Author's Note: Thank you all for your patience. Life has been even crazier than usual, and I hit a bit if a roadblock with this one. This is (I kid you not) my fifth different version of this chapter! Please take a moment and leave a review…they make my day!
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It was very warm, despite it being late autumn. The beach was deserted for the most part, and there was plenty of room for those few people he encountered to give him a wide berth. After a long walk, he sat himself down in the sand and watched the sun gradually lower in the sky.
He never thought he would make this trip, but a long conversation with Catherine and the sight of his granddaughter one warm night swayed him. They were in the back garden, watching the little girl play.
"Oh, Laura, look at you!"
The girl in question proudly showcased her hands, covered in mud nearly to her elbows.
"Leave her be, she's enjoying life," he countered.
A heavy silence descended over them, as he avoided his daughter's eye.
"Dad…"
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So the day after finally retiring from MI-5, he boarded a plane alone. He traveled light from habit and inclination, and for once used a passport with his own name. His phone, purchased specially for the occasion, only contained Catherine's number, and she was the only one on the planet who knew his.
It had been surprisingly disconcerting at first. For the first time in his adult life, he was free of any responsibilities. But rather than feeling free, those first few days he felt exposed and vulnerable. He was sure that she would have told him to relax.
He started in Berlin. There had been a time, long ago, when he knew the city as well or perhaps even better than he knew London. Many things had changed, though, and he found himself heartily glad for it. The apartment block that he and Elena often met at had been torn down and replaced by another equally soulless building. The café that he and Jim would make their plans over bitter coffee had somehow survived the urban planning renaissance. He went in and made a silent toast to his friend, and after two days of laying aside old ghosts, he paid his bill at the hotel in cash, and left.
There was no particular itinerary. When he felt the need to move on, he did. He steadfastly avoided Paris – he couldn't bring himself to that. Mostly, he kept to himself, but on occasion would latch on to a tour group for a few hours or engage in conversation with someone at the hotel or a restaurant. He spent one particularly memorable evening in Madrid, unwisely trying to match drinks with the male half of a young married couple from Tasmania. He went to galleries and concerts, and did his best to avoid the tourist traps. She was everywhere, like Banquo's ghost, and his heart ached.
He kept in touch with his daughter, and chuckled with genuine pleasure when Laura babbled into the phone. On one particularly hot day in Rome, he spent the afternoon uncharacteristically writing – postcards to Malcolm and Erin, and the rest of his time in a small, black leather journal that Sarah Hampton had given him ages ago, and that he routinely lied to her about filling. That evening was spent watching the locals dance at a small outdoor café off the beaten tourist path. He hadn't finished his glass of wine before he had made up his mind.
So, that morning – could it only be this morning? – Harry Pearce paid his bill, grabbed a taxi, and caught a flight…to Cyprus. It was less than an hour from the airport to Polis, but he was in no particular hurry. The road was never very far from the almost painfully bright ocean, and the colors were as vibrant as any he had ever seen. No wonder she settled here, he thought. He found himself a place to park and a room near the center of the village, and walked. It didn't take long for him to find the hospital where she worked and met George. He sat on a bench outside for so long a concerned-looking passer-by asked him if he needed assistance. In the market, a shout of "Nico!" nearly stopped his heart, until saw the boy in question, aged about four, run back towards his mother.
And so he eventually made his way to this stretch of beach, just below where she used to live. There were many times, many years ago, in dark, lonely nights on the Grid when he wondered about her life in Cyprus, if she had been happy, if she thought of him. He never dared ask her about it. When she left after Cotterdam, he had always imagined her to have gone to New York, but now, in this peace and beauty, he could easily picture her. Towards George, he had never felt any particular jealousy, only regret and an odd sort of kinship. They had both seen and appreciated something in her that made life worthwhile. If only for a little while, the doctor was able to give her a life that he could not.
As the sun descended, the sky erupted in the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen.
I wish you could see this.
His heart had been raw, but somehow just then he felt comforted, being where she had been. Although he would never admit it to anyone, he often felt her presence or heard her voice in his head, but usually it was when he was at his lowest – those times when he felt that every breath he took was somehow a betrayal.
God, Ruth, I miss you.
He felt her with him as the sky turned from orange to purple.
Stay, please.
But somehow he knows his answer, but he doesn't rouse himself from the sand until it is nearly dark and he can barely see to scramble up the cliff path back to the road.
