Chapter Two
Harry was startled awake by a dull, thudding sound. He blinked his eyes and checked his watch. Shit, he must have fallen asleep. He grabbed his phone – no calls. At least he hadn't been missed on the Grid. He stood and stretched his stiff limbs. The fireplace had timed out, leaving the room cool. He shivered involuntarily. Thump. Thump. Someone was at the door – someone with a heavy hand. Harry shoved on some slippers and scuffed his way to the entrance. He squinted through the peephole. A familiar figure stood outside, but Harry couldn't make out the face. Senses dulled by whisky and sleep, Harry pulled open the door without thinking. He was shocked to see who stood before him: Clive McTaggart.
McTaggart wore a long overcoat that hung loosely from his gaunt frame. An old-fashioned brimmed hat shadowed his grey, lined face. Harry had worked with McTaggart on a number of occasions many years ago – generally Cold War ops in various European cities. They hadn't been close enough to call themselves friends – no one really was in this business – but Harry respected McTaggart as a mentor. McTaggart was one of the few high-level field agents who had managed to survive to retirement. The catch was, he was also as dead as a doornail.
Following his retirement, McTaggart had decided to write a book detailing his experiences in the British security services. This was perhaps not the wisest move he'd ever made. His former employer got wind of the memoir and arranged to have McTaggart killed, masking his death as a suicide. Harry and his team had uncovered the truth. Harry knew McTaggart was long dead, destroyed by the very organization to which he had dedicated his life's work. So how could McTaggart be here, on his doorstep, tonight of all nights? Harry swayed a little in his confusion and leaned his hand against the wall for support. He heard McTaggart's controlled and resonant voice.
"Harry, are you going to invite me in, or did the memoir turn even you against me?"
"Yes, yes, of course, come in Clive."
Harry's brow was furrowed. He led McTaggart into the sitting room, offering him a whisky. McTaggart declined. Harry reached to pour himself a drink, but then, considering the presence of his apparently undead visitor, thought the better of it. He turned to face him.
"Clive, how … how can you be here? My team investigated the circumstances of your death. I went to your funeral, helped arrange your affairs." Harry trailed off, lost for words. Harry had never believed in the supernatural. He was too suspicious, too doubting. He only believed in the real and concrete, and sometimes not even that. There had to be a rational explanation for the fact that he was currently having a conversation with a man who had died several years ago. He just couldn't fathom what it was.
McTaggart broke the silence. "Thank you for discovering the truth, Harry, about what happened. Not that it matters much to me in my current circumstances. I'm here to repay you, in a way. I've got a few words of advice for you."
Harry stared into McTaggart's shadowed face, waiting.
When McTaggart next spoke, his voice was harsh. "Get out, Harry. And don't stupidly think that you can talk when you do. Don't make the same mistake that I did. Just get out and forget about it – all of it. I couldn't forget, because the service was all I ever had – no friends, no family. I wrote the memoir so I'd have something to leave behind. But you've got more than that, Harry. You've still got family, your children, don't you?"
Harry nodded slowly, "Yes … but I'm not exactly on the best of terms with them. Look, Clive, I gave up being a real father to them long ago. They're adults now. It's too late to go back and fix it. And my son … I don't even know where he is. I wouldn't even know how to begin. Not that it's any of your business," Harry added grimly.
"It's only too late, Harry, when you're like me – dead, with no children, nothing to look forward to, and only bad memories to look back on. The service turned on me, Harry. After decades of giving it everything I had. When you leave, someone will take your place, and the machine will keep grinding away. Get out now while you still can. You still have something left, Harry, something outside this. Take it while you can. Don't let the service destroy you like it destroyed me."
Confused, Harry rubbed his face with his hands. "Clive, I need neither your advice nor your help. I don't know what this is or why you are here, but I am fully aware of what the service is. I know that I'll likely die in this office, or because of it. I accepted that a long time ago. I can't leave, Clive. I've nowhere to go. And they wouldn't let me. There are too many skeletons in this old closet."
"I died alone, Harry – alone and terrified. You needn't die like that. Remember, there's always a way out. You just have to find it."
A sudden, irrational rage swept over Harry. He'd always hated being told what to do. He raised his voice. "Leave. Now. I don't know who or what you are, but just get the hell out of my house." He squared his shoulders and turned his back to McTaggart.
"I won't be the last friend you'll see here tonight, Harry."
Harry spun round to ask his visitor what he'd meant, but McTaggart had vanished. Harry heard the front door creak open and then click quietly shut. He moved to the window and scanned the street outside, but it was strangely deserted. Christ, it was like one of those nightmares he'd had as a child. He remembered an old antidote he'd used for bad dreams. He sat down and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake. "It's just a dream, just a dream." He repeated it over and over again. He forced his eyes open. He once more found himself sitting on the couch, dog napping next to him, fire burning, his hand holding the empty glass, the book lying closed in his lap. He breathed a sigh of relief. The music had stopped, but the room was filled with warmth and light.
