So it seems there are a few of us online anxious about tonight. Pactum serva guys ;)
They pack up what few things they've acquired from the house – money, passport, a torch that actually works – before they leave silently, still shadows to the imminent dawn and rest of London. From the back of the complex they find a previously unexplored street that leads them to what looks like a derelict garage where there must be over two-hundred discarded ruined cars, vans, motorbikes and trucks. It soon becomes obvious Harry has lead them here intentionally. Slipping through the rows of rusty metal boxes Ruth follows briskly until they reach a three door dark blue Peugeot 106, resting isolated from the majority of the scrap yard. The key he finds in the unlocked boot and she decides not to ask how it's never been stolen before now. They clamber in, he takes the wheel, and they hold their breath to see if the battered thing will even start. Mercifully, it does.
They drive for about a minute before she speaks, asking where they're going. It was decided sometime all those hours ago back in her house that the airport was the only option. From there they know they can be safe at least for a while. They have money, passports, each other. Even the sun seems to agree with them as it glows over the waking city.
"Is it wrong," she says softly as they hurtle towards the airport, "That I'm enjoying this?"
"This?"
"Our escape."
"No. I don't think it's wrong; I'm enjoying it too."
The check-in is tense to say the least even for them. In the frantic mix of everything just been, they both subconsciously put aside their appearances and it's not until they're passing security does she register the odd looks they're receiving , constantly, from the security officers. What kind of business trip does one attend dressed like that?
"Someone's been in the wars ey Sir," notes the man running his hands down Harry's arms as he's stopped and searched after setting off the machine, typically.
"Sorry?"
"Or has your wife been givin' you a hard time?"
Oh, the bruises. Very funny.
Ruth – too far away to register the conversation – slips on her shoes and waits patiently as the man moves from Harry's arms and shoulders to his main body. Oblivious to fractured bone underneath, he presses forcefully enough to result in Harry's jerking away as if he's suffered some sort of violent electric shock.
"Ow!"
Face awash with mystification but seemingly no remorse, the security officer pulls back.
"Sorry..." Harry continues as Ruth approaches his side, "I'm a little sore. I er..."
"Rugby injuries." Ruth states, blank faced, firm. "Hence the bruises."
They take it no further and scuttle off before she bursts into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
By the time they reach the waiting lounge the situation has become very surreal. Like the moment before a black out, everything is a strange bright white and reality itself seems to switch between what's here right now, and the future they're heading towards. Finally after having eaten enough for ten in the empty cafe, they sit quietly and excited by the window staring towards the runways. Here there are no CCTV camera's they are aware of that can watch them as they wait.
"I've never been to Italy," Ruth says, sipping a cool bottle of water. "I think it's a good place to start. What made you choose it?"
He shrugs, "I'm not sure. I went there once as a child and I've never forgotten how I felt about it. I planned that if I managed to retire before I was shot then I'd move there."
A quieter moment follows before she looks down at where his hand rests limply and takes it in her own. Why it's taken this long to do so is a question she supposes will never be answered. He curls the fingers of his larger paw with hers and they fit effortlessly. Whatever has happened and whatever is yet to happen, this, if anything, is right.
Epilogue
She lays on her back, book in hand, but eyes closed as the sun crawls it's way up her legs and warms her body in almost the same way Harry does. Around her she is mildly conscious of children and their mothers exclaiming speedy Italian as they drop their ice creams into the sand, or insist on plastering on vast amounts of sun cream. It sounds busy but in reality the beach is virtually empty and really just how she's always dreamt of it – alive but somehow peaceful.
At the sound of approaching footsteps by her side, she lifts off her sunglasses and squints up at the bulky figure, clad only in red trunks, standing over her. He smiles, she smiles back, and hands him a towel to absorb the droplets of cold sea water that roll of his body before he takes his place next to her and lies down. She abandons the book she hasn't looked at for half an hour and perches upright, balancing on one shoulder. He knows as he peeks at her sun kissed skin through one eye, that she's returning the favour and before she can stop herself, her hands begin to trace patterns over his chest and stomach in unison with her eyes. They find each scar and smooth it over like she did they first time he revealed himself to her.
"Do you know," she says, "there's one question I ask myself everyday and I still haven't worked out the answer."
He shuffles under her hand but she holds him still and he laughs.
"What's that then Ruth?"
He notices how her hand stops moving over his heart.
"Why we didn't do this sooner."
"Run away to Italy? Well, we were civil servants for one..."
"No Harry. You know what I mean."
He sits up with her, takes her hand on his chest in his own, leans in and pushes their lips together. Every time he does so it's somehow different. He tastes the same but it's like he's telling her that he loves her in a slightly different way.
"I don't honestly know either," he admits as their foreheads rest together. "Love is a strange, strange thing."
"Yes," she agrees and then her tongue is entwined with his for a moment, "But it's a beautiful thing too."
End. Fingers crossed for tonight everyone. PACTUM SERVA!