A big thank you to all the people who got through and reviewed chapter 5. Only about two lines of HR out of more than 4,000 words. Phew!

I have, at last, written some of the scenes I've been saving up for ages. Much fun was had. There are more than two lines involving Harry and Ruth. The full relevance of my note at the top of Chapter 1, about Harry not being the sort of person who holds back when he wants something, is hopefully explained.

The usual disclaimers apply.

Not Close Enough

'Last week I wished he was dead, but I already kind of miss him!' the girl moaned. 'What kind of a loser does that make me?'

'He's all you've known for a long time, Katie. It's bound to be hard, but it will get better,' Harry said gently. 'You've already done something incredibly brave.'

She pulled a tissue out of the packet that lay on the table between them and blew her nose wetly. 'Do you think?'

'I don't just think. I know.'

'What happens now?'

'The police already have a very strong case against Daniel Dodds and Thomas Hart, but it will help them enormously if you give them a formal statement about what's happened, and eventually testify at the trials.'

'No! I mean now! I haven't even got anywhere to stay!'

Harry winced internally at his own insensitivity. He was out of practice when it came to twenty year-old, battered female informants. In the old days he would have said something to make her feel beautiful, at least for a moment or two, and palmed her off on a junior officer. Age and fatherhood had put paid to that strategy.

'Have you got any family in Belfast?'

'Mammy died when I was ten. There's Daddy, of course. And my little brother. But my Da would probably smack me harder than Daniel after the way I've behaved.'

'What do you mean?'

'We had a massive fight when I moved out. He said that if I left, he never wanted to see me again. Ever! And now I just want to go home!'

She buried her face in her hands. Her whole body shook with snotty sobs. Harry sat on the other side of the table and wondered what to say.

'Listen, Katie. Hush. Listen to me. Dads say things they shouldn't when they're worried about their daughters. When they are angry and afraid. There's a chance he didn't mean it at all.'

'Yes he did!'

'I bet he didn't, and I should know. I've got a daughter, and we've had terrible rows!'

'Really?'

'She threw a dinner plate at me and moved to Israel, once.'

Katie stared at him and sniffed loudly. 'That's pretty bad. What had you done?'

'I told her she was stupid. That travelling in the Middle East was a ridiculous thing to do. That she needed to grow up, and knuckle down, and get a proper job.'

'You didn't hit her or anything?'

Harry was genuinely scandalised and it showed. 'Of course not! She's my little girl!'

'How old is she?'

'Thirty.'

'That's not exactly little!'

He offered her another tissue. 'I could be ninety, and she could be sixty, and she'll still be my little girl. Phone your Dad. If you can bear to, tell him you're sorry. Ask him if you can come home.'

'And then what?'

'He'll probably want to hang flags. If he doesn't say anything, it's because he's trying not to cry. And anyway, if he tells you to piss off, there's always the Travelodge and the nearest pub. Then you can figure out exactly what you want to do with your new found freedom.'

Katie managed a smile. 'Thanks, Mr Farmer. Will you be around? When the trial starts, and stuff?'

Harry pushed his chair back and stood up. He held out his hand for a shake and managed not to pull a face at the clammy feel of her tear-dampened fingers. 'I doubt it. But I'll check up on things to make sure the police are looking after you.'

'Bye, then.'

'Good bye. And thank you.'

On the other side of the two-way mirror, Stuart Flintoff and a redheaded woman in police uniform stood side-by-side.

'Harry! You've turned into a proper softie!' Chief Constable Erin Flaherty taunted as he shut the interview room door.

'I may have mellowed,' he replied. 'I may just be a better actor.'

'Are you sticking around for a while?'

'No. No, I don't think so.'

Erin tilted her head. 'Is there any reason to go rushing back to London for the weekend?'

He tried to remind himself that she was just the cheeky little teenager he'd recklessly recruited several lifetimes ago (collecting glasses and emptying ashtrays in her father's pub had been excellent cover). Ever the sucker for a woman in authority, it didn't stop the formidable uniform and incisive gaze rendering him momentarily speechless.

Her eyebrows shot up. 'My God, you have got a reason!' she exclaimed. 'Who is she?'

Stuart's eyes ceased their tennis-watching flicker and pointed at Harry. 'She? There's a she? Don't tell me you and Ruth Evershed have finally sorted yourselves out!'

'Ruth Evershed?' Erin repeated slowly. 'The girl who came back from the dead a year ago?'

'How do you know about that?' Harry exclaimed.

'Hmmm. In August 2006, the Chairman of the JIC stood down, and we heard that Ruth had committed both treason and suicide. Roll on September 2009 and she's back emailing the daily threat summaries. They come to my office, Harry, I couldn't help but notice.'

'I heard that her call sign is Lady Lazarus,' Stuart added. 'You'll like her, Erin, she's cool.'

'I hate that phrase,' Harry retorted automatically, a smile sneaking through anyway. 'But I suppose she is, really.'

Erin clutched Stuart's arm in apparent excitement. 'And when were you planning to tell me! You didn't mention anything on the way from the airport.'

Stuart looked down at her. 'And you didn't even tell me Harry was coming. Don't think I've forgotten.'

Her face reddened. She let go of him so quickly it made Harry blink. 'I owed Harry a favour. He asked me to keep it quiet.'

Stuart leaned towards her ever-so-slightly. 'Even from me?'

'Especially from you!'

Harry's jaw dropped. Then it began to work rapidly. 'The Chief Constable of the Northern Ireland police force is having an affair with the English MI5 boss. Oh, Jesus, Mary, mother of God!'

Erin folded her arms and scowled. 'It's not an affair. My marriage annulment came through. It only took ten years and fifty grand.'

'I'm sorry. I didn't know. But I always said he was a tosser.'

'And I always thought Jane was a horse-faced, snobby cow.'

Stuart cleared his throat. 'Don't mind me.'

'I do mind you!' Harry snapped. 'Of all the irresponsible, inconsiderate, dangerous things to do. We can bring you home if things get tricky, but Erin is risking far too much!'

'Which is exactly what I told her. Repeatedly. Until she resorted to—'

'—Please, at least try not to make me sound desperate, Stu!'

'I'll resign,' he added quickly. 'Move back to Belfast in another guise after a year or so. That'll do the trick.'

Erin went red again. 'Don't you dare! You'll make an excellent replacement for Harry when he finally gets killed or retires. I'm eight years older than you, and I've already had this job for five years. If anyone is going to resign, it's me.'

'Enough!' Harry shouted. 'You've got six weeks to figure out what you're going to do. Stuart, I'm either recalling you to Thames House or you're out. Erin, I think he's a lot nicer than your pig of a husband, but I'm not sure he's worth a career.'

'Fine!' she yelled back. 'Swoop in and turn my life upside down. It's always, "Do as I say, not as I do," with you, isn't it? Fuck you very much, Harry! You haven't even had the decency to tell us why you came over!'

'I have a plane to catch,' he said flatly. 'If one of you can pull yourself together enough to lend me a car, that would be very useful.'

Erin's eyes narrowed. 'We've done better than that. We've got a full cavalcade lined up for you outside the station. Motorcycle outriders and everything.'

It was a low blow. 'You wouldn't!'

'Try me. Every single employee at Aldergrove airstrip is going to know that you're a genuine VIP. I'll send your photo to the ferry port as a murder suspect if I have to. Whether or not I owe you a favour, you're not bloody sneaking in to my town again!'

'Of course, she could just cancel it all,' Stuart drawled. 'If you, for example, told us why you decided that this operation, out of the numerous ops we've run this year, was so important.'

'I fail to see—'

'—Except it wasn't, was it?' Stuart pressed. 'In fact, I discovered yesterday that a little bird contacted my best agent handler and told him – no matter how trivial it really was – to inform Ruth Evershed of a serious terrorist threat in Northern Ireland at the start of this week.'

'A threat that she would definitely have to brief Section D on,' said Erin – proving that she'd heard all about Ruth before cornering Harry. 'And bingo! On Wednesday, you phone me out of the blue and ask me for a lift from the airport.'

Harry put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 'It's nothing you need to worry about. I've just been... sorting things out a bit.'

'What sort of things?' Stuart asked. 'Good things? Or bad things?'

'Hopefully good,' Harry replied cryptically. 'So far, so good. I'm not sure what the reaction to the latest developments will be like, though.'

'Harry, in all seriousness, do we really only have six weeks?'

'You know this can't go on. If the press find out, they'll slaughter Erin. For all we know, someone might actually try to slaughter Erin.'

Stuart nodded. 'I know. But promise me you'll talk to us. Give us a little bit of extra time if we need it?'

'Promise me you won't call Ruth as soon as I take my eyes off you, and tell her about my instructions to your agent handler?'

'Deal.'

She couldn't concentrate. It was Friday afternoon; she had drunk two glasses of wine at lunchtime and discovered that the DG might not be as big a wanker as Harry thought he was. She was leaving the Grid, but hopefully not leaving Harry.

The nerves associated with telling him, combined with anger at his blatant high-handedness, combined with excitement about seeing him, sent her out of his office, through a pod and into the corridors of Thames House before she registered a desire to move. She walked through a door to one of the minor staircases and trekked downwards six floors to the Registry. With any luck, someone from IT Services would be on hand to show her around the server farm and bore her into calmness with tales of parallel processing.

It was a surprise when she bumped into Lucas, but not a shock. Not until he met her eye, and smiled, and all she could see in his expression was fear.

The Friday evening BMI flight to Heathrow was so busy that the staff kicked up a fuss about the size of Harry's suitcase and made him check it in. By the time he had retrieved it from a baggage carousel, and made his way to the pick-up point, it was nearly ten o'clock.

Mike was behind the wheel of a Lexus. Ruth was leaning against the side of the car with her coat buttoned right up and her hair tucked behind her ears. It occurred to Harry that if music were to play, it would be the Hallelujah chorus.

'Hello, you,' he murmured, not even pausing in his stride, but simply dropping his suitcase handle and walking into a kiss.

'Oi! She gasped eventually. 'I've got a bone to pick with you.'

'Mmmm... In a minute...'

It was a lot longer than a minute before they got to her house, and she hadn't yet picked his bones clean.

He stood in her bedroom and let the impressions seep into his consciousness in whatever order they fancied. Perfume: not too musky, not too sweet, not the same as she'd worn before she went away. Clean clothes: fabric conditioner that seemed to retain its scent more than his own did. Bedclothes: the faintest aroma of sleepy Ruth.

He took his suit jacket off, dropped it on a chair and sat on the end of the bed. He loosened his tie and eyed the surrounding clutter of femininity with unabashed nosiness. There appeared to be a whole bowlful of hair ties and pins on her dressing table, yet he couldn't remember seeing her with her hair up for years. She used a deodorant that said it didn't leave white marks and a cocoa butter moisturiser. She did not seem to rely on a vast raft of lotions, potions or makeup.

The room was both conventional and fairly tidy, which disappointed Harry slightly. He'd always imagined Ruth's bedroom as some kind of Thousand and One Arabian Nights retreat from reality. The scent of spices in the air, swathes of gorgeous silks, manuscripts littering surfaces and a distinct lack of electric light. She rarely wore as much as seven veils during such mental forays; she also had a tendency to say annoyingly cryptic things and hover just out of reach. On the whole, he decided that an Ikea wardrobe, a cream carpet and the words, 'I've got to put some washing on; do you want a cup of tea?' were vastly preferable.

Ruth moved awkwardly, knowing that Harry was watching as she hoiked an armful of laundry out of a basket in the corner and bustled off to the kitchen. She put the kettle on, got the washing going and then made three mugs of tea. Beth leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes alive with incipient teasing.

'He's probably going through your knicker draw.'

Ruth shot her a look.

'You haven't got a box of mementos under the bed, have you?'

'What?'

'Secret, personal things. Little notes. Photos?'

'Have you searched my room?'

'No I haven't! Scout's honour. But I bet Harry will. Right now, in fact.'

'He will not.'

Beth grinned wickedly. 'Have you done any "exploring" at his house?'

Ruth looked horrified. She picked up two mugs and shot back to her bedroom, turning to awkwardly push the door handle down with her elbow and shove the door open with her hip. The sight that awaited her wasn't quite what she'd expected. At some point in the last five minutes, Harry had kicked his shoes off and crawled onto her bed. He was curled up on his side and apparently fast asleep. She was almost ashamed of how adorable she thought he looked, but it didn't prevent her from very quietly putting the tea down on the bedside table, kneeling on the floor and reaching under the bed.

The black holdall still held traces of Cypriot dust. The hair she'd carefully caught in the zip was still in place. Three thousand dollars, three thousand Euros and three thousand pounds were still tucked at one end, a British passport in the name of Ruth Turpin at the other. Her 1930s copy of Ovid's Amores still had a tiny scrap of paper marking the description of Corinna's voyage:

I'll be the first to sight your boat from the shore, and say: 'It carries my goddess!'

I'll bear you to land on my shoulders, snatch disordered kisses...

A birthday present from Harry more than four years ago. A hopelessly romantic invitation to intimacy, if it weren't for the fact that they'd never even mentioned the book's existence to each other.

Ruth ran a finger across the page, looked up at the real thing, and couldn't bring herself to wake him up just so she could have a go at him.

He woke with a jerk and a wordless mutter, blinked rapidly and rubbed his face with one hand. The room was dark except for a small bedside light, partially obscured from view by a familiar silhouette.

'What time is it?' he croaked.

'Just gone midnight.'

'Oh, God. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. I was catching up on a little light reading.'

He squinted at Ruth and realised what book she was holding. 'Crikey. You kept hold of that?'

'It was in my desk at work. Zaff thought I might like it, and brought it with him that night.'

They were entering dangerous territory. He reached up a hand, silently asking permission to take the book. Ruth passed it to him and watched his face carefully.

'I looked for it,' he admitted, opening it at random and not reading. 'I went to your house and scoured your bookshelves before your mother arrived, but it wasn't there.'

'I couldn't bear to open it for a year. And then I read it cover to cover. And the next time George asked me out for a drink, I said yes.'

'It's actually quite easy to love two people at the same time, isn't it?' Harry said quietly, passing the book back. 'I did once. And I was married.'

'Juliet?'

'I'm afraid so. If it weren't for you, I'd have to admit that I have diabolical taste when it comes to women.'

Ruth smiled. 'If it weren't for George, I'd say the same about myself and men.'

'Ha! True. I'm so glad you were happy. And I'm so sorry I fucked things up.'

'You didn't.' She closed Ovid, put him carefully on the bedside table and turned towards Harry. 'I didn't tell George the truth. I didn't let him make an informed decision about me. He never would have forgiven me for that. We were finished before I even saw you again.'

'But the choice I made—'

'Is the one you would have made with anyone, at any time. It was painful, but it wasn't personal. Mani was mostly to blame. I was partly to blame. You were just being consistent.'

Harry looked away. 'I thought so at the time. I really did. But now I'm not so sure. If it was you with a gun to your head, I think I might tell.'

'But you don't know for certain.'

'No.'

'Then we just have to make absolutely sure that the decision never arises.'

'Exactly!'

'Harry! I distinctly remember a conversation we had earlier this week in a hotel room, all about context and instinct. About being able to decide at the time if we had to!'

'No. That was about you being able to think of something if you had to. Me? I never said I'd sacrifice you for the lives of many, you just assumed that I would. Well bugger that! I've had a much better idea.'

Ruth put on a stern voice and sat up properly. 'I take it that's why you've seen fit to mastermind a reshuffle of the entire British security services. So you can have me working in a bloody bunker for the rest of my life, safely sealed in with a bunch of computer geeks!'

'Ah. You've figured it out, then.'

'Section G.'

He rolled onto his back, crossed his ankles and folded his hands across his stomach. He smiled at the ceiling. 'I'm very proud of Section G. In fact, I think it might just be my greatest achievement.'

'Harry!'

'You've got to admit, you always get into a pickle when you're in the field.'

She hit him with a pillow. He burst out laughing. She hit him again.

'Does that mean you're going to turn the job down?' he asked, grabbing the pillow with one hand and removing it from her grip by dint of being surprisingly strong.

'I bloody well ought to!' she squeaked, resorting to poking him in the chest with an indignant forefinger. 'Of all the despicable, bossy, high-handed—'

'—Devoted, devious, ruthless bastards. I can distinctly remember you telling me that you fell in love with the awkward bits too.'

She folded her arms and harrumphed. 'If you think I'll marry you after this, you've got another thing coming!'

Harry finally sat up. He looked fairly ridiculous sat cross-legged in his suit trousers and blue socks. His hair was sticking out at the back and his tummy strained at his shirt buttons. 'Oh, no,' he said firmly. 'I've had my shot at asking you to marry me, and I'm clearly rubbish at it. And I'm not some effete Peter Whimsy type who can trot out pretty proposals with appropriate quotations at the drop of my top hat!'

'Fine!'

'I don't take "no" very well, either.'

'Clearly not. There's really no need to say any more about it.'

'Good. If you want to get married, you'll just have to sort it out yourself.'

Ruth paused. 'All right, then.'

'Good,' Harry repeated more gently. He leant forwards and kissed her on the cheek. 'I tell you what. I'm really hungry. Is there anything for dinner?'

TBC

Note:

The passage of Ovid's Amores comes from Book II Elegy XI. The translation is by A.S. Kleine (2001) and permission has been given for reproduction online for non-commercial purposes.