The door to the safe house opened.
Harry stood there.
He looked at Ruth and began to shake his head, "There was –"
"James!"
His head turned. Zofira stood in the hallway, a relieved smile energising her face as she walked towards him.
In that moment Ruth did not look at Harry, nor he at her, but they were both painfully, acutely aware of each other and the awkwardness of the situation they were now faced with.
Zofira stepped into Harry, reaching up and kissing him fully on the lips before her arms wound around his neck, enveloping him in a hug.
"Thank you so much," she whispered.
Harry's right arm pressed against her back, his fingers outspread.
But his eyes were on Ruth. Crying out with equal measure his regret and apology. His face told her he didn't want to be in those arms. He hoped above hope she would see that, and above everything he hoped he would be able to repair the damage that this was doing and that he could take away the hurt she was so valiantly trying to disguise.
Zofira began to pull away.
"I'll get off now you're back," said Ruth, breaking her own contact with him as she hurriedly reached for her bag.
"Your friend has been most kind," smiled Zofira.
Harry nodded, "I would like to think she's one of the most understanding people I know."
But Ruth was already reaching for the door handle.
"Thank you…" Zofira hesitated, "...you never told me your name?"
"Ruth," said Ruth.
No legend. That was her name. She was Ruth and she wanted Harry to hear her name. Hear it and not forget it.
She reached past him for her coat, this time avoiding his gaze but knowing he wanted her to look at him. Resolutely she kept her eyes downcast.
"Ruth…" said Harry, needing to say something.
"Bye James."
She opened the door.
A figure with a greying beard stood outside.
"Well, isn't this pleasant," he said in a clipped foreign accent.
And then he raised the gun in his hand and he fired.