Wednesday
"How was it?" dares Dimitri.
"Somewhere between the Spanish Inquisition and Nuremburg," mutters Harry retreating into his office in the knowledge that the Inquiry will only get worse than today's opening session.
Dimitiri takes a deep breath and follows him.
"Harry…"
His boss glances up.
"Can I do anything to help?"
"Thank you, Dimitri, but I'm afraid I'm beyond that now."
"If there is anything…" he leaves the offer hanging, unspoken, not verbalising the extremes to which he might be encouraged to go.
Harry nods, he know what is being said.
"Ruth…" Dimitri adds, "she's not quite herself."
Harry raises his eyes questioningly.
"She seems a little confused about what happened to her on Monday night."
"I'm not with you."
"Neither's she. She can't seem to remember anything."
"A glass too much of burgundy, perhaps," says Harry, smiling.
"Does that sound like Ruth to you?"
"No, but then perhaps I don't know her evening habits that well." He looks away signalling the end of the conversation.
"But you'd like to."
Harry's eyes dart up, his mouth set. The fire in his eyes surprises Dimitri. The passion, the pain, there is so much more there, more than he had expected.
"Goodnight Dimitri," says Harry tightly.
Ruth is on the bus, it's a miserable evening and the inevitable rain resumes as the lights from the city traffic randomly illuminate her face.
She has that nagging feeling once more. The feeling of sitting on a bus and being afraid, not afraid, no not afraid…nervous. Feeling nervous like she is being drawn somewhere, drawn both willing and yet unwilling.
And she knows there is something more. But she cannot place it.
She watches the bus pull away and wonders why she is no longer on it.
He opens the door to a damp, confused Ruth.
Nervously she hopes he will be pleased to see her. He is not. He stands blocking her path.
"Please may I come in?" she asks quietly.
"You shouldn't be here, Ruth."
"Says who?"
"It's not right."
"Please, Harry. It's raining."
He stands to one side unwillingly.
She walks in looking around his house, thinking it strange that her life has been so entwined with his and yet never has she been here before.
"Tea?" he asks.
"Please," she follows him to the kitchen and watches him as he gathers cups and milk.
"So, what is it, Ruth?"
"I…I wanted to ask how things were going?"
"They're going."
It is all the answer he seems prepared to give. Truth be told he wants her to leave. He can't deal with this.
Ruth senses it.
"I'm sorry, I should go."
The kettle clicks off.
He sighs.
"At least have some tea and get warm first," he concedes, taking the top off the milk and glancing around for something.
She reaches into a draw and pulls out a spoon.
"Thanks," he says his eyes lingering on hers for longer than he had intended.
He turns away and begins to stir.
"Harry, how did I know where the spoons were?"
"Predictable kitchen planning,' he says lightly, turning to hand her a mug.
Her face is focused, her brow furrowed in concentration as he watches some of the puzzle inside her head start to piece itself together.
"The plates are in here," she says opening a cupboard, "and there's a light out in your fridge."
She opens the fridge door and sure enough the top light is not working.
She looks at him with accusing eyes.
"How do I know this Harry? What have you done to me?"
"Please, Ruth. Please just go," he says sadly talking her cup back and turning to lean against the sink.
"Tell me," she demands, her hands on his back trying to pull him round towards her. But as those hands feel the warmth of his back something new overcomes her, some new flash of memory, like a spark and then gone. Her hands withdraw quickly and hover in the air above him.
He waits and hopes to hear the click of her feet across the floor away from him but there is nothing, only silence.
A fingertip begins to trail across the left hand side of his ribs. He shivers.
"You have a scar here."
He closes his eyes and wills her to go.
"Don't you?"
He says nothing
"Don't you!" she demands.
He turns to her finally, his eyes refusing to meet hers.
"Ruth, please go."
"Why do I know there's a scar there, Harry?"
"Ruth…"
"Why?"
He shakes his head.
"HARRY!"
"Please don't do this," he pleads.
She is breathing heavily, eyes fixed upon him, burning with anger and confusion.
"Why, Harry?" her voice is calm now, calm and determined.
"You've seen it," he says quietly.