Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and especially to those who took time to review. Thank you. Joy Division's

The title of this chapter, and the song referenced in Ruth's opening segment, is Joy Division's "Love Will Tear us Apart" (written by Ian Curtis). No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Four: Love Will Tear us Apart

Ruth could see it coming a mile away. A light at the end of a long, dark tunnel: the light of an oncoming, speeding train set to smash Harry to bits. That was the most frightening thing: waiting for the collision to begin. Even in her dreams she could see it speeding closer, feel the rush of oxygen being sucked from the tunnel and hear the screaming of the pistons getting louder, louder, louder. All the while, he's standing on the tracks; his fingers jammed in his ears and singing at the top of his voice: "lalalala…can't hear you!" He's hearing perfectly well, but she just can't make him listen as she's shouting from the side lines. She's never even seen a picture of Bill Crombie, but she's fairly sure it's him driving the train.

It was frustrating. Frustration that found a vent on the very thing that caused it in the first place: Harry himself. She could feel them both spiralling downwards, spinning and freefalling. After everything they had been through, after everything they survived together, it would be a long buried ghost from the ancient past that drove them apart. The absurdity of it made her even more desperate to pull him back from the edge; desperation resulting in haste, leading to crossed wires and misunderstandings.

Once she watched him deal with death after death, and wondered whether he had any feelings at all. She could recall the disgust she felt at Danny Hunter's funeral; of how Harry passively absorbed the brutal, violent deaths picking off his team one by one. But she could see it now; she could see where all that raw grief and desperate self-loathing was going now. It was being funnelled down deep into his own self; locked away in some internalised silage tank that had been threatening to overflow for years. It was past that now. Now, it was boiling over and slowly building in volatile momentum, a volcanic explosion of molten trauma just waiting to happen.

Even when he was raging at her, she could see the pleading in his eyes. Sometimes a plaintive undertone, saying one thing and meaning another. She thought she knew him. She thought him simple and straightforward to a fault. Now the blistering layers of skin were being peeled back, exposing the raw, fragility that lay beneath. Broken and tender; red and weeping. His vulnerabilities laid bare, he was fighting to get back control by lashing out at her. Was this what Jane had to put up with? Was this what killed them? If Ruth looked backwards, could she see where they were going? To the place where Harry was taking her.

There in the bathroom, she splashed cold water over her face and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The harsh halogen lights made her skin look paler; like she died last week and hadn't the wit to stiffen. She knew the face of the woman looking back at her: her own vulnerabilities and insecurities were etched in the lines around her pale, blue eyes. Reflected back at her was a person of substantial intellect, but little emotional wit. Codes she can break; computers she can hack. Languages she can decipher by the score. But treading the emotional mine field of a traumatised man was something different. Its lack of parameters, its lack of rules and absence of algorithms, all meant she had to rely on her own nebulous grasp of human emotions.

'I will not run,' she told herself. 'I will not run away.'

She had been running all her life, now she had to stay and weather the storm. Waiting for the rupture was the worst part. Just the endless waiting and watching as the man she loved continued the descent into his own private hell. But for the time being, she descended nowhere except to their bedroom, where the radio played an old song. The familiar notes resonating deep in her consciousness as she sank onto the mattress and closed her eyes.

'You cry out in your sleep; all my failings exposed. There's a taste in my mouth; as desperation takes hold…'

The song played on as she slipped into a much needed afternoon nap. 'And love,' she continued in her head. 'Love will tear us apart, again…'

Harry's hand closed around Catherine's upper-arm as swift as a bear trap, before hauling her back outside. Impervious to the shocked glances of onlookers, as well his daughter's own startled gasp, as he hauled her out the door. Outside, passers-by veered off-course to avoid their public domestic, equally ignored by Harry as he bitterly rounded on her: "Did Ruth put you up to this?"

Catherine's breath hitched in her throat as she gaped back at him, genuinely clueless as to what he was talking about.

"Dad, you're hurting me!" she declared, before wrenching her shoulder free of his grip. "What is wrong with you?"

Away from that apparition in the restaurant, his heartbeat began to calm. But his hands continued to tremble as he ran them through his thinning hair. The fright of seeing him there, out of the blue, had made him feel physically sick. At first, he had closed his eyes, thinking his mind was playing a cruel trick on him again. But when he opened them again, there he was. As real and solid as the day itself. Belatedly, he tried to pull himself together and wipe the surge of memories from his mind. Aware that he was becoming the centre of attention, he took a nervous step back, putting some distance between himself and Catherine and drew a deep breath.

"Ruth!" he stammered, again. When he looked back at Catherine, she returned his gaze with a mix of fear and loathing that was a kick in the gut to behold. 'He's just a bully!' The memory of that conversation she had with Danny Hunter, all those years ago, reared up his mind. He was that bully, once more. Once again, he had to fight to get hold of senses.

"Cate, you don't know what you've done, I'm not angry with you," he said, closing the gap between them again. "But Ruth put you up to this, didn't she? She told you to bring him here-"

"Dad, no," she was shaking her head as she cut over him. "You've got this all wrong."

His breathing was laboured as he froze, reading her expression. The fear and loathing soon melted into worry. The same deep green eyes as his looked back at him, wide and scared as the bully devolved into a quivering mess before her.

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly.

Her hands found his, gripping them for reassurance. "I've only spoken to Ruth once, Dad. At the wedding," she explained, guiding him over to nearby table. "Actually, it was Mum who put me up to it."

Harry's whole body seemed to jolt as he absorbed the impact of that with as much grace as he could muster.

"Jane?" he asked, dumbly.

Catherine nodded. "Will tracked her down and she agreed to meet him back at the house. She knew she wouldn't be able to get in touch with you so, well you can guess the rest."

After the initial shock of Jane being brought back into the picture, he frantically cast around for a clue as to what she could have told William Crombie. Nothing. He was sure it was nothing. His fury at Ruth subsided, giving way to confusion at Jane – the woman who owed him the least of anyone. Meanwhile, a tense silence developed between Catherine and him. But all the while, she scrutinised him closely, on the lookout for the next explosion, no doubt.

"He seems really nice, Dad," she said, plaintively. "He only wants to ask a few questions about his own Dad. Apparently, you two knew each other."

Even Catherine had no idea of the storm she had walked into. But why would she know? She hadn't even been born in 1978.

"You don't understand," he began, gathering his thoughts. "I can't-"

"If something awful happened to you before I was even born, I would do what he's doing now," she cut over him, again. "Won't you hear him out?"

It was a confession he found strangely touching. "Would you really?"

"Of course!" she replied, without hesitation. "Because what we don't know destroys us. Even though you were never there, I always knew you were an emotionally inept arsehole who destroyed everything he held dear. But at least I knew that. If I didn't, the wondering would drive me to distraction."

He let go of her hands as if she had burned him. "Jesus, Catherine, is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No," she admitted. "It's supposed to make you see things from Will's perspective."

Harry regarded his daughter carefully for a moment, weighing her up again. "Don't ever grow too smug: you're more like me than you or anyone else realises."

She shrugged. "Probably. But at least being on the receiving end of someone like yourself may make you realise how you come across to others, for a change."

They settled into another silence. But, at least on this occasion, she had succeeded in talking him down from his high emotional panic at being confronted with Will Crombie. Unconsciously, Harry's eye drifted over to the door of the restaurant, where they had left him standing by the table, confused and alone. It had only been a few minutes, ten at most, so Harry afforded himself more time to settle. Pride alone prevented him from simply making a run for it. Pride, and his own daughter.

"I don't know what happened between you and Will's Dad, and I know better than to ask," she said, earnestly. "But won't you talk to Will?"

Harry didn't reply straight away. He dropped his gaze to the rough surface of the table, tracing over the grain of the wood with his thumb nail without really seeing it. Slow, thoughtless movements that tricked his brain out of relapsing down memory lane, again. Meanwhile, all around him, life inside Hyde Park began to ebb away as the day grew older. The early summer sun cast long shadows as its warmth receded into dusk. Catherine's hand, still so much smaller than his own, reached out and covered his own, stilling it; holding it in place. They didn't have much time. But, as Ruth always said, they never did have enough time. They'd have to go elsewhere.

Still he did not answer. When first he walked through those doors, he couldn't see Bill's son. He only saw Bill. Bill laid out on the mortuary slab; the Priest shifting in the shadows, his voice gently nudging at the silence as a litany of prayers were murmured. He could still smell the burned flesh – like roasting pork. Flesh torn by butcher's hooks, tendons and nerves coiled and exposed through lacerated skin. Blackened bones pushed through the surface, ribs cracked and scorched like a barbeque in a colony of cannibals. Inside, he pulled away before he could go into an emotional freefall again, latching on to the first thing that popped up in his head that wasn't Bill's charred corpse.

Juliet. Juliet's enormous shoulder pads, suffocating him as he buried his face in the crook of her throat. 'It's okay, Harry,' she whispered in his ear, easing him gently into her bed. 'It's all going to be okay,' she repeated, but she sounded bored. Her eyes sharp and piercing under a dark, loose fringe. She looked like she might eat him. But he needed her. He needed her arms around him, to be held by her. He sees the shoulder pads, soaked through with his tears.

"Dad!"

Catherine's voice jolted him out of his reverie, chasing the phantoms away. For a moment, he had entirely forgotten she was still there.

"Dad, you were miles away," she said.

He didn't know what his face was doing, but whatever it was it was making her almost afraid again. It was as if the full enormity of what was happening was taking shape before her very eyes, dark and unfathomable, but there all the same. She knew when to give up.

"Look," she continued. "I'll make some excuse. I'll tell Will you're sick, or something."

That stubborn pride stirred deep inside him, a refusal to run any further. But before he could answer, another voice sounded over his own:

"I've heard all the excuses in the world, one more won't make a difference."

There was no anger in Will's tone, just a weary resignation. He was standing beside the door to the Serpentine Kitchen Bar, leaning almost casually against the wall. From where he regarded the scene before him through his father's dark grey eyes, his expression distant. Harry couldn't even guess at how long he had been there, watching them. But it can't have been long, he surmised. Opposite Harry, Catherine looked almost abashed at having been overheard. She got to her feet, looking towards the younger man.

"Will, I'm sorry, I-"

"Catherine, no!" Harry cut over her this time, but he kept his eye on Will as he spoke. The sight of him made his blood run cold, made the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. But he got up and stood his ground against his own fears. "Come with me, both of you."

Nothing more was said as he stepped away from the table and set off towards the exit of the park.

"Hey, Harry, I've been meaning to show you this!" Bill sounded excited as he rifled through his wallet. First, he slid out a small picture of his wife, Deborah. An unfortunate crease marked her features, cutting her face in half. But underneath that was another picture, a black fuzz Harry couldn't make out.

Outside the car, all was in darkness but for the light of the moon. The docklands were ill-lit, even the back seat of their vehicle was completely invisible as it fell in the shadow of a giant concrete pillar. It all conspired to hide the content of the picture from Harry's sight. Until Bill had the foresight to flick on the interior light, but even that made no difference.

"I give up. What is it?" he asked, tilting the small scrap of paper to the light.

"It," he repeated, scandalised. "That's a fine way to talk about your future godchild!"

Although he still couldn't make head nor tail of what he was actually looking at, Harry beamed all the same. Meanwhile, Bill reach over him and pointed to a white blob attached to a curved white line that curled around the bottom of the image.

"That's the head and that's the spine," he pointed out, his voice soft and distant. "If you look hard, you can see little legs and an arm. I think he's sucking his thumb."

To Bill, this wasn't just an indistinct, blurry grey splurge. It was his child. His firstborn. Harry cradled the image in the palms of his hands as if it had already been born. It would be his turn next, he was sure of that despite everything Jane was going through. He would be the one showing people a picture of static and insisting he could make out legs and toes, see flesh knitting over bone as new life blossomed and swelled, fattening with promise.

"It's beautiful," replied Harry, after a long pause.

As he went to hand it back, Bill started rummaging for his cigarettes in the glove compartment. They were only found after everything else in there had been scooped onto the floor, then the search was on for a lighter which was eventually located somewhere near Bill's foot pedals in the driver's seat. A yellow light briefly flared inside the vehicle, up-lighting his face as he sucked on the cigarette. After a deep inhale, he blew out a steady stream of acrid smoke with a pensive expression on his face.

"She's been looking in the weird names book again," he said, darkly. "This week, it's Tarquin for a boy-"

He was cut off by Harry's snort of laughter. "As in 'Tarquin the Otter'?"

Bill held up his free hand, palm towards Harry. "Now stop there, Mister Know-it-All," he commanded. "That's what I said and apparently, it's Tarka the Otter, so that makes it okay. But I said to her, no kid of mine is ever going to called Tarquin, Otter or no. Bloody Tarquin, I ask you. Last week, it was Crispin. Blandine for a girl. Bloody Blandine!"

"Bloody Blandine has quite a nice ring to it, if you ask me," said Harry, stifling his own laughter for long enough.

Just then, headlamps pierced the darkness outside. Twin beams of light swinging over the stony, abandoned ground of the docklands. Distant harbour lights twinkled way up north, towards Clarendon Docks, where he and Bill had got off the boat from Liverpool not two nights ago. But that was a long way from where they were now. Harry watched the other car with a frown furrowing his brow.

"Here's our man," said Bill, sitting up straight in his seat again. "Let's see if he's got anything else for us."

He wound down the window and flicked his cigarette butt outside. Harry watched it bounce in a shower of sparks before extinguishing in a nearby puddle. They both got out just as the other vehicle came to a halt in a crunch of loose gravel. He could not make out the lone driver, but Harry already knew it was the same man they spoke with briefly at the bonfire party the night before. He got out, greeting them with a wave to acknowledge their presence.

"All right, Brendan. Back on safer ground are we?" asked Bill.

Brendan did look somewhat more approachable without a scarf and low hood obscuring his face.

"Aye, thank fuck," he replied, breathing a sigh of relief. "And thank fuck all that's over for another year."

He was referring to the July Twelfth parades that had been taking place all over Northern Ireland that day. It was the reason they were meeting so late at night: passing through the city had been impossible with the huge crowds lining every major road and the marchers and bandsmen blocking every route. The noise they made was enough to make the earth vibrate. An endless beating of huge drums, all across the province. He and Bill had watched them, for curiosity's sake alone, from an embankment in south Belfast, at the bottom of the Lisburn road. They had both come away sporting threatening headaches.

"Don't they do it again in August?" asked Bill, quizzically.

He had become genuinely interested in how things worked in Northern Ireland. Where Harry was dismissive and begrudging, Bill was going to pains to understand what it was that drove these two communities apart.

Brendan shrugged. "Aye, but nothing on that scale. Still a pain in the arse, mind."

The last Saturday in August. Black Saturday, they called it.

Together, the three of them walked towards the edge of Belfast Lough. To where the waters lapped at a dirty shoreline leading all the way up to Carrickfergus in the far north. Between them and there, however, the lights of Belfast city twinkled suggestively. For the time being, Harry was content to let Bill lead the meet up.

"So, you were mentioning this meeting at the Felon's Club on the Falls Road?"

"That's right. Do you have the devices for me?"

They did. Harry had seen to it that they were loaded into the boot of the car before they left their safe house. The finest techies in the British Army and MI5 had been working on them. One of the MI5 Spooks over in London, a droll Welshman, had held forth at tedious length about the device's capabilities, every word of it passing over Harry's head. But, the Welshman said they were the best, and Harry was happy to go along with that.

"They're in the boot of the car," said Bill, jerking his head back the way they had come. "Harry, I believe, has the instructions."

He felt himself burning red. "Actually," he admitted. "You may have to give that bloke back at Gower Street a call again, Bill."

Both Bill and Brendan looked at him incredulously.

"You'll have to do it, Harry," said Bill. "I'm about to become a father. I can't afford to lapse into a coma now."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll do it. Who do I ask for again?"

"Malcolm Wynne-Jones," he replied, as Harry committed the name to memory.

Their Asset looked almost sheepish. "Look, give them to me and I'll see if I can't get them installed on my own. There's over a month to go, so it's not like we're in a hurry."

Bill shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

Harry, however, had his reservations. "I think they should be in there as soon as possible. We still need to listen in, to whatever's happening in there."

"It's only a pub, isn't it?" Bill asked their asset.

Brendan shook his head. "There's an office upstairs where the West Belfast IRA meet all the time. It's only at the end of August that the whole Army Council will be meeting, though. That's the one you really need. Your colleague's probably right, though. The sooner the better. Just give them to me, and I'll see what I can do."

Harry considered what he was saying with grave misgivings. But, there was no way either he, Bill nor any other Brit was going to get near the Felon's Club. Even the best of fake accents would be picked up by the patrons and other's had died in the process before now. They had no other choice, if they were to listen in on that meeting. "Fine," they both concurred, in tandem.

There were some things they simply had no control over.

Will was content to let father and daughter lead the way, out of Hyde Park. The small distance gave him some breathing space, a chance to gather his thoughts and decide what it was he was going to ask and say. But even that made him feel as though he was getting ahead of himself. All through his life he had been drip fed information about his father's death. From the earliest "Daddy's gone to live with Jesus" explanation he was given as a small boy, to the more direct "shot by the IRA" of his adulthood and everything in between: it all gave the impression of having been lied to. Lies spoken with the best of intentions, no doubt. But lies all the same.

Even the gentlest of explanations felt like a rejection. Daddy shouldn't be living with Jesus; Jesus can fuck off and find his own Daddy. His Daddy should be with him and Mammy. His father chose to be with Jesus just before he was born, meaning in his childish mind that it was his own imminent arrival in Bill Crombie's life that prompted that last minute relocation to heaven. Did the guilt ever go away? He would shake his head and admonish himself, tell himself to wise up. But, somehow, that connection was made: his father's death – his birth. It was as though one had paid for the other, like life was a balance sheet.

He watched Catherine and her father, Sir Harry Pearce himself, walking slightly ahead of him and stopped in his tracks. Neither noticed and just carried on walking. But Will remained where he was, just observing them. They walked some distance apart, but perfectly in step with each other. Catherine had her arms wrapped around her middle, while Sir Harry kept veering to the left. There was little by way of physical closeness between them; they didn't even speak. Would his father have been like that with him? Will could only wonder. But he had seen the look on Harry's face back then, and it hadn't been pretty. As he had all his life, he had tried to read into that expression and extrapolate what it told him of his father's death. Now, he had to stop doing that, or he'd end up as jittery as the man escorting him to god knows where.

Eventually, they reached Catherine's car. Without a word spoken, all three of them got inside and she started up the engine. Only then did Sir Harry start issuing directions. Evidently, they were looking for somewhere quieter. But in the end, the journey was not a long one. Catherine slowed down at Milbank, near the river and Harry tersely informed them this was their stop. She turned in her seat and wished him luck.

"Call me," she added. "I gave you my number."

Will felt only gratitude towards her. "I will, thank you."

Outside on the pavement, the two of them stood facing each other. Sir Harry was almost unrecognisable from the photo on his mother's dresser. Older, careworn, larger. He wore on his face the hangdog expression of the man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. On the opposite side of the road, Thames House loomed large. Will noted the building, suspecting that Sir Harry had brought him somewhere familiar to him as some sort of pale comfort. Either way, they stuck to the riverside as Harry walked slowly along the railings. The river bubbled past them, dirty and dark in the fading light of day.

"Why are you here?" asked Harry. "Why now?"

Will had expected this. "Because now my mother's dead," he began.

He paused as Harry looked directly at him for the first time since they met. An unmistakable flicker of sadness passed across the man's face, his green eyes misting over. At least he offered no empty platitudes.

"When?"

"A couple of months ago now," he answered. "She'd had cancer. I was clearing her house out to be sold and found this picture."

He broke off again as he rummaged in the inside pocket of his jacket. When he found the picture of the picnic, he handed it over. Harry looked at it closely, gaze raking over the faces frozen in time. His younger self, his ex-wife and dead friends.

"July, 1978. Back there in Hyde Park," said Harry, returning the picture. "We left for Belfast on the tenth."

"And there he died?"

He already knew the answer, but he no longer trusted his own knowledge of events.

"There he died," Harry confirmed. "What did they tell you?"

Will raised a pained smile. "That Daddy had gone to live with Jesus," he answered, and left it at that. "At least, until November, when someone else told me you killed him."

"Who?"

Will shrugged. "I don't know. Some Irish guy called at my ex-girlfriend's house, not knowing I was just about moving out. It was a Saturday night. I would have been out anyway."

"November?"

Will nodded. "November. We decided it was a hoax, so she burned it. I guess I should have kept it, to show you."

"Do you believe it?"

"I don't know what to believe," he replied. "You tell me."

Harry stopped walking again and turned to look at him. Being of a similar height, their eyes met.

"I didn't kill your father and I don't know who did," he answered, earnestly. "A peculiar Irishman turned up at the homes of myself and several of my Officers back in November. All in the same night. All being drawn into a trap. I think it's fair to say you were also victim to that."

Will shivered, wrapping his jacket tighter around his middle. "Who was it? Will he be back?"

"He's dead now," Harry replied, matter of factly. It did little to soothe Will's worries. "That's a whole other story, William. One you need not burden yourself with."

They passed Thames House and carried on walking. But as they went, Harry glanced over at the building, almost longingly.

"My mother got a letter not long after she died," Will explained. "She was invited to some Peace and Reconciliation thing, chaired by Desmond Tutu and Robin Eames. They wanted her to tell her story, about how Dad was killed. I want to go instead of her. Only there's nothing I can say, because I just don't know, Sir Harry. Only you know."

As he spoke, he could see the other man shrinking almost within himself. He could no longer look at Will and he veered off, towards the barrier. But Will pressed his point.

"You know the thing I'm talking about, don't you?" he asked, growing more hasty. "You know about this committee. Have they called you up, too?"

Harry stopped in his tracks again, rounding on him. "Go home, William. Go home and burn that letter. You don't need the truth about your father. No one needs knowledge like that."

He was about to turn away again, but Will reached out and stopped him. "You can't bring me this far and say that!" he retorted. "What knowledge? All I have is well intended bullshit and a headful of nightmares. All I want is the truth; is that so much to ask?"

Harry smoothly extricated himself from Will's grasp. "If you knew what you were asking-"

"That's the fucking point!" Will shot back. "I don't know. I don't know anything for certain and I'm long past being a child, Sir Harry. I'm a grown man now, I can handle the truth. I need the truth and if your reaction was anything to go by, you need to tell it. Let's call it a business transaction."

Will stopped himself before he could grow even more shrill. But the outburst had left him angry and breathless. All he needed were the facts. A simple walk-through of events and all the shrugging offs and soft-lipped lies were only pulling him deeper in. Firmly entrenched, he now stood his ground against his last chance of finding out what really happened.

In return, Harry fixed him with a hard, searching look. Will could feel himself being silently assessed, but he was long past the point of caring what the other man made of him. Harry could take him as he found him. After what seemed an age, however, the old Spook stepped closer to him; they were almost nose to nose. Tension thickened as they each stared the other out, but Will resolved himself to not blink first. Defiance gave chase to the tension he felt swelling between them.

"You will regret this for the rest of your life," said Harry.

Will's lip curled into a half-smile. "Not half as much as I would if I just let you walk away without saying a word."

His ongoing defiance caused a flare of anger in Harry. Will could see it in his expression, but he used it to merely bolster his own stubborn persistence.

"This is for your own good, William. Walk away now," Harry said.

William's temper finally boiled over. "Oh! For fuck's sake!" he stormed, pulling away from Harry. "I am not made of glass; this will not break me-"

"But it might break me!" Harry retorted, anger flashing in his eyes. "You weren't there; you didn't see it. I did. And if you knew the things I've been carrying around inside my head since that day, you wouldn't be here now."

Will did not reply immediately. He drew back a little, fixing Harry with a disdainful eye. "If I knew that, I wouldn't need to be here now. You're deeply self-defeating, aren't you?"

Harry bit down on whatever retort he had lined up, and instead turned his back on Will.

"I didn't think you were a murderer, Sir Harry. But nor did I think you were a coward, either. Guess I was wrong after all," he called out, addressing the Spook's retreating back.

He didn't retreat for long, however. Sir Harry whirled round and was back bearing down on Will in a cold fury. For a brief moment, Will thought he had gone too far and that the other man would hit him. Harry's gloved hand clenched and unclenched, itching for the blow. But he caught himself on and held himself in check.

"You don't know the first thing about me, boy!" he spat. "You're green as green can be."

But Will laughed. "No, but I know one thing. You're like one of those murderers who refuses to tell the victim's parents where the bodies are because they enjoy having that hold over people's lives. You're just getting a thrill out of controlling my life and playing the fucking martyr, aren't you Sir-"

That did it. The blow caught his left cheek and sent him reeling backwards. But Will did not fall, he righted his position as soon as he was able and immediately returned to his place. Like a crazed Jack Russell coming back for more, even though it was up against a Pit Bull.

"I. Am. Not. A. Murderer," Harry hissed at him, low and annunciating each word carefully. "I am not a murdered and I am not playing the martyr, you insolent little whelp!"

Will drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly in an effort to calm himself. "Then what have you got to be scared of, Sir Harry? Just talk to me."

The tension and anger drained away. Both men faced each other, slumped in breathless defeat. Harry hunched over, anguished and ashamed with his hands on his knees. Will, red faced and sore from the slap, leaned back against a decorative streetlamp, exhausted and drained. His dark grey eyes catching the light, glittering as tears welled but went unshed. When Harry did raise his head to look at him, he had a resigned smile playing at his lips.

"You're every bit as stubborn and foolhardy as your father; I'll give you that, boy!" he said, a lilt of amusement suddenly in his tone.

Despite himself, Will also laughed. A weak, breathless gesture, but a laugh all the same, leaning his head back against the lamppost. "I'm thirty-three, Sir Harry. Please stop calling me 'boy'".

"Yeah, well, you'll have to forgive a sentimental old man, William. The last time I saw you, you were an indiscernible foetus on a piece of paper."

A shudder of horror went through him. "Urgh! You do realise that sounds infinitely more traumatic than anything that could have happened to my Dad, don't you?"

Harry straightened up again, prompting Will to do the same. Once more, they looked to each other, only now a little calmer. The older man pointed towards Thames House.

"You know where to find me," he said. "What do you do by way of work?"

"I'm self-employed. I can call in any time," he answered.

"Good," Harry replied. "Call in tomorrow at noon, report to reception. We can talk properly there and this time, I'll be prepared for you."

"For what it's worth, Sir Harry, I really didn't know Catherine hadn't told you about my being there today," he said, genuinely apologetic.

But Harry only raised a rueful smile. "What's done is done."

With that, they parted. Walking in opposite directions, going their own way. Although Harry had agreed to nothing in particular, Will still let himself soak up the small victory.

Thanks again for reading; reviews would be welcome, if you have a minute.