Again, my thanks to everyone who is reading and particularly those taking the time to review.
5. February 2013 – 1 – Norfolk – Conference
The temperature had topped 42°C in Canberra the day before she left and it was already up to 32°C when she and the others boarded their 8.00am flight to Sydney to connect with QF1 to London. Conversely, it was 5°C when they arrived at Heathrow at 6.00am on the Sunday morning. Picking up their hire car, she and her colleagues headed off in the early-morning dark, struggling against jet-lag, cold and the dimness of a late winter morning as they headed towards the conference venue, which was some miles away to the north-east, at a carefully chosen isolated, luxurious and highly secure former stately home in Norfolk.
By the time the group arrived it was late-morning and not noticeably warmer; after booking in, the trio separated to their rooms. Hope's was small but very elegant and comfortable with an amazing view over the surrounding gardens and parkland to the valley beyond. Tempted though she was to have a lie down she knew it would be fatal to her chances of adapting to the change in time zones so instead had a long, very warm, shower, changed into something more suitable and went back down stairs. After looking over the conference venue she wandered in to where a casual lunch was taking place for arriving delegates and caught up with her fellow travellers as well as a few other Cousins who were floating around, looking slightly lost. There was no sign of Harry and she didn't really expect there to be – he hadn't said whether he was attending the whole thing or not and she knew, from experience, that the job would ultimately make the decision for him.
At a loose end after lunch and continuing to avoid the temptation of the bed in her room, she went for a walk around the grounds. It had warmed up at last – the temperature had just clawed its way into double-digits – and a weak sun was peering through the gauzy high haze so it wasn't entirely unpleasant to be out and about; to tell the truth she was enjoying the novelty of the chill after the almost-being-fried conditions prevalent during the preceding week-long heatwave back home. There was a stream at the bottom of the garden, she discovered, still rimed in ice in shady spots but tinkling prettily in its mossy green way, the clear water sliding smoothly over a base of rounded brown and grey stones. The gardens would have been stunning in Spring, she thought, they were just a bit bony now but the views were brilliant, especially from the terrace outside the conference room, which was where she ended up once back from her walk. She had picked up a coffee and was outside, fingers wrapped around the mug to keep warm as she admired the somewhat stark vista of pale pastels etched on grey and white, softened around the edges by a faint silver mist, and was contemplating an early night when she thought she heard a footstep somewhere behind her. Barely had the sound registered when she definitely heard a soft, deep voice in her ear.
"I was wondering where you were hiding."
She allowed herself a brief grin at the scenery before sighing mightily and announcing to the world in general, eyes still fixed on the horizon,
"You know, last time I was here the boys warned me that you had a habit of sneaking up behind them and scaring the daylights out of them. Now I know what they meant."
"Only when they're up to no good on the internet!" the voice protested mildly but she could hear the smile in it. Putting her coffee mug down on the balustrade, she finally turned to look at him and smiled back.
"Hello, Harry."
"Hello, Hope."
They moved into a hug which lasted longer than any of the ones at the airport had before separating with a kiss on each cheek to openly study each other. She thought he looked better: the first time she had seen him in civvies since Berlin, rugged up in jeans and a heavy jacket over a cream sweater, he actually had some colour in his face, compared to the grey man she had met last year, wasn't quite as gaunt as he had been and there was a spark of light in his dark eyes now, below the well of tears. He thought she looked tanned and relaxed and probably freezing, dressed like he was in jeans and a sweater but with a much lighter coat and straight from the middle of summer to the middle of winter. For all that she looked genuinely pleased to see him.
"How are you? You're looking well," she said quietly.
He shrugged and gave a small smile as he delivered a surprisingly honest appraisal.
"Progressing. Slowly and in fits and starts, but progressing. How about you? You look cold."
She laughed.
"I am! It was well over the old hundred when we left yesterday, you know, so it's a bit of a shock to the system to arrive to this. As for the rest, I'm progressing as well. As you do."
They gazed fondly at each other for a moment before a gentle gust of breeze made her involuntarily shiver. Noticing, he took her by the arm and said,
"Come on, let's go inside before you freeze solid."
Heading back inside they grabbed two fresh coffees and went in search of somewhere quiet to sit. There were several reception and sitting rooms on the ground floor and they eventually found one, at the far end of a corridor, that contained both very few other people and seats in front of an open fire. Hope made a bee-line for the latter, claiming the end of a two-seat sofa nearest the fire; Harry made himself comfortable next to her and the only others in the room, a pair with their heads together over a tablet on a small table in a far corner, glanced at them incuriously before returning their attention to each other and the computer. Harry and Hope did the same, spending the first half an hour bringing each other up to date before relaxing into periods of companionable silence interspersed with conversation. They only touched briefly on each other's grief – there would be plenty of time for that, if it was necessary – preferring to stay on more neutral topics. He was visibly relaxing in her quiet presence; she was visibly thawing out and slowly turning pink from the fire.
As the afternoon wore on more delegates arrived and the public rooms filled up, including the one they were in. Occasionally acquaintances of Harry's would bowl over to say hello and talk; mysteriously, after a few minutes all of them seemed to find something else to do and would disappear again. One of Hope's travelling companions found them, was introduced and stayed on to chat but also seemed to get the hint after ten minutes and disappeared as well. Hope worked out that Harry was being charming to them all but was also somehow giving them a subliminal message to push off and leave them alone, so the next time it happened she couldn't help grinning at him and saying,
"I don't know how you're doing it but you're bloody good at it." He looked at her ingenuously, all wide, dark tawny eyes; she just shook her head at him and added repressively, "Don't go trying to look innocent with me, it won't work." The innocence was replaced by dejection, equally feigned; suddenly winking at him she ordered, "And don't stop doing whatever you're doing, either, I'm really not in the mood to socialise tonight!"
At that his feigned dejection gave was to something that was genuinely crest-fallen as his only half-formed plan seemed to fall through and he couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice.
"Oh, so dinner is out then?"
Hearing the words and seeing his face she realised he had misunderstood and hastened to correct him.
"Not you, you nong! I should have added 'with strangers'." She reached over and touched his hand. "Dinner would be very nice, as long as we can hide somewhere away from everyone and make it an early one because jet-lag is starting to catch up with me and I'll be asleep by eight o'clock tonight wherever I am."
The clarification cheered him up no end. The plan had hardly been long-standing, it had only popped into his head as he had driven through some nearby towns on his way in and noticed a couple of reasonable-looking restaurants but had taken on more intent over the course of the past few hours so he smiled gently at her for a moment before saying,
"Very well. We're not that far from the coast so we can go over there, have some dinner and be back early. I still have to finish the key-note address for Wednesday morning so it will suit me to get rid of it tonight. I might get you to review it tomorrow, if you would."
She nodded.
"Okay. A pub feed will do, unless you want something fancier. My body clock's still out of whack – it thinks it's two in the morning – so I'm not that hungry."
Staff were moving around, picking up coffee cups and offering early evening drinks. When one of them approached, Harry waved him off, looked at his watch and said to her,
"We could set off now, if you like. It'll be after six by the time we get there."
Nodding again, she stretched luxuriously before hauling herself up.
"Right-o, let's go. I hope your car's heater is working!"
The evening passed very pleasantly, again spent quietly talking or equally quietly sitting while devouring some surprisingly good pub grub. It turned out that Hope was hungrier than she had thought after the better part of two days of not eating much ('"airline food" is an oxymoron and therefore doesn't count!' had been her quick retort to Harry's gentle dig at her change of heart) while Harry, whose appetite had been sporadic to say the least since the events of spring 2011, found both the simple food and his companion's whole-hearted enjoyment of it rather beguiling and so couldn't help but join in. True to his word, though, they were back by her witching hour and headed for their rooms which, it rapidly became clear, were in the same direction. As they ducked into a lift on their own he asked where she was.
"Top floor. Room 8."
He suddenly grinned and held up his electronic tag.
"Guess where?"
She looked at him through narrowed eyes.
"Well, I suspect top floor for starters. Don't tell me you're in either six or ten. If you are and you snore loud enough for me to hear you through the wall you're dead meat. I like my sleep."
He shook his head.
"Close. Seven, and one of the few things I've never been accused of is snoring."
"Excellent! Directly opposite and glad to hear it. All I can hope is that whomever I do have as neighbours are equally as considerate." The lift stopped and they got out, walking along their corridor to the rooms which were, indeed, opposite. "It's convenient you're over the corridor." She suddenly grinned at him with a slightly wicked light in her green eyes. "Means we can get thoroughly pissed at the dinner on Tuesday night and whichever one of us stays upright longest can roll the other one home and slosh them through their doorway!"
He laughed at the sudden vision of the pair of them staggering along the corridor, both with a skin-full and probably trying to avoid getting stopped by anyone wanting to talk business; he wouldn't vouch for either of them being polite under those circumstances.
"Sounds good to me. The best thing about these dinners is usually the alcohol..." They had reached their respective doorways by this time so he swept a mock-bow and announced, with a flourish towards her room, "It's past your bed-time, Cinderella, you had better go to sleep before you turn into a pumpkin! And, sadly, I have that speech to finish writing." A beseeching expression crept into his eyes. "You wouldn't care to swap, would you? I'll sleep and you can write? It was a long drive up here."
Her sympathetic expression vanished in an instant to be replaced by one that was completely opposite.
"Oh, poor diddums. It can't have been as long as mine was, after being stuck in a tin tube twelve kilometres up in the air for almost a day so no, sorry, thanks for the offer. God knows what drivel you'd end up with if I wrote anything in my current state anyway! I'm sure you'll be fine so you can stop trying to wriggle out of your responsibilities, buster." She sketched a brief salute. "See you in the morning, if I wake up in time."
Spying one final opportunity for the evening to tease he offered generously,
"Do you want me to hammer on your door on the way to breakfast?" and was gratified by her shudder of distaste.
"Not if it's before 6.30 you don't. Any time after that is fair game, though."
She was just about ready when he kept his word at 6.45 the next morning. Peering blearily through the spy-hole first, she opened the door and greeted him with a jaundiced,
"Do you have to look quite so awake at this hour of the day?"
He just smiled at her churlish sally and countered with a mild,
"What, are you not dressed yet?"
Yawning elegantly she turned back towards the room, making for the en-suite, throwing over her shoulder,
"Almost. Just finishing putting my face on. I'll see you down there, if you want."
Finding he was in no hurry to breakfast alone Harry found himself saying,
"It's alright, I can wait."
Her muffled response wafted out of the bathroom.
"You'd better come in, then, people might wonder what you're doing if you keep propping up the door-frame and I don't bite, especially not when I'm still waking up from a dose of jet-lag."
He wandered over to the window and gazed out over the countryside while she finished off her makeup.
"You've got the view on this side of the building, haven't you?"
It was the same as the one she had been admiring from the terrace the previous afternoononly more spectacular for being three storeys higher. Early morning mist was rising from the fields and stream in the early light, a classic winter vista if ever there was one. Her voice floated out to him, sounding slightly distracted and a little surprised.
"Haven't you got a view?"
"Not like this. It's blocked by the woods behind us."
Re-emerging fully-faced, Hope wandered over and stood next to him for a moment, reassessing the vision that was slowly being tinged with gold and blue as the sun climbed higher. Even in the freezing depths of a Canberra winter she wouldn't see such a classic vision as that which was laid out in front of them – at home the trees, the landforms, the atmosphere, even the quality of the light itself was too wrong to produce anything even remotely like an English morning.
"Yes, it is rather lovely. I'd just come back from a walk down to the creek yesterday when you turned up; it's very pretty, even at this time of year." Turning away, conscious of the time, she muttered, "Now what the hell have I done with my shoes..."
The day went quickly, a mix of formal presentations and informal, free-flowing discussion sessions. Once breakfast was done they hardly saw each other until she spotted him at the sundowner session after the day's program was finished. He was still looking elegant in his charcoal suit, crisp pale blue shirt and silver grey tie but seemed a bit pallid and rather tired from where she was standing, observing the social interactions in general and him in particular. There were shadows under his eyes and, although he appeared to be socialising with those around him, it was clear he wasn't particularly enjoying the experience.
She didn't know how right she was. Harry could cope with the presentations and discussion sessions but the after-hours aspect was getting to him. Although he was well aware of the value of the practice he had never particularly enjoyed socialising – networking, to use the fashionable expression he loathed – with strangers at events like this but had been good at it when he wanted or needed to be; now, though, it all seemed incredibly bloody pointless. The Alpha Male preening and posturing for the sake of political advancement was now nothing more than an obvious irritant - he had always preferred to use a more subtle and more effective charm offensive – for which he no longer had the time or inclination.
He hadn't always felt so but he could just about place to the day when his attitude had begun to change: when Juliet had reappeared and started to play her own version of the game which had included trying to blackmail him. The disenchantment had finally reached totality with the deadly games played by RussiaFirst that had left both he and Ilya Gavrik reeling. The stark irony of those few minutes, in which Ilya had lost everything he thought he had known about his personal past and Harry had lost a personal future he hadn't even known existed, one where Ruth was about to haul him up onto the precipice to take a leap of faith, together, to an unknown and uncertain fate away from the security services, leaving both men tasting the ashes of defeat and turning the pair of them completely away from anything political, wasn't lost on him. Ilya had made a better fist of leaving it mostly behind than he had: he was still in the job, after all, and thus at this meeting, watching the younger generation swallow the same false lures of power whereas Ilya was not, busying himself with the not inconsiderable task of decentralising his vast business empire out of Russia into what were apparently the safer international waters of London, Dallas and Singapore, although he was still acting – increasingly reluctantly – in his ministerial position for the Putin government.
Harry envied Ilya sometimes, for having business affairs in which to bury himself, but had at least given up torturing himself with wondering what that aborted future with Ruth might have held. She had clearly had something in mind but he would never know now what it was and it did him no good at all to dwell on it. Instead of that phantasm the reality was that he was stuck here in the early evening surrounded by idiots being seduced by the same savage little world that had hooked him in almost forty years before. Right now he would rather disappear up to his room on his own with a good single malt for company... He could imagine what Ruth would say to that idea and none of it would be good.
Sighing silently and thoroughly fed up with the currently inane chattering of the group he was with, he scanned the room, wondering where Hope was; at least if he was with her he wouldn't have to talk about inanities, or work or anything else for that matter. She was one of the few people he had ever known who truly appreciated silence and didn't have a compulsive need to fill it with chatter and at times over the past few months that had been an absolute god-send. It didn't take long to spot her lurking beside a pillar, half hidden by a pot-plant, nursing a glass of red wine and watching the crowd with that quiet stillness. Her claret coloured suit was rather good for lurking in that particular room, he realised, as it almost matched the colour of the gilded wall panels... Catching her eye he cast her a mournful look; her lips twitched, repressing a sympathetic grin (she loathed socialising even more than he did, which was another reason why she had eventually removed herself from field work) before she pushed herself off the pillar and wove her way through the crowd towards him. Excusing himself from his present company, he joined her half-way across the floor. Giving a relieved smile he asked,
"Were you lurking with intent over there, or just lurking?"
She grinned.
"Both. With intent: hiding from the leader of the Chinese delegation who won't leave me alone now she's descovered I speak Mandarin. Without intent: watching all the intriguing politicking along with identifying those who are trying to avoid it! It's not just us, in case you were wondering."
He smiled again.
"I wasn't wondering. Or not about that." Nodding towards the chattering mob he added with an expression that was a mixture of mild distaste, slight despair and a dash of hope, "Do you want to stay here for dinner or shall we run away again?"
She gave him that slightly disconcerting, steady look that had been known to un-nerve many others in equally powerful positions as she considered the offer for all of about three nano-seconds before replying gravely,
"Run away, please. We're spending far too much time here as it is. Pizza will do or a take-away curry. Or anything, really, with the possible exception of Maccas or KFC..." Leaning forward her tone suddenly changed to something that sounded distinctly like wheedling. "But let me go and get out of these heels first, please! I'm out of practice with wearing the damned things and they're killing me."
He agreed, deciding to ditch the tie and suit jacket in favour of something more comfortable. Managing to sneak out without getting way-laid, they headed up to their rooms, leaving their doors open so they could continue to talk across the corridor while they changed. They were about to leave when his phone rang; rolling his eyes, he mouthed something about 'the Home Secretary' before wandering back into his room to talk. Leaning on his door frame she spotted the printed draft of his talk, remembered his comment from the previous evening and snaffled it, taking it back to her own room to read. She was almost finshed it when he walked in.
"Sorry. Panicking politicians." He joined her at the small table and leaned on the back of her chair, scanning the few notes that she had jotted down. "How is it looking?"
"Good. Nothing much there to pick that I can see. I've scribbled a few editing notes." She gave the paperwork back and stood up, chivvying him towards the door. "Come on, let's go. I'm starving tonight!"
The plan had been to find something in the nearest town but there weren't too many options and all looked busy so they kept going, finding a little trattoria a couple of villages away instead. They had a more leisurely time of it this evening, with no hurry to get back, and managed to put away a bottle of red between them before making tracks just before ten.
The second day was a repeat of the first. Again, they barely saw each other after breakfast, caught up in passing at lunch and that was it until he knocked on her door in the early evening to escort her down to the conference dinner, a requirement they would both have preferred to avoid but couldn't: the thought of a night that would descend sooner rather than later into another round of pointless politicking and ephemeral status-building, despite what they were all supposed to be doing, didn't enthrall either of them so they had made a gentleman's agreement to have each other's back against any sign of encroaching boredem or death by point-scoring. Compounding the lack of enthusiasm for the evening for Hope was the date; she hadn't mentioned it to Harry and didn't intend to but, although the business of the day had kept her mind off things she knew it would be harder during an evening of generally boring speeches and yet more vapid, empty socialising. However, she vowed to do her best to not get overshadowed, for his sake as much as anything, as he had been so much better this week; the process of absorption was obviously – finally – under way for him.
Ready, albeit not in the most scintillating of moods, when he knocked on the door she opened it to be greeted by a sight for sore eyes that made her smile at the sheer unexpectedness of it:: the man was immaculate in flawless black-tie, looking slim, elegant, fair and, surprisingly, happy. She definitely wouldn't bring him down by saying anything of her own concerns, which were immaterial anyway. Instead, standing back to bluntly admire him she said,
"Jesus Christ, Harry, you don't half scrub up okay when you want to, do you? I shall be the belle of the ball with you on my arm."
He grinned at her very genuine surprise but could feel himself turning a little pink at her words so he expertly deflected the compliment back at her.
"You would be the belle of the ball anyway, looking like that."
It was only the truth. Whatever he had been expecting it wasn't quite the vision of old-school Hollywood glamour that was in front of him. Dressed in a floor length sea-green gown with long sleeves and a sweet-heart neckline accentuated by art deco jewelled dress-clips, it was made of a fabric that, somehow, looked heavy, soft and shiny, almost wet, all at the same time. It clung in all the right places, showing off the results of her efforts in the gym and the martial arts studio very nicely, he thought, and was enhanced by subtle jewellery, makeup and hair. Winking, she bobbed a small curtsey.
"Well, if a Knight of the Realm thinks so then we shall quite dazzle the room!" As she moved to pick up a short, cream cape made out of the same fabric and threw it around her shoulders he couldn't take his eyes off her or the shimmering, liquid appearance of the material. Shaking his head as she rejoined him he commented,
"I know nothing about fabric but I know my daughter would kill to get hold of some of whatever your dress is made from."
"I hope she's got deep pockets, then." A sly sideways look replaced the grimace of pain that had appeared as she remembered the cost of what she was wearing. "Or that you have! It's ultrafine wool woven with silk and costs a fortune. I had this dress made out of it from a 1940s pattern because I've always had a slight tendre for forties and fifties fashion on the rare occasions I bother to dress up and wanted something that would look good while being warm."
He could vouch for the success of at least half of that aim and did so, cheerfully.
"Well, it certainly fulfills the former!"
"And it is warm!" Tucking her key into a discrete pocket she added, "We should get going, I suppose. The sooner it starts, the sooner we can bunk off afterwards..." He looked glum for a moment before sighing and proferring his arm; she accepted and, metaphorically girding their loins, they headed down to do their duty.
It was every bit as deadly as they had expected it to be. Their immediate company started out civil enough but after the second round of drinks inhibitions began to relax and the sniping began. Harry and Hope skilfully kept out of it while appearing to remain politely involved and at least the food and drink were good, helping them through the trial that was the speeches. After the official part of the evening was done the social aspect took over and they split up to do the obligatory circulating. Hope lasted about half an hour before the mind-numbing tedium of it all got to her and she knew it was time to escape for some fresh air and to deal with the day on her own for a little while as the pressure to be sociable was starting to wear her down. Harry was nowhere to be seen, for which she was grateful – there was no way she'd be able to sidle away unseen if he was in the room – so, throwing her cape around her shoulders again, she slipped out through one of the French doors onto the terrace and slowly walked down to the far end, away from the light and noise to where she could breathe the chill night air in a bit of peace.
A bright quarter-moon was floating high in the sky, its light obscuring many of the stars, and the night was surprisingly pleasant for the time of the year, which merely meant that she wasn't freezing to death on the spot quite yet. Staring out at the dimly lit gardens she let her mind wander back to that night fourteen years ago when she, still a new bride, had become a widow. The pain, grief and guilt were still there but their edges had dulled almost completely with time and the realisation that nothing she could do could have either prevented what had happened or was ever going to bring him back. On top of that she knew, then and now, that the last thing he would have wanted was for her life to essentially end with his so she had gone on with their work and, as best she could, with her life and suddenly it was fourteen years later. Fourteen...
You used to captivate me by your resonating light;
now I'm bound by the life you left behind.
Your face—it haunts my once pleasant dreams.
Your voice—it chased away all the sanity in me.
These wounds won't seem to heal.
This pain is just too real.
There's just too much that time cannot erase…
That song had seared itself into her brain the first time she had heard it almost a decade ago to the day, plunging her back to the molten despair that had engulfed her five years before that, and still reared its head at moments like this, although its affect had become much more remote and somewhat colder with the passing years. Now, the sadness of the final verse, in both lyrics and voice, was what really resonated...
I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
but though you're still with me
I've been alone all along.
Wynne was with her, sure enough, every day – not one went past that she didn't have some thought of him – but it was cold comfort because he really was gone and, after all this time, sometimes it did seem as though he had been a figment of her imagination or a dream, that none of it had been real and instead she had been on her own all along.
She didn't see or hear Harry when he first walked onto the terrace a few minutes later, looking for her, and it took a moment for him to see her in the distant gloom. As soon as he did he realised that there was something amiss just by her stance. She had been a little subdued since breakfast and certainly over this evening, he had returned to the land of the living enough now to see that, and it clearly wasn't just a case of being in a sombre mood, there was something more to it. Standing in the dark, staring unseeingly at the gardens, she was bathed in the colourless moonlight and, although erect, there was something slightly hunched about her shoulders that wasn't related to the fact that she was hugging herself to keep warm, more likely was to do with the incredibly bleak expression on her face. For the first time in the past twenty one months able to see through his own despair he could recognise something of hers.
Approaching quietly he touched her shoulder and asked softly,
"What's the matter?"
Hope had heard his footsteps only when he was almost there; the question didn't really surprise her but the gentle touch did and was appreciated rather more than the question. She should have realised he would figure it out. Continuing to stare into the night, hoping that if he couldn't see her eyes he might accept some prevarication, she responded lightly,
"Oh, nothing much, or nothing for you to concern yourself with anyway."
I'm not about to buy that one. In the past, in a different life, he would have but not any more, in his own small new world order.
"Your expression suggests differently."
He obviously wasn't going to let it go – it had been a little silly to think she could completely disguise her mood – so, still not looking at him, she replied evenly, almost conversationally, with no tone in her voice and while steadfastly gazing up at the moon,
"Despite what I've said to you in the past, once a year I do allow myself a few moments to consider why the hell we bother doing what we do, for the price we pay, and if it would actually be better to let the human population of this poor planet implode the way it apparently wants to. I can admit this to you now: sometimes, I think it isn't." She felt his arm go around her shoulder but said nothing and didn't look, merely allowed herself to lean into his side a little, grateful for the friendly warmth. "Then, once I've wallowed for a bit – like about now – I allow the other, dominant half of my brain to take over again and run through all the reasons why it is, despite the price. Obviously that side wins, every time, not only because it has to but because it's true." Maybe that would be enough for him and she wouldn't have to go any further into it but sof course it wasn't.
Saying nothing at first, Harry merely drew her further into his side as he considered her words and the dead tone in which they were delivered and realised that the two didn't entirely mesh. Weighing it up in his mind he decided that they were close enough now for him to risk saying something that might end up in a flat denial but also had the potential to help her the way she had helped him last year. His voice was very soft when he finally said,
"That's not all, is it? Do you want to talk about it?" He had a feeling he knew what it was but if, after all these years she needed to talk to someone, the least he could do was offer.
Hope heard the questions and inwardly quailed but recognised that he probably had a right to ask after all her gentle prodding the year before. It wasn't that she didn't talk about it at all, she did, but only to a very select group of people and even then she hadn't done so for a long time. She would tell him what she had told the others and take it from there, although what she was about to say was usually enough to shut most people up. Harry's not 'most people', though... Maintaining her neutral tone and expression and still staring unseeingly at the moon she proffered her explanation.
"It was fourteen years ago tonight, Harry, that Wynne was captured, slowly tortured over several days and then killed by members of the Indonesian military in the scrub of East Timor. Betrayed by people he thought were on his side, executed without trial and buried in a shallow grave. And all for nothing because you know what? He wasn't even the person they were after, he was given away almost as an aside, to protect their own arses and curry favour with the powers-that-be. And, to top it off, by the end of that year, Indonesia had been booted out of there anyway and the UN was on the ground, overseeing the transition to independence."
Oh, fuck... His heart broke for her as the full horror of the story washed over him. Although intensely curious, he had respected her self-containment and had resisted the temptation to go trawling for information on Sergeant Wynne Sharrug and his demise, content that if whe wanted him to know she would eventually tell him. Thus far all she had ever expanded on, after that first conversation in front of the memorial wall, was that her husband had been under cover with the FALINTIL forces in the hills, monitoring Indonesian movements, when he had been caught and killed. Nothing about torture, betrayal or lonely bush graves. That just escalated the repugnance and sadness of the story to heights that no-one should have to bear. Squeezing her more tightly he started to say, a catch in his voice reflecting the despair he was feeling,
"I'm sorry—"
It was the catch that did it. No, he definitely wasn't 'most people'. She looked at him at last, smiling the bleakest smile he thought he had ever seen and with eyes oddly dull despite what might be unshed tears and definitely was the old pain, and found herself succumbing to an entirely unfamiliar but intense desire to spill truths she never thought she would tell anyone again after she had finished with the work psychologist all those years ago.
"Oh, it doesn't finish there. You know what's the worst of all? I had two long-term assets in the area who had been totally reliable for years. I passed their names onto Wynne and he used one of them to get in touch with FALINTIL and, occasionally, to get information out when there was no other way. It was my asset who betrayed him."
She didn't know why she was telling him this – maybe because he was about the only person she had ever talked to whom she knew would genuinely understand every implication of every word – but now she had started the words just kept on coming, a syndrome she had heard about but never experienced in herself before.
"The Indonesians were actually after one of Xanana Gusmao's commanders and my husband just happened to be with the man's group at the time. Just observing and reporting, nothing else, but my asset told them he was there when he squealed on the commander as well." Her voice was still toneless, the tears still unshed, if anything being reabsorbed.
Harry could think of nothing to say as the similarity between Wynne's and Bill's fates left him almost breathless, his gut contorted into a screaming, burning knot of pain as he recognised that very singular guilt which had dominated his being from that day in Belfast in August 1978. The merest hint of heartbreak echoed behind her next words.
"At least Ruth died in your arms, trying to protect you. She had that. Wynne died slowly and alone, for nothing, and we didn't even find out for certain for a month. I didn't get him back to bury for almost a year." A desolate, arid glance came his way as she considered their joint tragedies and added, musing gently, "Although I'm not sure which option is crueller: being there and seeing the light die. Or not..."
At a loss, all he could do was take her fully in his arms, tears spilling from his own eyes as they hadn't from hers while his heart broke all over again. A deep, shaky sigh escaped her as she held him tight, face buried in his neck, and he rocked her gently, still unable to speak and barely able to breathe through the shock of the revelation. No wonder they had recognised each other as kindred spirits last year, only she had suffered the equivalent of Bill and Ruth all rolled into one, not separated by decades, and delivered oh so slowly. His losses had been like a tsunami, sudden, unexpected, savage, devastating and blindingly fast where hers must have been the equivalent of drowning slowly in an all-engulfing tide of treacle, suffocating a little more every day under the weight of ever-growing certainty until that final crushing blow of confirmation. How had she stayed in one piece after that? Now, finally and irrevocably, he understood why she had understood him so very well. Sensing his distress Hope took a deep breath and lifted her head to look at him, eyes huge but voice rock-steady.
"It's alright. Really."
He could tell she meant it but he wasn't entirely convenced so begged to differ. Getting his breath back he managed a relatively calm,
"Clearly, it's not."
It was all out now so she might as well continue on. She shook her head slightly.
"It is. The grief isn't even for me any more – I am still here, having some sort of a life, after all – it's for Wynne and all the 'what might have been's' for him that he never got to explore. He had so much potential but... well, we'll never know now, will we." The truth of her statement caused a knife to twist in Harry's chest as he recognised the verbalisation of what he had been feeling for so long about Ruth and all the other young ones, from Bill through Helen, Danny, Ben, Zafar, Jo, Tariq: all still vibrant and full of life and with it all – experience, families, loves and losses, all the ephemera that made life worth-while – still ahead of them when it was cruelly terminated. It was bad enough with those slightly older, who had had more of a life and even a family, like Adam and Fiona, but when they hadn't had the chance to make it that far it just seemed more poignant, for all that nothing could outweigh the losses of the Wes Carter's of the world...
Hope felt rather than heard another slight hitch, this time in his breath rather than his voice, and definitely saw the shadow that flickered through his eyes and regret coloured her voice as she reached a hand up to gently cup his cheek as she had that day, months ago now, at the airport just before she left. "Now I've upset you, which was the last thing I wanted. I'm the one who's sorry, I shouldn't have dumped that on you without warning but I haven't ever been able to tell anyone else before who might really get it. Who's been there as well."
He sighed and turned his face slightly to brush a friendly kiss on her palm, saying with an air of finality,
"Don't apologise. There's no need. We've got too much in common to require apologies."
She nodded and they continued looking at each other for a moment considering what had been said with nothing much more to add. For ever afterwards neither of them would be able to identify what, exactly, provided the oxygen which caused the tiny spark that had been lurking, steadfastly ignored, at the back of both their minds for longer than either would admit to come roaring to life and cause a sudden, not-quite-imperceptible change in the atmosphere. With no further words and zero forethought their lips met, gently at first but with increasing ardour as they embraced fully and the kiss deepened. Lost in each other and the complete surprise at this utterly unexpected turn of events an endless moment passed before they broke apart for air; he went to say something but, certain it was going to be another misplaced apology, she shook her head and pressed her fingers against his lips before their mouths found each other again, more passionate than before, as the long-dormant desire washed over them leaving both stunned in its wake. Their hearts were beating wildly as they parted again; locking eyes, he found himself requesting softly,
"May I make love to you tonight?"
Her reply was instant, a whispered,
"Yes," as she drew his head towards her for another kiss. Riding the wave of pure, thoughtless impulse they began to nuzzle each other's faces and throats, both on fire in a way neither had felt for years before, finally, she went on, "Take me to bed, Harry. Now."
They moved back towards the venue, arms around each other and exchanging few words, neither of them thinking beyond the twin shocks of such powerful reawakened feelings, for each other. Making their way into the building by the front entrance to avoid the post-dinner partying they arrived at their opposing rooms without any interference, spending the elevator trip nestled together; once there, he opened his door and drew her inside and into his arms to kiss her again. He felt her slipping his jacket off his shoulders and released her long enough to finish the task, then his tie followed as he slowly unzipped her dress, his hands warm on the skin of her back, as she started to unbutton his shirt. Both found their hands shaking. Her dress and bra joined the jacket and tie, followed by the shirt, on the floor and they stood for a moment, wrapped in the embrace and the unfamiliar feeling of skin against skin before they moved to the bed to finish undressing and start exploring each other, taking their time making love, slowly, sensuously and very, very thoroughly. The passion and intensity of both the act and their emotional response surprised both of them; afterwards, when they were entwined, deeply satisfied, he caressed her face and asked simply, still a little dazed and not at all sure of the answer for himself,
"Are you okay?"
Hope smiled gently, still somewhat astonished herself, but replied with perfect truth,
"Yes. Very much so. You?"
"More than okay." He kissed her, languorously and long, delighting in her ardent response. "I don't know where this is heading but as I never expected to feel anything for anyone again I'm going to take it as the incredible gift that it is."
She knew where he was coming from. When she had been at about the same amount of distance from Wynne's death as he now was from Ruth's she had also been largely anaesthetised to emotion herself and even though feeling had eventually returned it had not achieved this level of intensity, hence her astonishment.
"I know. A gift that is all the more beautiful because it was out of the blue." She gazed at Harry with undisguised wonder, trying to work out how on earth they had ended up here, but quickly gave up and kissed him instead before snuggling into his side, drawing abstract designs on his chest with one finger as he absently ran a hand through her hair and they both started to come to terms with events, what they felt and how things had suddenly, miraculously, changed. Eventually they slept, spooned together as though they had been doing this forever and more at peace than either had been for many, many years.
'My Immortal'. Written by Amy Lee and Ben Moody, performed by Evanescence.