The driver pulled in to an underground car park. It was quiet and gloomy. He stopped the car neatly between the white lines and got out.
Ruth reached for the handle.
There was a resounding 'clunk'.
The door was locked.
Through the window, John, the driver, walked away.
Ruth spun around to Harry who was sitting beside her, in his hand lay the fob for the car.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Talking to you, Ruth."
"Unlock the door, Harry."
He shook his head.
"We'll be late for the meeting," she warned, impatiently.
"There is no meeting."
She stared at him aghast and then sat back, folding her arms.
Harry did not need to be a spook to recognise that the body language was not conducive to a chat.
For a moment neither spoke; Ruth exuding only anger and disdain; Harry willing himself to remember the words that had been in his head and heart all week.
"I'm sorry Ruth," he began, "I'm sorry for so many things: for this being the only way I can talk to you; for what I thought and the unforgiveable things I said; for my behaviour which was unprofessional and boorish; but most of all for hurting you by letting my personal feelings interfere."
"You called me a slut."
"I am truly sorry, Ruth."
She looked out of the window, eyes fixed on a flickering strip light, which flashed on and off in an irregular, unpredictable pattern.
Several seconds passed.
"We have to work together," he said finally, "that is unless you no longer wish to work with me?"
"For you. I work for you."
He shook his head and smiled a soft, sad smile, "No, Ruth, you work with me."
For the first time her eyes flicked to him, not with disdain, and held his look.
"I don't want to lose you," he said quietly, "You're too important to the section."
And to me. Always to me. In his head over and over he repeated the words, willing her to hear them, willing her to understand and to forgive him.
"I realise you may never forgive me for what I said but please, if you do want to stay, then let us find a way to work with each other again, Ruth."
He lifted the fob in his hand and pressed a button. The locks released.
He reached for the door handle, "John will drive you home."
He got out and glanced at her briefly before shutting the door.
"Think about it."
She watched him call out into the shadows, from where the figure of John emerged. The fob was handed over.
Hands in coat pockets, Harry Pearce walked away under the flickering strip light, there and then gone, there and gone, there and then …. gone.
"Home, Miss?" asked John
"Home," repeated Ruth.