Chapter Five

This time there was no sound, no knock at the door, no familiar face. Not yet. It began as a shining pool, a smoky mirror, perhaps the surface of the Thames on that dark December night. Harry stared and stared into it, until he saw a face reflected from its cold and gleaming depths. It was his face – lined, care-worn, alone. Just his.

Harry didn't like to look upon himself. He knew what hid behind that face – all the secrets and lies, the unspeakable deeds he'd done. Yet he found it impossible to close his eyes, to look away. So he continued to stare, until the reflection began to shift once more, like a sinister ripple on the water. He felt a coolness surround him. He was no longer alone, but felt no comfort this time. The reflection of another face began to emerge. A hooded, indistinct face; behind him, just beyond. Fear suddenly gripped him, tightening his throat, causing his heart to race. He wondered if this were the end. He wanted to shut his eyes, to run, to scream, but he was trapped, forced to look, forced to face himself and this unearthly figure.

In a shaking voice he began to plead, "What do you want? Speak. Please." His words were met with silence. The reflection distorted once more, swirling and blurring before him. Vague shapes began to emerge – lines, letters, words, no – names. He now knew where he stood. He was staring at the hideous memorial wall at Thames House, its black, unforgiving surface carved with the names of dead officers. Harry loathed this place. The hooded figure lifted its arm and traced the list of names with a veiled finger. Harry's eyes were drawn uncontrollably to each one. He could see and feel in vivid detail the way each officer had died: torture, gunshot, hanging, beating, bomb blast, stabbing. All blood and gore and death – successive images of pure violence and evil and pain that made him sick to his stomach. He screamed in agony, "Stop! Stop…." Suddenly, whatever had held him in its rigid grasp let go. Harry dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He cried, "It's my fault, all my fault…."

He knelt on the cold floor until his knees ached. The gruesome images had left, the eerie silence had returned. He cautiously opened his eyes. The memorial wall still stood before him, the image of the hooded figure reflected from its surface. The cloaked arm now pointed to the final name on the list. It read "H. Pearce". Some of the fear left him. Harry barked a resentful laugh and spoke in a rough voice, "Do you really think I care that my name is there? I'd substitute my name for any one of my officers on that list. It always should have been me. None of my officers would be dead if it weren't for my orders, my mistakes." He roughly rubbed the tears from his face, and then continued, "So kill me – let me die. I've nothing left, anyway."

"You're wrong, Harry."

No, it couldn't be. Not that voice. Just when he thought the agony couldn't get any worse. He raised his eyes. The face of the shrouded figure was no longer hooded and indistinct. In its place he saw the face of his beautiful Ruth. He stood and reached out to touch her, but felt only the cool hardness of marble against his fingers. Yes, he thought bitterly, that only made sense. Even in life she'd always been just out of his reach.

He dropped his arm. Her image smiled gently at him. He started to speak, but she shushed him, "No words, please, Harry. Words have never worked for us. I brought you here to show you that, in the end, you're just one of us. It's not your war. You're not the reason our names are here. We all make choices in life, Harry. These people chose this job. They knew what might happen. I knew what might happen. But you, Harry, you still have a choice. You just need to find the will to make it."

He wanted to tell her that he couldn't live without her; that he didn't care anymore; that he'd lost his will to live. He wanted to beg her to let him die, to take him to wherever she was. Yet he couldn't speak. He just stood and stared at her image in quiet desperation.

"I'm going to show you something else, Harry."

The blackness of the marble shifted once again. Ruth's face faded, and in its place a domestic scene emerged. Harry thought he could see a mother and child sitting together, reading. He peered closely at the image, tracing it with his fingers. The picture grew clearer and he recognized Catherine, though she looked older – there were faint lines on her face and dark circles under her eyes. She was sitting with a little boy who was perhaps five years old. They were paging through a book – no, it was a photo album. Harry heard the boy ask, in a distant-sounding voice, "Who's that, Mummy?"

Catherine's response sounded hollow, remote. "That's your Grandad – Mummy's Daddy. He died when you were a baby."

"Did that make you cry?"

"Well, yes, it did make me very sad." Catherine gave the little boy a hug. "He was a brave man who had an important job, so I didn't get to see him very often, but I did love him."

"You mean he was something like my Daddy?"

"Well, not … sort of …." Catherine stared into the distance for a moment. Recollecting herself, she smiled slightly and touched the tip of the little boy's nose. "It's too bad you never knew your Grandad. I'm sure he would have had you into all kinds of mischief."

Harry saw the little boy smile at Catherine, but then the image began to dissolve and contort again. Another took its place – a picture of a simple church standing in the English countryside. The weathered gravestones that encircled the church bore indecipherable witness to lives long past. Yet one of the stones stood out from the rest. Harry's eyes were drawn irresistibly to its shining surface. The stone seemed to grow as he looked upon it, drawing closer to him until it filled his field of vision. He found himself staring at another name carved into black granite, a name he recognized all too well – "Graham Pearce". His heart was struck with horror when he saw the year of death – 2014. Harry found his voice and croaked in despair, "No, not Graham. Not so soon. What happened? Why didn't I save him?"

He heard Ruth's voice again. It was warmer and fuller this time. He realised that she was no longer just a reflection. He could feel her standing next to him. Yet he was afraid to look. He still couldn't face her. He shut his eyes and shook his head as he tried to block it all out, but it didn't work. "You couldn't help because you were dead, Harry. This job killed you. You never had the chance to help Catherine raise your grandson, and you never had the chance to set things right with Graham."

Eyes still closed, Harry started to beg. "Tell me that I can have a second chance, that I can change this. Bring me back to my house, please, just give me once more chance to fix this."

"Does that mean you don't want to die?"

"No … I suppose … I don't." His eyes were still shut, his head hung.

"Go to Catherine and Graham, Harry. Share yourself with them like you never could with me. It's not too late. You can change this. You can live to see your grandson, to see Graham happy. But it means that you'll have to stop, Harry. Stop work. Let it go. The Grid will keep going, whether you're there or not. You know it's time. You've done enough. It's time to turn your attention to other things that really matter. It's time for you to save yourself."

He looked up just as her presence began to fade. He started to speak, "Ruth, I love …", but she wasn't there anymore. He felt lost in the blackness that surrounded him, lost and alone. Perhaps it was over. Perhaps he really was dead, and she was still gone. This was the hell he deserved. He crumpled onto the cold floor, sobbing.