It was early February, her son was at school, and she was at work. It had been warming up and the snow was melting quickly, the streets and sidewalks full of slush.
She was walking down the corridor early that morning in Treasury Services when she spotted a few employees gathered around a television. She inched closer, catching Wolf Blitzer's familiar tone announcing "—a possible 'cyber-terrorist assault' on the British Secret Service" and her pace picked up. She strode quickly over to the television, her heart racing. When she got near, she saw it.
MI6 Headquarters in London, the SIS Building at Vauxhall Cross was spewing plumes of thick, black smoke from out of its upper levels. As she stepped up to the TV, her breath quickening, ignoring her coworkers' concerned glances, Blitzer went on, "—indicate at least six dead, many more injured, with victims being evacuated to local hospitals within minutes of the explosion."
She stood there, staring at the building as it burned. It was unlikely, she knew, that James was injured, as he rarely spent any time at that building, often deployed on missions around the world. But this was still serious; M still worked there, as well as a great number of MI6 employees.
She had no idea, for how could she know, that halfway around the globe, in the early evening on a beachside bar in Fethiye, Turkey, James Bond was watching the exact same news broadcast, and that it would bring him back from the dead.
Ω
She waited for a call that night from M, but got nothing. She even called the number M had given her, back in London, and left a brief message. Nothing.
She soon found out why, as it was soon revealed that eight MI6 employees had been killed in the attack. M, it seemed, had survived, and was now on the hot seat from members of parliament and the public to find the person responsible. That was why she hadn't contacted Vesper. She had much more pressing business.
Vesper read the names of the victims in the newspaper after Henry had gone to sleep, her heart in her throat, and, when she did not recognise any of them, she threw the paper down and leaned back on the sofa in relief. He was still alive, as far as she knew.
So she waited idly as February went on, as the first of the embedded spies whose identities had been released was executed, wishing her son a good day at school, and working as she'd always done. She following the news religiously, reading each day of the public pressure on the head of MI6, and then the announcement of a public inquiry to be held at Trinity Square.
And then, terrifying reports of a terrorist attack on the London Underground, several dead in an explosion that derailed a train, and, the same day, a shooting at the inquiry itself. Vesper learned that there had been fatalities, but that the majority of them had been security guards, and there were no reports of any MI6 or public employees sustaining or succumbing to injuries.
After that there was nothing. No reports of a perpetrator being apprehended, no news on the future of MI6 or its chief. Nothing. The trail had gone cold.
So as March crept in and spring began to bloom, Vesper went on with her life. She worked, read to her son, fed him, and took him to the park.
That was, until, one morning she caught the tail-end of a news report. She was in the kitchen cleaning up after her breakfast. Henry was eating Cheerios at the kitchen table, kicking his dangling legs back and forth and reading the words on the cereal box.
She heard the words "—Mallory has been instated as head of Britain's Secret Service," and she turned and quickly stepped into the living room, her pulse quickening.
"—died last month at the age of sixty-five," was what she caught next, an unfamiliar female name shown next to a picture she knew very well. M.
It was M, and she was dead.
Vesper fell to the sofa as her son watched her from the kitchen, as curious as he always was.
The announcer went on, "Mallory, fifty, former Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee, was a Lieutenant Colonel in the British Army before—"
"Mom, what's wrong?" asked a small voice, and Vesper turned to see her son's wide blue eyes looking back at her. He had gotten up from the table and was now looking at her with concern, and a tiny bit of fear. His sweet face managed to bring her back to the present, and she took a deep breath, clearing her head.
"N—nothing, sweetheart," she managed to say, her voice strengthening as she spoke, her breathing returning to normal. "Nothing's wrong." She kissed his blond head, and directed him back to the kitchen. "Finish your breakfast, we've got to leave soon."
The boy did as he was told, as he always did, and she remained on the sofa, taking deep breaths. The news report announcing MI6's change in command was long over, but she was still deep in thought.
Dead. M was dead. The woman who could make grown men cry, who had given her and her son everything they had, and who had seemed almost invincible. She was dead.
Somehow, Vesper managed to walk her son to school and get to work on time. She went through the day in a stupor, her mind drifting as she spoke with clients, then as she ate lunch.
A few coworkers seemed concerned, but did not ask after her, as she supposed James had been right. Her demeanour was somewhat prickly, though she had tried to be more personable over the years. She wanted to be taken seriously, didn't want to be seen as weak, and, in the end, most of her coworkers kept their distance.
James—the thought of him gave her a little jolt of emotion. Fear, and anticipation, perhaps? She didn't yet know what truly had happened, had no idea what circumstances had precipitated the death of his superior, or if he was even still alive.
As she entered her flat that afternoon, relieving Anne of her duties and greeting her son, she hoped very much that the phone wouldn't ring. That M hadn't passed on the task of watching over Vesper's affairs to her successor, the equally severe-looking Gareth Mallory.
The days passed and the phone did not ring. She waited a week, then two. It was mid-March now and warming up considerably. Her son was as energetic as ever, coming down with spring fever, running and jumping around the flat and enthusiastically discussing his days with her.
One day at work, during a rare lull, she made a decision. She had renewed her and Henry's passports earlier the previous year at the British Embassy when she'd been thinking of planning a holiday for the two of them in the Caribbean. As well, she hadn't heard from anyone in the weeks since the announcement of M's death and Mallory's promotion.
So, she booked two flights online to London. She had to see, had to know. If the opportunity existed to go back to London, she had to take it.
MI6 was likely still in disarray, Mallory going through the transition period as successor, and if they were going to leave, they had to do it now. Before files were transferred and things got settled and the man who was now M started digging into his predecessor's affairs.
So she informed her son of their upcoming trip, knowing it might not go ahead, knowing it was quite possible they'd be turned down at the airport and sent back to their flat.
They spent the Friday evening before their flight packing, Henry very excited about the upcoming plane ride. He was in love with any large piece of machinery with a big engine, and it took her a very long time to get him to sleep that night.
Finally, though, he could not keep his eyes open anymore, drifting off, and she found herself strolling around the flat that had been their home for so long. Her son had learned to crawl and walk here, had been spent hours playing and watching television here, had learned to read on the sofa in the living room.
She had come to love it, was attached to it with the same affection she held for the London flat in which he was born. She didn't want to leave it, didn't want to uproot her son while he was still in school, but she had no choice. She had to go now. And he was still young. He would understand.
So, that morning, they said goodbye to the flat, Henry pulling his little suitcase behind him as he bounded down the corridor, more excited than she had ever seen him.
They took a taxi to the airport, pulling into the terminal at JFK for the first time since she'd arrived here nearly five years ago. It was surreal to be back, and, her heart pounding, she checked the two of them in.
They were ushered into the terminal, holding their boarding passes, Vesper's heart in her throat. She tried very hard to remain outwardly calm, not only for her son's sake, but also to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
But she needn't have worried, as soon they were being seated on the plane, Henry looking around wide-eyed at the cabin, breaking into a huge excited grin as the plane began to taxi.
And like that they were off, New York and the continent of North America fading into the distance. They'd made it into the air, though she knew that there was still the hurdle of Customs to get through.
Henry fell asleep soon after they took off, the little amount of sleep he'd gotten and the altitude getting the better of him, so she could only stare out the window as the hours crept on, as they flew closer and closer to London and everything she had left behind.
The boy woke after it got dark outside their windows, looking around in confusion, and then spent the rest of the flight occupied by the in-flight movie as she fidgeted nervously.
Roughly eight hours after they'd left New York they landed at Heathrow at half-past eight in the evening. It was dark, and raining, and they disembarked, her son looking around in wonder at this new country.
She waited in the queue at Customs, trying very hard to keep her heart rate down. She kept her hand on Henry's shoulder as they waited, so sure that at any moment they would be detained, their passports flagged and confiscated. But, miraculously, after some mild questions, they were sent through.
She exited the terminal, her heart still pounding, feeling light and light-headed, as though she had dodged a bullet. She stood there outside the international arrivals door for a few seconds, unable to believe they were free.
Henry turned back to look at her, his tiny suitcase trailing behind him. He was excited, wanted to get out and see this new city, anxious to get moving.
"Mom?" her son asked, eyeing her with concern.
"Yeah," she said, clearing her throat, coming out of her exhilarant daze. She followed him out of the airport, and they flagged down a taxi.
As the cab drove through the dark city, making its way to the hotel, she found herself finally able to breathe, and to think. She was back in London. They'd made it.
Her mouth curled into a nervous smile as they drove on, Henry looking out the window, amazed and excited.
She paid the cabbie, and they checked into the Hilton on Edgware Road. She was starting to relax, starting to realise what she'd done. She'd brought her son back to his birthplace, back to the city where his life had begun.
Assuming Gareth Mallory was still ignorant of her existence, she was free. She and her son were British citizens, free to live and work here. They were finally, truthfully, free from MI6's intervention, free from M's machinations. And though she would miss the woman's presence, her little favours and advice, her obvious affection for both James and his son, she had to admit it felt fantastic to be back here and to be a free citizen again. Just another single mother and her son, working and going to school and living their lives.
She let her son jump on the bed for a while, hoping he'd tire himself out, and then took him down to the pool for a swim. They dined in the hotel restaurant, Henry excitedly telling her what he wanted to do the next day, and asking what London was like, if it was like New York, or different, and how long they'd be staying.
She fielded the questions amusedly, and then took him back to the room, putting him to bed. He was refreshed from his nap on the plane and still on New York time, but, as midnight drew near, he finally nodded off as he watched television.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she switched it off, bathing the room in darkness. She went to the window, looking out at the city she'd been forced to abandon so long ago, that city where she had been born and had spent so much of her life.
As she looked out at the bright lights, the busyness of the day finally started to take its toll on her. Despite the fact it was merely six o'clock in the evening in New York, she found herself tiring quickly now. She'd gotten very little sleep the night before, had tossed and turned, unable to shake the anxiety about the next day.
But she'd done it, somehow, had flown in under MI6's radar, and now she was back. Suddenly, as she realised just why she was back, the nervousness began to edge in again. She had been so concerned with getting here that she'd been lying to herself as to why she was making the journey in the first place.
But as her son slept and she stood alone at the window, she finally admitted it to herself. A cold thrill of excitement and fear coursed through her. She was here because her son deserved to meet his father, deserved to have him in his life, and because James Bond deserved to know his son.
She didn't know how to start, where to find him, or even where to look, but she would, if it was the last thing she did. Even if James still held hatred for what she'd done, even if entering his life again put them both in danger, even if it meant MI6 finding her again. She didn't care. She would unite them, even if it killed her.
Tired eyes starting to droop now, she went to bed.