Let's go round again?
Chapter Seventeen
This is much longer than I intended but the words just kept coming and I'm afraid my obsession with Harry and his feeling took over.
Bloody Hell!
Those were the words he uttered to himself as he shifted from foot to foot. When would the bloody woman take the hint and sod off! He couldn't stop himself from drawing back from her as she leant in to him, one of her enhanced breasts brushing against his chest. He groaned inwardly; why oh why he wondered did some women think that a surgically enhanced bosom was attractive. Well maybe to some men but not Harry Pearce,he preferred his women to be natural not synthetic and his thoughts fled back to the incident in his office when he'd pinned Ruth against his office wall his body pressed so close to hers; in that brief, intimate encounter he'd learnt that the curve and sweep of Ruth's body was entirely natural. He closed his eyes briefly as he remembered that moment with a mix of shame and a pleasure that he knew he shouldn't feel. The shame he felt at being so crass was somehow made worse by the pleasure that he still felt when he thought about her pressed up against that wall,her chest heaving, her body squirming against his as his lips crushed hers, as his mouth moved to her neck where he was sure he'd left a mark. Was he ashamed of marking her as he was sure he had? Part of him was very ashamed but the strong male hunter gatherer part of him was only sorry that he'd not been able to see the result of his attack.
And as he thought about that mark of "ownership" he'd left on her he felt the inevitable physical reaction to his thoughts. Quickly he moved away from the woman in front of him. The last thing he wanted was for her to think that she was having an effect on him. "Look, it's lovely talking to you Julia" he told her not even aware that he'd got her name wrong "But I really must excuse myself, when you get to my age...well I'm sure you understand."
He moved away from her quickly before she had chance to reply. With a bit of luck she'd find a new "victim" before he came back to the the party. As it turned out he was away much longer than he intended.
After washing his hands he leant on the basin and looked himself in the eye, not something he did very often; he always felt a degree of shame when he looked at his reflection. Shame that he had survived when so many others had perished, shame that he had sent so many to their deaths, shame that he had killed, shame that he had deserted his family, shame that he had caused so much pain and a deeper more profound shame because he knew he would do it all over again if he were asked.
And then there was Ruth; Ruth who could have, should have been his salvation. And because he'd been selfish enough to think that he deserved salvation he'd thrown caution to the wind and allowed his need for her to become known and that knowledge had been seized upon by his enemies and used against him.
He closed his eyes and leant his forehead against the mirror as he thought of all the chances he'd missed, times when he should have been more resolute, when he should have at least tried to make her realise that they belonged together. Why hadn't he kissed her the way he wanted to after there one and only date? He had been so shy that night, so unsure of himself, so needy.
They'd played a game that night, a game with no rules, a game that they were making up as they went along. Ruth had been so captivating that night and he'd glimpsed what they could have had together. It had seemed to him that he was within touching distance of Nirvana; a place that he hadn't realised existed for a broken man like him but there she was Ruth Evershed and she could be his redemption. And as he drove away from her home that night he was convinced that they had a future, that they could face anything as a couple. He knew that she would be reluctant to go public with their relationship but he was more than willing to take things slowly, to let her set the pace. In his head he had planned quiet evenings in, walks by the sea, maybe the chance to walk Scarlett on Hampstead Heath. Laughing together, teasing, courting in the old fashioned way. He would let her set the pace; she was worth it.
And then she'd shattered all his dreams, all his plans by telling him she couldn't see him again. Why of why hadn't he taken her in his arms and made her see that they belonged together. That they were to all intents and purposes a couple, that as far as the rest of the Grid and nearly all of Thames House were concerned they were already intimate. But he had been so crushed by her rejection he'd been unable to convince her she was wrong.
And then that night in the corridor at Havensworth, he knew now that he had scared her with his raw emotion, his need. How he had controlled himself as he'd leant into her breathing in her scent, her arousal because she had been aroused; he'd seen it in her eyes, her body language, he'd smelt in on her just as she must have smelt it on him. Maybe that was what frightened her? Maybe their need for each other had been too much for her? He should have controlled himself better and simply asked her to join him for a friendly drink...no strings attached and tried to move on from there instead of letting her bolt. And then that night in his office after Ros Myers had torn him into strips. Had bought into clear focus all that was wrong with him and his private life, his lack of connection with anyone on a deeply personal level it had been Ruth who'd had the courage, the love? To come to him and offer comfort and reassurance. Why oh why hadn't he had the guts to respond to her gentle touch on his arm as she reached out to him.
And then that morning on the dock he should have gathered her up and borne her away to a safe place until he'd found a way to defeat Mace and his cronies. But no, once again he'd allowed their shared insecurities to come between them. He should have told her there and then that he loved her, that he needed her. That they needed each other but instead he'd allowed her to sail away into an exile that he was entirely responsible for.
And that exile had been complete.
As the weeks turned into months and the months into years he had on an almost daily basis fought with himself. On one side was Harry Pearce the pragmatist, the man who accepted that she was gone and that he had to just get on with things, that he would always be alone. That he would die alone and unloved, most probably un-mourned as well. That his funeral if he died whilst still in the service would be attended in the most part by people who didn't care about Harry Pearce the man and most likely most of the mourners would be there to make sure he was really dead! And if he did survive until retirement there would be even less people to mourn him and no doubt his passing would go unobserved until months later someone would ask at his club "Has anyone seen that old bastard Harry Pearce lately?"
That Harry Pearce knew that any attempt on his part to find her would most surely lead to her death or her capture and torture so he'd put aside any thoughts of her returning to him and simply
put his head down and got on with the job not noticing that with each passing day he became more and more morose, harder, greyer more unforgiving, more cynical. A shadow of his former self.
But the few quiet times he allowed himself had been filled with thoughts of her; her smile, her soft voice, the way her eyes flashed when she was angry with him. Oh how he loved it when she was angry with him, he could remember with a clarity that was almost painful the first time she disagreed with him, had told him he was wrong in no un-certain terms. He missed that; she'd become his moral compass, able to point him in the right direction, able to talk him out of his more rash decisions. She'd been the one who made him take a deep breath and not go with his first, sometimes rash choice and the times that the decision had been the right one she'd been the one who'd sat with him as he waited for the outcomes.
He'd missed her slamming into his office ready to tell him in no uncertain terms that he was wrong or more often than not her coming in with a cup of tea and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs ready to take him to task about his behaviour, ready to argue why he should change approach to a problem. During those times he'd known he was being played but he'd been quite happy to go along with her, just grateful to be in her company.
They had been precious times.
How many nights he wondered had he sat alone in his office, a large glass of scotch in his hand, the bottle close to hand unsure and uncertain of the path he'd taken would no doubt have to take again, other people's lives in his hand. So many people imagined him, needed him to be invincible and that scared him because he knew that was untrue. And that untruth had become harder and harder to deal with as the losses mounted and he had to face them alone without the comfort and support of the one person he trusted. The one person who he could show his real self to.
And so his isolation had grown, his withdrawal from his team had been subtle but as the years moved on and the personal changed the atmosphere shifted. There was very little banter on the Grid and if the team ever decided to meet up at The George it was very unlikely that Harry Pearce would join them. Over time the team that had grown around him, respected him, maybe feared him but there was none of the friendship and implicit trust that had existed with the old team.
And that had been his fault.
He had to look away and take control himself or else there was a very good chance he would have a panic attack. They always frightened him in a way that was totally alien to him and over the long years of his isolation he'd spent a lot of time training himself to conquer them. They were a sign of weakness and Harry Pearce didn't do weakness.
Taking deep breaths he willed himself not to think of them but even as he tried they came floating gently into his consciousness speaking to him in low tones, Danny, so young and yet so wise urging him to claim her before someone else did. Adam chiding him for not manning up and telling her how he felt. Ros calling him an idiot who really didn't deserve Ruth, telling him he would surely lose her if he didn't show some balls. Zaf scolding him in a playful manner about Ruth, telling him to get a move on before laughing in a self conscious way as he slipped away to be replaced by Jo who held out a hand to him telling him gently that he'd, they'd had enough heartbreak and that he owed it to all of them to try and make it work. Her last words to him were
She loves you Harry, she's always loved you and you've always loved her.
He knew that he needed to get a grip because if he didn't the others would come; they always did, always mocking,derisive, contemptuous as they used words as weapons to hurt him as they never could when they had lived. Oliver Mace sneering,contemptuous delighting in his pain, his loneliness. Manni taunting him, revelling in the fact that he'd killed George, that he'd been the one to drive such a catastrophic wedge between them. And worse of all the creeping,taunting caricature of himself who crowed over his many failures both as a man and as a leader. And he knew from painful experience that if he let that creature take charge he would be totally paralysed It was something that had never happened to him in a public place and as he began to practice the techniques he had been taught at Tring he prayed to a God whose existence he very much doubted that it would not happen now.