quiet, staring broodingly out of the window. And while Malcolm had tried to engage them all in gentle conversation, it had quickly tapered off into silence. Ruth had taken the other car with Lottie and Calum, whilst the two new agents, Darius and Leo, had been split between them. Darius sat in the driver's seat, a bulky man of very few words. Harry couldn't tell if this was a relief or a burden. He had always appreciated the need for quiet, but a conversation would have been a welcome distraction.
"Here we are," Malcolm announced, as they pulled up outside a non-descript flat, inches from a pair of graffiti-covered bins.
Catherine immediately started fumbling for her door, only to startle as Darius got there first. Harry was slower to get out. His heart had suddenly decided to dance the polka, and as he gazed up at the mouldy, red-bricked building, he felt around for his top button.
The last time he'd seen Jane, they'd been called into counselling by Graham's rehab therapist, Samuel Sharpe. Sharpe had concluded that some of the roots of Graham's issues stemmed from his childhood, and thought that drawing his two warring parents into the sessions might help.
It did not.
To Harry's eternal shame, he'd spent most of the session bickering with Jane. Graham had had a meltdown and walked out. They hadn't been asked back, and Harry had certainly not gone out of his way to see his ex-wife again.
The last time he'd seen Graham had been when he'd been using again. He'd turned up at the house, begging for money. Harry had been in a bad place himself. Ruth had just been exiled, and he'd been wallowing in his own misery. He lived each day on a diet of whiskey and work, and he'd been shorter with his son than he should've been. He'd refused to hand over money, instead ordering – yes, ordering – him to return to rehab. Graham had lost it. He'd started screaming profanities, aiming all manner of hurtful words at Harry before ending with a final, senseless plea that he just didn't know who he was anymore. Harry's heart had shattered there and then, but when he'd tried to console his youngest child, Graham had stormed off. Harry had tried and failed to get hold of him again. It was only thanks to Catherine that he'd heard that Graham was safe. He'd received a text some days later, saying that Graham had indeedgone back to rehab, and that Jane was footing the bill. Any and all attempts to visit would be spurned.
Harry deserved that. It was just another number on his long list of regrets.
He realised now that he wasn't just scared to see Graham. He was terrified of being rejected. He felt horribly ashamed of the half-drunken state he'd been in that night. Had he been sober, he might've been gentler, less prone to anger. Graham was just a boy then. He'd been young and vulnerable and struggling to work out where he fit in the world. Because sadly, he'd never really seemed to fit.
"Harry?"
His love's voice drew him back out of the shadows. He blinked and realised the car door was wide open, but he'd yet to move. Everyone was staring at him.
Get yourself together, Pearce, he thought as he slid out of the back seat.
"Daddy, are you okay?" Lottie asked in a small voice.
He tried to manage a smile, "'Course I am, Squirt."
"You've gone all white."
Harry swallowed.
Turn it around. Ask a question. Divert.
"The drive go okay?" he asked Ruth.
"Fine," Ruth nodded, though he knew she could tell exactly what he was doing. She always knew. Those x-ray eyes never failed to see into his very soul. "You'll be happy to hear Lottie has a new favourite song."
"Oh?"
Malcolm, Calum, Darius and Leo all swung into formation around them as they ascended the steps to the flat. Malcolm performed a series of well-rehearsed knocks, before entering a code into the keypad.
"Uncle Calum taught me The Lime in the Coconut," Lottie said happily.
"Oh, wonderful," Harry cringed, shooting Calum a reproachful look.
The younger man shrugged, "It's a classic."
"What are you? Five?" Catherine demanded, speaking for the first time since leaving the flat.
"Don't knock it till you know it."
The door swung open, and they all hurried inside. Calum and Catherine were locked in another battle of wits, whilst Lottie started searching all about her, soaking up the new sights and smells. Malcolm, Darius and Leo were conversing with yet another agent – presumably the custodian of the building. Harry almost jumped when he felt Ruth catch hold of his hand.
"All we were and all we are, Harry," she whispered, her breath a tender caress against his ear. "Remember, people change. Grudges die. Don't give up hope."
He recalled the first time she'd told him that, on the Thames embankment, all those years ago. Somehow, the courage to look at her – really look at her – came to him then. He was met by a pair of solid blue eyes, warm, and gentle, and infinitely forgiving. Yes, forgiving, because, by God, the number of times he'd hurt Ruth ought to have been unforgivable. And yet, every time, she'd found it in her heart to absolve him of his guilt, his pain. That forgiveness gave him hope that maybe it wasn't too late for him and Graham...
Ruth's smile widened, because of course she knew. She knew exactly what he was thinking. And, bizarrely, he found himself smiling – really, properly, for the first time that day. The strain eased from his tense shoulders and he released a long, shaky sigh. God, it felt good to breathe again! He hadn't breathed properly since they'd parted to the cars. He hadn't known until that moment, just how much he needed Ruth there, by his side; his light, his love.
She kept him calm.
Kept him sane.
His hand tightened around hers, "Stay with me?"
It was rare he allowed himself to be this vulnerable. They'd built a firm foundation on trust and honesty, but he still felt it was his responsibility to look after her. It took a lot for him to admit that he needed help. Ruth knew this too, for her face softened.
"I'm right here," she whispered, pressing herself against his side where she knew it would anchor him. "I'm not going anywhere."
He smiled infinitesimally, and brought her hand to his lips.
"Dad?"
Harry followed his daughter's voice and found Catherine standing a little way behind him. At some point, she'd broken away from Calum and was now scowling slightly at his and Ruth's obvious display of affection. More than anything, however, she seemed anxious.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Catherine said quickly, studiously avoiding his gaze. "Just... remember what I said back in Beechworth. Gray's come a long way. Just... don't freak out, okay?"
It felt a little like two steps forward, three steps back. Even his own daughter had no faith in him. But the second those doubts filled his head, he felt Ruth squeeze his hand, moulding herself to his side.
"All we were and all we are," a gentle voice breathed in his ear, so only he could hear.
Harry stood tall, certain in his convictions, "I'll try, Catherine. I promise I'll try."
The first thing they heard upon entering the upstairs flat was an unapologetically shrill voice.
"I only want to call him. It's not like we're planning to elope to Mexico!"
"No calls right now, Ms Townsend."
"This is ridiculous – "
Malcolm cleared his throat awkwardly and opened the door to an even darker, dingier living room. At its centre stood two people – one, another agent, looking to be in about his mid-thirties, with olive skin and firm brown eyes. The other, a woman with greying blonde hair, angry navy eyes, and an attitude that could wither even the fiercest of foes.
"Jane – "
"Malcolm," she sighed, her tongue clicking as she clocked him. "Thank God. Tell this imbecile to –"
She caught sight of Catherine and Harry lingering in the doorway.
"Catherine..." she murmured, dashing towards their daughter.
To Harry's surprise, Catherine didn't react. As Jane's arms came about her, she just stood there, frozen, cold. Catherine had hinted at such a dynamic back in Beechworth, but seeing it played out before him was… disconcerting. It was hard to reconcile the image with the once inseparable mother-daughter duo. Now, their daughter seemed to want to be anywhere else.
"Catherine," Jane fretted again, her voice no more than an urgent whisper. "Look at you."
The older woman pulled away then, her expression switching from relieved to angry so quickly Harry was surprised her facial muscles could stand the strain.
"What have you done, you stupid girl?! What have you gotten us into?!"
Whatever fight had been keeping Catherine afloat these last few days appeared to drain out of her. She crumbled, her stony face falling into crestfallen despair.
"Mum…" Catherine breathed, her voice cracking.
Harry couldn't bear to see his little girl being kicked when she was down. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the impending argument.
"Leave our daughter alone, Jane. She's had her heart broken enough."
Jane's beady eyes fixed on him. If Catherine's 'death stare' had been harsh, it was nothing compared to his ex-wife's.
"Well, well," she mused coldly. "Look who it is. How's life treating you after death, Harry?"
"Just fine, thanks," he replied evenly.
"We went to your funeral."
"I hear it was quite the spectacle," he remarked, a sly nudge to Jane's drunken tirade.
Jane quickly turned scarlet and glanced accusingly at Catherine. The younger woman did not meet her gaze. She was staring determinedly at a nearby coffee table. Her chest was heaving, and Harry guessed it was taking all of her willpower not to burst into tears.
"You've got wrinkles," Jane commented, in an impressive display of one-upmanship. "Your face is getting saggy,"
He felt Ruth shift behind him, ready to fly to his defence, but he held up a steadying hand, determined not to rise to the bait.
"We're all getting older, Jane," he reasoned sadly. "That's life."
"Yes. Well," she snapped. "I didn't think you had a life until yesterday, so imagine my shock."
"I'm sorry to shock you."
"Are you?"
"Yes," Harry replied calmly.
Realising that she wasn't going to elicit a reaction out of him that way, Jane turned her steely gaze onto Ruth, her lip curling into a spiteful sneer.
"So this is the bitch you ran off with? Bit plain for you, isn't she?"
This time, anger did boil hot and thick within his veins, and he opened his mouth to launch an offensive. He wouldn't hear a word said against Ruth, and was about to tell Jane as much when a soft, firm voice uttered behind him:
"Can you not use language like that in front of our daughter, please?"
Jane froze.
"Your - ?"
Her eyes drifted down to where a wide-eyed little face was peeping out from behind Ruth. For an instant, Jane's mouth worked silently in a brilliant impression of a goldfish.
"I… I see," she croaked. "A whole new life, then. You weren't afraid to leave your children behind, but you were quite happy to leave the country to have another."
Harry's gaze flicked briefly to Catherine, who didn't comment; simply stared resolutely ahead.
"I didn't have a choice," he said murmured, hoping his daughter would one day understand.
"It was my fault," Ruth added.
"Oh, I don't doubt that," Jane sneered. "How does it feel to lure a father away from his family?"
There was a reason Harry had happily divorced Jane, and all those reasons were flooding back to him in one long heady rush. He opened his mouth to bite back a scathing response, but was beaten to the punch by an unexpected ally.
"Shut up, Mum!"
Catherine stood a little taller, her head held high as she faced down her overbearing mother.
"Catherine – "
"You're hardly Methuselah when it comes to family!"
"I've done my best – "
"Your best at being a bigoted bitch."
"How dare y – "
"What's going on?"
A softer, slightly deeper voice filtered through the noise. Its lilt, its timbre immediately resonated with Harry. He turned, smiling.
His smile dropped.
His mouth fell open.
A young woman with navy blue eyes and wavy ginger hair hovered uncertainly in the doorway. Her oval face and slouched shoulders were so familiar, and yet… That was his son's face. His son's shoulders.
What?!
"Gray," Catherine shrugged out of her mother's grip to seek solace in the other girl's arms.
The whole room erupted into silence.
"Cat," the ginger woman whispered with a tenderness that brought tears to Harry's eyes. "I'm so glad you're okay."
Catherine shuddered once, twice, then she was gone, weeping into the other girl's shoulder.
"Cat? Hey, hey. What's going on? What's happened?"
Harry watched as the other woman stroked up and down Catherine's back with sure and gentle hands. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew it ought to be him comforting his daughter. But he couldn't seem to move. His feet were glued to the floor, his body weighed down by a hundred heavy bricks. The world had been reduced to a dull, white noise, and all he could see was…
"Graham?"
His voice came thick and hoarse; shaky and uncertain – it didn't sound like his own.
The woman hesitated, continuing to hold Catherine. Then, slowly, so slowly, as bracing herself for the inevitable storm, she looked up, chancing a small, sheepish smile.
"Hi, Dad."
Harry's heart was pounding ten to the dozen. He couldn't make sense of this. What the hell – ?!
"You... But… You – "
He tried to find the words, any words, but they wouldn't come. He was floundering in deep water with no life belt, and no sense of where he was or how he came to be here.
"You're…"
"A woman," Graham finished patiently. "Yes."
Harry gaped, dimly aware of a gentle pressure on his shoulder. Ruth.
"But… How – Why?"
"I've been asking myself that question for three years. Look at him," Jane muttered, but Harry only had eyes for Graham.
No.
Gray?
"She's a her, Mum," Catherine spat amidst her sobs. "Gray's your daughter!"
"You're my daughter. He's my son. Twenty-eight years, he was my son. My beautiful, handsome, little boy. Because that's who I gave birth to – a boy. A perfectly healthy little boy, who had everything he could ever want. Love, support, money, a family who got him through rehab four times. And he decided the only way he could be happy was to chop his dick off."
Graham flushed, though whether it was due to anger or humiliation was a moot point.
"You – "Harry murmured dazedly.
"Had gender affirmation surgery. Yes," Graham said stoutly, ignoring Jane's pointed glare. "And I've never looked back."
"It's wrong," Jane ground out. "You can't just throw your whole life away. Your identity; the things that made you you."
"I'm still me," Graham retorted. "Just in a body that's actually my own."
Jane scoffed and turned to Harry for support. Harry who was still having trouble breathing. Harry who felt like he'd sunken into the depths of a very bizarre dream. This wasn't how he'd pictured the conversation going. Maybe a bit of friction, yes. Maybe even Graham telling him to go straight to hell. But this…
He'd always been trained to prepare for the unexpected, but nothing on earth could ever have prepared him for this.
"Dad," Catherine whispered, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Her face was red and blotchy from crying, yet her gaze was steady as she appealed to him. "Say something."
Harry tried. He couldn't. Couldn't…
"Harry?"
He could hear Ruth beside him; feel the tingle of her hand along his elbow. She was trying to reason with him, he knew, but, somehow, he felt quite beyond reason. It was a strange kind of madness that left him unable to think, unable to do anything other than heed the old spook instinct: fight or flight.
He had to go.
Yes. He had to go before he broke down, or worse, started yelling. He'd made a promise, after all, and he couldn't guarantee that if he stayed, his temper would remain. So, with a heaving chest and shame in his heart, he turned from the room and fled.
"Harry!"
The world was tilting on its axis. He was falling...
Falling...
Falling…
His feet felt clumsy and uncoordinated as he stumbled down the stairs to the lower flat.
He couldn't breathe.
Oh, God. He couldn't breathe.
He heaved and strained and strived for breath, but he just couldn't.
He was dimly aware of Ruth shouting after him, but her voice barely penetrated the fog. It drifted through the ether, deep and distorted, as if underwater.
"Harry, stop!"
A hand on his elbow dragged him back to the surface.
"Harry?"
The fury and indignation in her face faded as she caught sight of him.
"Harry,' she whispered, eyes wide, concern marring features. "Harry, breathe."
He tried.
He couldn't.
All he could do was gasp out a few short, pathetic wheezes.
"Harry," Ruth called again, stronger this time. She cupped his cheeks with her palms and brought his forehead down to meet hers. "Breathe with me. Breathe with me, my love."
He tried.
He still couldn't.
"Listen to me," Ruth demanded, her voice firm yet achingly gentle. "Don't think about it. Don't think about anything else. Just listen to my voice. Feel me; feel my breath. I'm right here."
One hand disappeared from his cheek and slid down to entwine with his own. She brought it up to rest on her chest, just over her heart. Its slow, reassuring beat pulsed steadily beneath his palm. He could feel Ruth breathing now. In and out, in and out.
"We'll breathe in for four, okay? Out for six," Ruth murmured softly.
He nodded.
"Okay, here we go. Breathe in."
He tried. He didn't quite make it, but thankfully, his chest didn't feel quite as tight as it did before.
"Let's try again. In for four, out for six."
This time he succeeded. He practically cried out as air, sweet, beautiful air flooded into his lungs, filling every oxygen-starved crevice and building him back up from the inside out.
"Again," Ruth instructed, and Harry obeyed.
"Ruth," he finally gasped out, burying his nose in her shoulder, overwhelmed by the latent panic and sheer relief at being able to breathe again. Her arms came about him and he allowed himself to be held. The heat from her soft exhales eased the chill in his bones, and he tried to focus on those careful breaths; match her steady rhythm.
It had been so long since he'd endured an episode like this. They rarely happened whilst he was fully conscious – and usually only after a particularly vicious nightmare. Ruth knew what to do, of course, just as he knew how to handle her when her demons came to call. But that never made it any easier. It never quite banished the fear that, one day, amidst his fight to breathe, he'd just… stop. He wouldn't breathe again. He'd choke to death on his own terror. That was probably most unseemly for a former Section Head, but then, the service had always forgotten that its pawns were not mere tools of the state. They were human, capable of feeling so much more than they were ever given credit for.
Slowly, Harry lifted his head from Ruth's shoulder.
"Are you with me?" she asked gently.
Harry nodded.
With loving hands, Ruth slowly smoothed the stress lines from his cheeks.
"Are you sure?"
He nodded again.
"Good," she whispered, kissing him briefly on the lips. The touch jolted feeling into his numb body, and he sighed once more in relief. "Harry, what's going on? You don't run from things."
"Yes, I do," he panted, still slightly breathless. "I always run. For all the bravery you think I possess, Ruth, when it comes to family, I'm a coward."
Ruth ran a soothing hand up his arm, "That's not true."
"Yes, it is.
"Harry, I've lived with you for six years. There've been times when you've had every reason, every opportunity to leg it, and you haven't."
"You're different."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not scared you'll turn your back on me if I get it wrong. You…" Harry faltered, unable to face her piercing gaze as he once bared himself, his real self, to her once more. "You... make me feel safe."
Ruth's eyes softened, "Oh, Harry."
"I've made so many mistakes with them," Harry murmured, nodding towards the upstairs flat. "So many that I fear how I'll react when I'm around them. And now…" He plonked himself down on the nearest stair. "Now, I don't know what to do. What to say."
Ruth sat silently on the step beside him, allowing him to vent all the turbulent thoughts that were raging about his head.
"I didn't – I don't know much about Catherine's and Graham's lives. I made too many mistakes when they were young. I was the absent father who drank too much – worked too much. They didn't want me there. Or at least, I thought they didn't. Maybe Jane had a greater hand in that than I thought." He ran a hand frustratedly over his forehead, trying to assemble his thoughts into some sort of coherent order. "But I thought I knew one thing for sure; something solid that would never change. I had a daughter and a son. And maybe they didn't love me that much, but I loved them endlessly – even if I wasn't very good at showing it."
"That love shouldn't change just because – "
"My son's not my son anymore?"
"Gray's still your child. Your baby," Ruth stated firmly.
"And I'll always love him – her… endlessly," Harry vowed fiercely. "But – "
"Why does there have to be a but?" Ruth demanded, holding him under arrest with her no-nonsense gaze. "You've just said you love her. What more is there to it? She made a change that seems to have made her lighter, happier. Now, granted, I didn't know Graham, but the boy you told me about was a sad, anxious, miserable soul. Gray seems nervous, yes – to come out to you – but she doesn't seem miserable. Surely all any parent wants for their child is for them to be happy?"
"Absolutely, and I'm glad he's – she's happy – if she'shappy. But for over thirty years, I had a son. And now… Surely I'm allowed a little time to come to terms with that? To get my head round it?"
Ruth nodded, "Of course you are. But it's okay to tell her that. To make sure she knows you love her; just that you just need a little time. It's a big shock – anyone would understand. But running away's only going to give her the wrong impression."
Harry groaned, suddenly realising how his actions might have been interpreted, "She's up there right now, thinking I've rejected her."
"It's not too late," Ruth said calmly. "You just need to go back up there and fix it."
"What if I can't? What if I say things... wrong?"
"Then I'll translate," Ruth smiled, bumping his shoulder gently with hers. "I'm fluent in nearly ten languages, and lucky for you, Harry Pearce is one of them."
Her smile was infectious and for the second time that day, Harry found himself smiling too, "You're wonderful. Bloody insanely wonderful."
Ruth blushed and cleared her throat. She stood slowly from the stair, and extended her hand towards him.
"Come on, Harry. You have more courage than any man I know. You can do this."
Stomach tight, Harry stared up at the proffered hand.
He swallowed...
Then took it.
* Translations
"Akhi?" – "My brother?"
"Hal kulu shay' ealaa ma yuram ya 'akhi?" – "Is everything alright brother?"
"Aifeal kama 'amar 'akhi' – "Do as I command, brother."
"Ya lbn el Sharmouta!" – "Son of a bitch!"
"Hadhih harb ya 'akhi." – "This is war, brother."
"Naeam 'akhi." – "Yes, brother."
Apologies for the LONG delay between updates. I hope people still enjoy reading anyway, and just to reassure you, it definitely won't be that long before the next update. Merry Christmas, and wishing you an amazing New Year!