A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed. It seems paltry to say it is appreciated, but know that it is the act of reviewing which provides, for me at least, a substantial enough reason and requisite motivation to continue, thus not paltry in any sense of the word. Here's me waving to the folks living in/on (?) The Isle of Man, a place I shamefully had to 'googlize' to acquire any knowledge of, and which again makes me amazed at the power of what my grandmother calls 'The Interwebs.' This chapter is entirely Malcolm's POV, and I hope you enjoy as I work my way towards the infamous 'corridor scene.'
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"Do you really want to be helpless,
With your hands behind your back?
Waiting idle for a blessing,
Or until complete collapse?
Will you swoop down,
And catch another mouse;
Oh won't you swoop down,
To catch another mouse;
Why don't you swoop down,
To catch another mouse
For me?"
-The Deer Hunter, "Owls"
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If anyone had asked, he'd readily admit having Colin otherwise occupied was to his advantage presently. Bent to his task, each had recognized it for an act of empty distraction, that activity which kept someone occupied, rather like the child sat before the telly allowing the adults to talk in an outer room uninterrupted. Sat there, body contorted into a cross-legged position Malcolm knew himself far to advanced in years to entertain attempting, Colin chipped halfheartedly away at a vent which would afford little chance of escape, the methodical tap, tap, tap merging with the queer silence characteristic to lock down. The exercise proved doubly fortunate as it afforded Malcolm the distraction necessary to examine the cumulative Intel two ghosting programs currently tracing specific cybernetic footsteps had culled.
He'd spent several hours dedicated to the gathered details streaming ceaselessly from the program initiated first, in the early hours not long after he'd arrived on the Grid. The second program was producing similar results, the cyber pages unfolding rapidly, his eyes scanning as they formed. Interesting. Each of them had been furiously delving the other, and at a guess, he imagined neither any wiser in their ministrations. At a loss for obvious explanation, he began collating those details which provided similar themes, attempting, covertly, to ascertain those same conclusions sought by each individually.
She had been preoccupied from the moment she had arrived. At once there at her desk, carelessly victimizing the end of her pen between her teeth, and then gone, back down to archives and Registry, her movements tracked by the buildings many cameras, and he knew she hadn't even bothered to try to hide her whereabouts so absolute was her concentration. Her movements, he thought, were reminiscent of a hummingbird; Flitting quickly from here to there, hovering momentarily hushed above some new piece of Intel, and then gone, her movements zigzagging wildly, capturing another, his eyes attempting to keep pace, landing on her mere moments before she flitted off anew, and he scenting the chase, the trail she left behind a barely visible vapor of color.
Her mind had been elsewhere throughout the day, and the customary break they shared mid morning came and went without her appearing on the threshold of the tech suite, tea in hand, the smell of Earl Grey wafting about her as she plopped herself into a vacant swivel, asking give me one in reference to the crossword they habitually worked through together; Or, sometimes, lines of verse, painstakingly obscure, each attempting to stump the other for origin and author. She was exceedingly good at the later, her voluminous mind providing an admirable number of correct answers, and, to his chagrin, a few quotes he found himself utterly unable to identify. That mid-morning's semi-impromptu twenty questions having come and gone, he found he rather missed the contribution to his sense of normalcy it had become. That brief moment within one's day where they felt, inexplicably, tied to the race of man, their simplicities and mundane concerns shared, that bit of longed for pedestrian, everyday, innocuous 'normal' taken for granted by everyone he didn't know, and to which his entitlement did not extend.
It was a comfortable routine between them, one which he had grown to treasure quite despite himself, his general policy of remaining just a bit removed from those who walked within the halls of Thames cautiously disregarded as his affection for her increased. He had, as had they all, lost those he had thought to allow into his heart, his head. Having touched that flame countless times before, he was loathe to allow another to ignite.
She had a way, however, and he found he was left defenseless in the wake of her smile, her unassuming charm. After all, he reminded himself often when the urge to remain aloof struck, She, like Colin and himself, was a desk agent, thus it became almost effortless to reassure himself the statistical data was in all their favor, the likelihood that any of the three would be cut down while in the field minimized, as close to extinct as likely to get. They delighted him in much the way siblings would delight; Or, rather, what he assumed would be the case. Being an only child of an only child, he had little formative experience but for observational in nature, yet he derived such comfort from the two, if he were granted that rare opportunity to chose, he'd select both as makeshift family, and call himself lucky.
The appointed rendezvous having come and gone, he'd decided to activate a ghosting program he had installed on all the computers within the grid, one which would allow him greater access into what had her so preoccupied as there was little doubt she had uncovered something for which she had been thoroughly distracted. If he were to assign a description befitting her demeanor, she gave every impression of being shaken in some way which suggested an involuntary paradigm shift, an assault which weakened her foundations, the distress she felt becoming more obvious the more he observed her. Alarmed, with just the barest hint of desperation coloring her face, he watched her and found himself quite unable to continue as an observer, needing to, be it an act of chivalry or sibling benevolence, soothe her in some fashion or another.
It was then he remembered the program installed some months ago, and sent a silent thank you to the heavens above that the deep seated, paranoid nature of their given profession did not extend to the conclusion every spook did not need to be watched. In fact, if history was anything to go by, it rather demanded that the spooks spook the spooks with as much voracity and microscopic detail as those they would hope to thwart. Certainly, their immediate circumstances did nothing short of highlighting their collective, justifiable compulsion to question unusual occurrences, eschewing the easy conclusions in favor of sounding the deeper, malicious intents and motivations. Theirs was a world made of conditional trust and hushed suspicions breeding those psychological pitfalls which substantiated their collective otherness. Their specific positioning within the human race separate for lack of genuine communion, a shared sense of blissfully unaware, occupying that rare dimension inhabited by those who are both friend and foe.
Don't let me get too suicidal.
She had offered the caution flippantly, a warning issued as afterthought, in effect, hardly worth mentioning. It was the incongruity that had niggled, and as he toiled, he found himself meditating the statement, the refrain repeating within his head, the tone and inflection amplifying his unease. Superficially, his familiarity with the contemplative aspects of existence, the psychological boxes each individual finds themselves bound within, the statement itself suggested that inconsistency akin to admitted suicidal tendencies, once given voice, were less a reflection of truth than the genuine article. Simply put, he concurred with the overriding theory that those who were suicidal rarely announce there intention, preferring instead to be suicidal, entrusting others with the realization simultaneous to the discovery of their deadened corpse. Suicidal people commit suicide, those who are not, merely threaten, as had Angela, and thus to his interpretation, he thought the exercise a blind. Intricate, yes, but deliberately distracting in a manner which spoke, No, not here. Look elsewhere.
Given the numerous mentions of Peter Haigh, the circumstances of his death crystalizing rather easily in his consciousness at the mention of his name, he did not question Angela's desire to die. Quite the contrary, he understood she was awash in a churning ocean of grief, regret, and no small amount of disillusion. Yet, he could not shake himself of the intuition her questionable grasp on reality expressed openly only scratched the surface, obsequious in the extreme, a tell suggesting a vast expanse of unknowables at play beneath the surface of her emotional cocktail.
He had experienced the nature of suicide first hand. Knew the signs, the steps a person takes to rid themselves of anything which would tie them to this earthly plane. Shortly after his father had died he had watched as his mother began the careful steps of defenestration, discarding her emotional well being and physical possessions with equal determination. He had known in his heart her pain was genuine, her grief all encompassing, mired in the quicksand of mortality, she had not wanted to continue in his father's absence. While he had gone to extremes to ensure she was supervised in his absence, he can remember each day brought with it the acute fear that he would find her cold, having swallowed some toxin, or lain in a pool of her own blood, the water turned cold in her bath.
She had become a faceless ticking bomb which forfeited little indication of diminishing seconds, each moment passing proving the following worse for the indifferent uncertainty. It could have been any day, or the next, or not at all. She never once sat sipping tea and stated, Malcolm, love, I believe today is the day it shall all mercifully end. It was the nature of his understanding the self depreciations inherent to suicidal tendencies, the catatonic silences and blank stares, which had allowed him, to his regret, to consider the viability of Clive McTaggart coming toes up by his own hand, though he presently knows subsequent facts had proved entirely contrary, extravagantly so. Still, Clive, like his mother, had never threatened, and the absence of such allowed a potential suicide believable vitality. Not so with Angela. The fact she'd emphasized her longing belied, paradoxically, her genuine ability to act, the last delivered in what he felt a well rehearsed exit line scripted for the stage, whispering to him of artifice and orchestration, leaving him curiously short on both sympathy and fear.
It was indeed a strangely unfamiliar state of mind which he found himself in, the potential destruction at hand very real, yet the threat of use somehow compromised, forming the less than in the overall equation. The surreal nature of it all found him shaking his head in wonder more often than not.
There are more things in heaven and earth,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
The quote, a refrain which frequently danced the fringes of his consciousness when faced with troubling incongruities, his cerebral task of imposing logic to chaos his often called upon skill, acted as a healing and instructive instrument which granted opportunity to reconcile the inconsistent and malignant nature of man, the tool he enlisted to both aid and guard his humanity, his soul.
He'd often reflected the words mirrored the tragedy that was their profession, the allusion to shadows, things unknown, the mind a playground which could never be known to another entirely, just as it could never be known to oneself as an absolute. One cannot expect to know as much as can be known in this strange and dangerously beautiful world they share; The menacing threats continue to evolve, adopting another face, another ideology bursting violently from the wombs of those previous, new devils to dethrone, each extended moment evolving fluidly into the next, merging into the flowing grey, and who knew anything for a certainty anymore?
We used to know, or so we told ourselves, could identify this one as an enemy combatant, and that one an ally, and maybe he has become too jaded, too old, the ease of identification diminishing leaps and bounds in the years since then and now. Maybe. Because, he tells himself, isn't it our very nature, the innate nature of human beings to find themselves irretrievably intertwined, linked to the hubris of believing all that was known in every moment was all that needed to be known? Hubris, and a wall scared with the names of those who found the truth was very different indeed.
He thinks of Angela, momentarily sees her as she was years before, alight and sure, and wonders if the price for hubris isn't singularly recognized as another name carved into a wall, but also with the soul shaking realization that we are the enemy, wearing the white hat and invited inside, our smile of comfort and safety hiding the razor-like quality of our teeth. Pernicious, he thinks, shaking himself, finding the idea that Angela Wells could break so spectacularly a bit of an unwanted paradigm shift within himself, the texture of it within his mind coarse and sharp.
He thinks it a forgone conclusion that those walking the paths of espionage share among them a higher portion of psychic damage intrinsic to their hardwired identities. Their capacity for being aware of such, that limited sense of personal actualization forming unconsciously, they are at once set apart from the masses, yet it is the recognition, the distance defining their alternate plane illustrated by damage, which allows them to serve, to fulfill their appointed duty. A necessity which allows opportunity to mitigate the greater threats to the masses, while blithely coddling the damage within themselves. The illusion of self-help, an effective remedy, the I can't be that bad, I've just prevented a thermobaric bomb from detonating manner of self-delusion disguised as sound mind and compromised motivations.
It reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Ruth, not long after Tom's decommissioning, when she had been, for a time, withdrawn and uncharacteristically dimmed, wherein she gave voice to what he had silently concluded though never shared openly with anyone. It had been during one of their midmorning breaks, and she had, moments previous, accurately identified his quotation, plucked from the obscurity of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, apropos of their attention having been drawn by the cousins for one reason or another on that particular day. On this day, however, she uncharacteristically had not offered any quotation in reply, American in origin or otherwise, but remained silent, her concentration fixed on some spot before her, fingers deft along the fanciful collection of charms decorating her neck.
"We're rather like Boo Radley, don't you find?" Her eyes never moved from point of concentration, and he understood the question as a step beyond their established comfort zone, into one whose boundaries had yet to be determined.
"In what way?"
"We stay in the shadows, don't we? It's where we're most comfortable. We're-We're damaged, in a way, but our damage allows us to see what others remain blind to. It's as if, without our damage, we couldn't do what we do. Ours is the task of protection, and we step from the cover of shadows as needs must, be we never remain in the light, do we? We always return, and I wonder if we're not meant to remain that mystery clouded in darkness, a part yet apart, chasing the sun but never meant to live in it?"
"Ruth, I-I don't know how to answer that. But, at a guess, I believe what you are describing is that feeling of being responsible for something, or, maybe, someone, while not really feeling a part of the whole? And, to that end, I would have to agree with you. Though I should add I've always preferred the Boo Radleys of the world. One can find kinship in the spark of shared damage, Ruth. You simply have to be open to the possibility."
"Tom couldn't. He wanted the sun, Malcolm. We can't have both. We're not meant to."
"Ahh, so this is about Tom. Listen, Tom he, well, he made his choice, and we all have every opportunity to make the same choice every day, really. And to continue on a theme, if Tom represents the Boo Radley in the scenario your imagining, then didn't he, like Boo, choose to reveal himself because he felt that kinship, even with his damage, didn't he chose to take that risk and see where it led? That fact rather shoots holes in your theory, now doesn't it? I mean, when you were done reading, did you mourn the loss of Boo, or did you celebrate his choosing to reveal who he really was, who he had always been?"
She had looked at him, and he noted the shine in her eyes, knew the tears would not be allowed to fall, knew in his heart that she was, in her roundabout Ruth way, expressing grief for all of their losses, and the fear that loss would be all she was allowed, her portion meted out as substantially more by virtue of damage, or profession, or anything else, really, she gotten into her curious head. He remembered a time when he had weighed the same fears and concerns, questioned the viability of ever achieving 'normal,' and his heart broke a bit for her as he regarded her across his desk.
"Love is a very powerful motivator, regardless the form it takes, friendship, lovers, what have you. I always thought it a very powerful love which motivated Boo to become who he was meant to be, the children were simply the venue, just as Christine was Tom's venue."
"Ruth, love makes us do everything or nothing, and you, my dear girl, are not a person designed not to love. If I'm being honest, you provide a perfect example of the exact opposite. There is love and affection in everything you do. That is why you are so exceptionally good at what you do, apart from intellect, and why you are so very necessary to our little equation here. Well, for me, you are needed, who you are, I need that. With all of our collective damage, it is our strengths that make the whole, and what you bring cannot be provided by anyone else, just as what I bring, or Harry, or Adam. We are all damaged, perhaps more finely attuned to it even, but we have all found a way to use our detriments to the advantage of the greater whole, yes?"
He had watched as she sighed deeply, returning her eyes to meditate the spot before her, and he very nearly confessed to having been in Tom's position years ago, and his residual fear and regret for having made, what he was almost certain of in hindsight, the wrong choice, as she had walked away from him, and slowly out of his life.
"Ruth? There will come a time, maybe many times, where you will have to decide to do something which will be painful, but an act of love just the same. No one knows when it will happen, and yet the absolute certainty that it will remains constant. I know what that is. It hurts to this day, the choices I've made. I'll not lie to you. It never really goes away. But I can tell you that because there was love, the weight that must be borne is...its...not without...means to...navigate."
While loathe to admit her unexpected description carried some sense of truth as regards himself, he remains certain, even now, it is the scared and blackened soul the services called to, the agent lacking psychic injury proving an agent ill-equipped to navigate the shadowy areas rife with moral incontinence and spiritual bankruptcy. It was his psychic ills which, paradoxically, provided sustenance to prevent that in others, his willingness to suborn them, that instinct which Tom Quinn had relinquished, losing his reason to continue, gaining his right to a life not predicated on damage. He hoped he had gained that life, one unencumbered by anything more severe than the everyday concerns of an everyman, he hoped he was happy in the trade. It was just that his damage, his emotional incontinence was oddly comforting, allowed him to be a part of something, and the lack of it, the willing suspension of it would require a pound of flesh in the exchange of one life for another kind of life, set apart still, the habitual wallflower, left no one to watch.
In all, they had never spoken of Tom Quinn again between them, and as time passed she had reacquired what he liked to refer to as her shine, her particular Ruth vibrancy that he had grown to affectionately need. He celebrated silently her resiliency, even as he worried as time passed, and her innocence at having to make the same choice both he and Tom had made began to figure more prominently in her future, one he wasn't altogether certain she was cognizant of existing, despite their conversation regarding the very real specter of an American fictional character.
It was the absence that often highlighted a situation's significance, and he had come to find that this formed more a rule than exception when examining those they were tasked to watch and monitor regularly. Hadn't they been alerted more times than worth counting to a situation which demanded attention for the lack of something happening rather than the existence? The intelligence they sought, following vague trails in search of what was missing, formed the hallmark of what he suited his purposes to more often than not, though he had not the slightest talent as compared to Ruth, whose mind fathomed depths of direction he'd never have imagined, her ability to ferret the gems nestled within the detritus proving as close to infallible as he'd ever come across.
They made a formidable team, she and he, each balancing the other, she prone to intuitions and creatively eclectic pursuits, the hummingbird cross pollenating furiously, he of the clinical mechanics, the logic and objective interpretation of accessible fact, each coloring conclusions, their treasures combined to form the whole. Metaphysically speaking, he'd come to regard her as residing comfortably in the mists, floating harmoniously the ethereal sphere marking middle space, and he balancing her, his strengths more alined to the grounded planes of Nature and Science. And in this way, she hidden in the mists, and he in the woodwork, they were pleasantly simpatico.
In his private moments, he allowed himself those flights of intuitions and fancy, the poetry of words and imagination calling as a siren from a distant shore, balancing the habitual state of robotic acceptance marking his professional life, and the frequency of leisure time spent in exactly that repose had increased proportionately as he grew to depend on her constancy, allowing her to skirt areas within him he had permitted only once before to another. In that case, he had thrown the doors wide, exhilarated, arms outstretched never thinking to prepare himself for the thunderous sound they would make as they slammed closed, shaking his foundations with the force of affect.
She reminded him a bit of his Sarah, her beautiful empathy drawing from him the sensitive man he had carefully hidden beneath technical gadgetry and cyber speak. It was in the way she unconsciously wrung her hands, fidgeting when she was unsure, her quiet strength shining as she felt the bullet tear, taking Danny from them, Adam, you must talk to me, hiding the delicate vulnerability he'd only half glimpsed with Fortescue. It was in her acrobatic mind, scalpel sharp, able to capture the obscure meaning within the thoughts he'd spoken aloud, almost to himself, quick to offer comment, excitedly playful as they bantered verse between them. And the crosswords, completed with a cuppa she'd prepared for him exactly as he'd have done. Familiar, yet endearingly unobtrusive.
In all, she made his heart ache for his Sarah, their similarities a reminder of a time before Colin, when he could look across and watch the changing screens light her face. His Sarah had hardened, and his Sarah had left the services, and the doors had shut resoundingly behind her. In the quiet of his darkened bedroom, he told himself these many years, at a certain angle, he could see light illuminating a crack along the doors' expansive length, and he often wondered, as he lay unable to sleep, how small he would have to become to squeeze through? How much of himself would he sacrifice now to have her back? Tom had given everything, bravely facing the unknown future before him. Bravery was not his own strong suit, but regarded rather a predator pacing the henhouse, and he in residence shaking with fear. Shameful, that, but there it was.
He didn't fault Ruth her inability to behave likewise as him, finding this bit of retained innocence, this latent individuality within her refreshing. His years and experience had taught him more than she'd had opportunity to learn, mercifully, and he rather feared the day which would mark the moment she began to harden, losing her imagination and creativity in the trade. He'd thought to have witnessed the beginnings when Danny had been taken from them, cruelly, suddenly, but she had rebounded admirably, if somewhat surprisingly, and he'd wondered for a time, as his eyes traced lines of poetry, if the increase in time spent with Harry weren't the root cause.
He had grown accustomed to melting into the woodwork, a wall flower from the start throughout his life, escaping the trap of deep seated resentments through the methodic cultivation of his mind, setting his future solidly as a youth without even being aware of it. Particularly well suited cerebrally, seen but not seen became his preferred status, forming his placement within the strata comprising the Grid, his acumen solicited frequently, yet his overall presence easily overlooked. Comfortable in position, the inherently, though not intentionally malicious disregard he bore habitually would have chaffed one more prone to egotistical ends than himself, more accustomed to alpha status, and the requisite pandering such nurtured. One existing so contrary to himself, lacking the carefully nurtured humility his Father had counseled a necessity to both a fruitful life and untarnished soul.
Someone like Harry.
They had spent more time together than what had been required by position, duty, and his viewpoint from the peripheral woodwork afforded him consistent opportunity to observe them interacting. Harry's tells, while historically difficult to identify, grew clearer as his affection for her began to gather steam. Yet, she had been harder, surprisingly so, the idea that she would prove more adept at secreting her tells, her own vaguely glimpsed affection for him infrequent, a completely, wildly unexpected circumstance no less delightful or entertaining to him for the covert discovery. Allowing, quite despite himself, the poetic to intrude briefly his professional existence, he had periodically found himself struck by the illusion they were engaged in some invisible choreography, their movements oddly syncopating despite physical distance, a delicate dance, unconscious and gracefully tragic. He had begun, in those moments of covert surveillance, to consider again those questions of love and affection and their place within their profession, how quietly they grew from nothing into something powerful, his fear that her moment to choose was fast approaching, the foreboding for such a circumstance settling prematurely somewhere in his bowels, yet remaining fascinated by musings of imaginary circumstances, speculative guesses regarding their potential end game.
In those moments too, he questioned his earlier suspicion of Harry's motives, his compelling belief that she needed his protection during, and subsequent, the Fortescue debacle, periodically wishing he could retract the veiled warning issued in the aftermath. Of course, there was always the slight chance Harry had reevaluated his actions, his intentions as he had quietly suggested. Except the idea itself provided him a questionable level of confidence, that being partially reassured versus absolutely convinced, not least for his inability to see Harry as a changeling, having known him for a man stubbornly dedicated to his ends, whatever the cost.
If he were to turn right this moment and question Colin his thoughts on the subject, he could alternatively, and with absolute certainty, predict his sardonic reply; If by 'slight' you mean 'not bloody likely,' so well known was Harry's relentlessly intractable reputation. Undeniable, yet, from the vantage point of unseen, he had witnessed a subtle softening in his countenance when in her company, caught him unawares as his eyes followed her as she moved about the grid, the look on his face retracting to stone the moment he'd been found out, the pink suffusing a testament to his guilty weakness.
He was not unaware the efforts made to test her metal, the gradual placements that would find her active in the field, and she had, to her considerable credit, comported herself admirably. She proved surprisingly adept at playing a role, her gift with languages, accents and vernacular inflections allowing her to submerge herself effortlessly into a legend. Over time, he had begun to regard Harry, and then Adam, as the two headed Svengali to her Trilby, their mutually agreed upon course clear, yet their individual approach to such infinitely opposed.
Where Adam's appeared to make use of a familiarity born of youth and affection, his boyish smirk at the ready to charm her when she faltered, Harry's took on the hue just short of dominance, bullying her in a curiously physical way without actually establishing physical contact, and at a guess, he would conclude intrinsically sexual in nature. Where Adam's frenetic energy had him at once, bounding or lounging as if he were a merely a benevolent adolescent, Harry stalked her, pressing the advantage with a quick movement close to her ear, whispering, his hands placed in such a way as to allow his arms to cage her in at her desk, and just as quickly release her, gliding smooth as a glistening panther back to the confines of his office. Initially, he'd thought to have imagined the undercurrents at play between the three, but it was her face, caught in the moment's vulnerability, that had given truth to what he had thought fantasy.
She beamed, literally, the light emanating from her when Adam would push her to stretch her limits, encouraging her to affectionately let rip, and he'd little doubt she had won a portion of his heart in those minutes of insubordination where she became the only thing standing between himself and a fatal crossbow bolt. Surprising as that circumstance was, he rather found himself not altogether shocked that Ruth would find the way, use whatever came to hand to prevent harm to another, wielding nothing but a considerable sized tree branch and, to indulge in crass vernacular, brass balls matched in size.
He couldn't say she beamed when coached by Harry. Not that he had been able to observe. No, not entirely. Or, rather more correct to say not the same way as with Adam. He guessed it down to nature of affection, really. Adam's affections, while considerable and obvious, spoke of an unseen boundary, that imaginary line which establishes something on one side friendly, and the other sexual. It was the obviousness of it which rather defined the opposite, as with Harry. Adam's was of a theme reminiscent of sibling affiliations, the have you met my sister manner of interaction, and by virtue of this, an astonishingly innocent gift within a world of malevolent ills. His pride in Ruth's successes shone from his eyes, illuminated with excitement and mischievously youthful wonder. He was, if Ruth's reciprocal behavior were the yardstick by which to gauge scale, safe, having that quality that becomes a haven in a storm.
Harry's, took the shape of a more seasoned player, experience counseling some distance and perfectly predictable, but his eyes gave him away, an exceedingly rare occurrence indeed. In them, he could not disguise the predatory bent of his innate nature, they glinted and as such, awarded a far portion of ownership regarding both her accomplishments and her person, a safe haven of a sort, but rather like that jump from the frying pan to fire in character.
Harry's was brazen in its overt lack of innocence, and like du Maurier's creation, he would, with clinical precision and consistent exactitude, either fawn or bully, and could be grossly impertinent. In effect, they each balanced the other perfectly, Adam and Harry, as relates Ruth, comprising a perfectly complete amalgam best suited to, for lack of a better description, court her on side.
It wasn't that Harry was intentionally evil; Or unintentionally, now that he considers it, palpating his own impressions drawn over these many months. Neither is it true that Ruth should be reduced to a caricature of Trilby in his estimation, as she has proven herself far less naive than originally contemplated, displaying a healthy level of cynicism and sardonic wit, her personality coming to the fore those numerous times they had gathered en masse at The George.
It occurs now that it was not unusual as those evenings wore on to find the three of them ensconced together in a darkened corner, laughing, Adam pantomiming frenetically some incident, Ruth's raucous amusement shaking her, the liquid in her glass sloshing about, and Harry, only slightly set apart, eyes keen, watching, the look decorating his face bearing some combination of benevolence, caution and mirth.
But Harry was a man's man, to coin a phrase, and a consummate spymaster, and while he simultaneously questioned his intentions concerning Ruth, he could not dismiss the idea that he would, if given opportunity, prove as capable of dominating, exploiting, and ultimately, seducing Ruth as was Svengali his beautiful songbird.
It seemed almost overnight that the Svengali wearing two faces became a triumvirate, both tucking Ruth firmly beneath their wings, though, in truth, it was as gradual in actuality as an ocean eroding shore when he allowed more than a cursory span of his attention. There had been a subtle gravitation towards one other, unspoken seat assignments in the conference room, and he observed one afternoon Adam deferring to Ruth the task of interacting with Harry, who, even spinning in the midst of full blown, furious frustration, tempered himself so as not to offend her.
Oddly, it was she who possessed a calming effect on Harry, Adam who never failed to assuage her concerns, and if Harry had any effect on either that could be pinpointed, he would conclude it one of dominance in the Alpha pole position. It evolved quite easily then, and the unspoken, unconscious acceptance that Ruth should be the one amongst them to suffer or soothe Harry in turns, found her sent into the lion's den with greater frequency previously believed unhealthy, though she never failed in the attempt, and he never, to his credit, swallowed her whole.
They became, quite naturally in amalgam, the perfect individual, each contributing to the greater whole the essence of themselves; Adam his youthful exuberance and keen adaptability, Harry his experience and wisdom, while Ruth fettered between them those necessary elements balancing emotional nurturing and flagrantly moral, objective honesty. It was a finely tuned instrument, the musical notes enhanced by each, the melody defining the nature of their Grid.
Disconcerting then to him, and perhaps he alone, the trio bore every hallmark of one existing earlier, though it did not include Harry a member. He was struck by the similarities of this new coalition to the old, Harry replacing Tom, Adam replacing Danny, leaving Ruth to replace Zoe and shivered for the prophecy foretold in the collaboration. It was not the first, nor likely last time history repeated itself, and he was loathe to envision any of the three meeting similar ends, despite the probabilities all but demanding it.
It had hurt more than he wanted to admit that Zoe had left them, the fact that he had quietly adored her from afar notwithstanding, and in those fleeting moments where he gave himself permission to remember her, it was the nature of her absence that formed the wound. It was very like the way one yearns for someone once close, the wound formed the moment distance becomes insurmountable, exacerbated for knowing they are alive, and yet forever beyond reach. The chance to see them again as painful as knowing you won't, because you can't, you are forbidden, and yet they breath without you, just as you do. It was very like his Sarah, as so many instances marking his existence unquestionably were.
And while he would never wish Zoe's absence to be defined by fatality, Danny's absence, while resulting in brief, crippling moments of outright despondency, was conveniently reconciled, an act of hideous efficiency down to the exact nature of it being fatal. And, if he were honest, because when the cards were dealt, Danny played his hand with an awe inspiring level of honor, integrity intact; He died standing amidst a burst of magnificent fireworks, not on his knees, obsequious and bowed, and for that he mourned that brilliant purity of heart as a loss to the world, and not simply himself.
And Tom. Well, one could hardly mourn a person who had done exactly what he himself had refused to do for love of a woman, and yet he found himself mourning him just the same, admiring and envious of his freedom in the same breath. In his sardonic moments, he'd rather been surprised Tom had been the first to shoot Harry over a woman, and he rather envied that as well. Well, not the shooting, but the audacity, certainly.
Of the three, only two remained alive; Well, occupying that plane where one finds themselves simultaneously alive to strangers, yet deceased to those they had known, and while still favorable odds, his mind continued to meditate this newest trio, found it unavoidable, if not a little macabre, to consider who among them would form the two, and then the one.
The maths are not favorable, his father liked to say, and as in most things, Malcolm found his predictions more accurate than not. And were it not an alternate triangle at work underlying the framework within this unexpected grid hijacking, he'd likely have not thought of maths and their relative favorability, the geometric triangular points both connecting and impaling as a consequence of creation. And like that triangle before them, and the triangles that littered history, he understood there would come a time when the three would be forced by circumstances, love, hate, ambition, any number of vices and weaknesses applied, to chose with whom to establish solidarity, requiring that one amongst them be cast out.
He thinks it possible Harry's suspension after the Kurvin incident was the catalyst which exploded and created the them of Ruth and Harry, though he would not be shocked to be informed otherwise. Ruth and Adam had already established that easy camaraderie, so he couldn't say anyone thought it unusual that she would be the person he chose to rely on, if only for her advancing skills alone. If he were asked now how he knew that Harry had found a way to be near her, despite his exile, he wouldn't be able to answer with anything resembling logic or critical thought. He knew, because he knew. Did his romantic heart yearn to answer he knew because, in the muted silence of the world's darkened hours, the universe tilted slightly off course as they interacted, resuming its path of constancy after their parting? Strangely, yes. And in a fashion, the more immediate universe they inhabited on the Grid subsequent had already begun listing, drawn by the undercurrents beneath the calm, triangles lain on top of triangles, each providing the points in the whole of a star, that symbol that spoke, Here, this is it. Look here.
If prophecy were not so adamantly frown upon with the halls of greater espionage, he'd venture to foretell, like Cassandra of old, both the loss and the gain teetering before them. Because he knew, in his heart, the losses will be most foul and vile, and the gains, therefore, equal in measure, hollow and soul crushing. It was the dates, of course. The dates told the tale of her activities, her assumptions, her desperation to prove an improvable fact. The thunderous vortex against which she beat her frenetic wings told her nothing so much as Harry had done it. Examining the cyber activity as if nesting snugly on her shoulder, even he could not deny absolutely the truth of Angela's wild accusations, though he was not nearly as motivated as she appeared to be.
It was not an act of outright hypocrisy, then, that he activated the ghost on Harry's office computer. He rationalized it to himself as leaving Ruth alone, and taking up with another, what...opponent? Yes, one who was infinitely better equipped to handle an assault of this nature, adept and almost graceful amidst the battlefield, a warrior, a fighter from the start. Surprising then that what he had thought to discover had not been what he had discovered, bemused at himself for his own hubris at knowing all there was to know, his softly muttered bloody hell drawing Colin's attention briefly, the requisite smile he offered him in reassurance feeling both authentically false and hollow.
Harry had, for a number of hours, dedicated himself not to Angela's file, as he had expected, but Ruth's and Peter Haigh's. Glancing over his shoulder at Colin, satisfying himself that he remained as dedicated as if he were Sisyphus come again, he scrolled the links visited, drew up documents, reviewed and gleaned, guessed and theorized, and found himself wondering at what Harry was playing at? Her file allowed nothing relevant to his eye, and a cursory glance through additional documents allowed little beyond basic details of an innocuous nature, the truth of Ruth, the meat of her marrow, remaining, inexplicably, veiled.
The veil. He wanted behind the veil, his mind's voice whispered, and truth told, now that he had listened, he found himself likewise fascinated with what remained behind the veil, imagining the feeling, to Harry, acting as would a corrosive agent applied methodically upon the skin. This is the thing, here, now. As anxious as he was to uncover the thing which lay beneath, he felt, churning underneath, his stomach clenching in answer, a chill at what lay ahead, for her, now that Harry had the scent, knowing him as he did.
No hubris there, simple fact, cold and gleaming. Knowing he would not stop until he had eaten all the marrow upon discovery. He would find it, of that Malcolm did not laud himself ignorant. Harry on the scent was both magnificent and chilling to observe. He would find it, all the things she had so clearly attempted to hide, and he would consume them, and in the feast, devour her. The instrument they made together, in his mind's eye, began to strum inharmonious, the melody suffering fits and starts, discordant tones providing the din, and he knew without being told this incursion marked the moment wherein the choice would be made, the exile of one would occur, yet the tendrils of ramifications reaching to grasp all.
It was a fleeting few minutes subsequent, as Colin paused, guillotine blade suspended in forward motion, head snapping up as his eyes turned to squint towards movements beyond his vision, that Angela appeared at the threshold, escape from Stalag 13, her voice dripping with sarcasm, her demeanor that of frustration and superiority, and he rapidly wiping the contents of his terminal, eyes locked on Jo as she was dragged behind her, the vile handbag clutched to her chest. Reminder of time's allotment diminishing having been reiterated through gritted teeth, he paused in his movements at the room's threshold between her and them, to gaze at Angela's form, slowly sliding to the floor, legs outstretching before her, and knew it for a blind, multifaceted and twisting, the look on her face providing the key, at once despondent, angry and determined.
He was struck by the intuition confirming his earlier assessment she was not exactly textbook suicidal, though it was clear, upon this closer inspection, she did not find the idea of her death, in theory, disconcerting, she would not take it by her own hand, as Peter Haigh had done. Quite possibly, the thought forming in conjunction with the shiver of caution sliding the length of his spine, she had chosen the alternative death by another's hand, what the cousins referred to as Suicide by Cop, the unloaded gun drawn, the bearer expunged with another that was not.
Exchange the gun for a fabricated explosive device, and it was not what he would categorize so very different in predicament. Excepting, of course, the former resulted in a single fatality, where the later's culmination guaranteed fatalities in the hundreds. He could not rid himself the hunch she was not averse to dying, perhaps entertaining the idea itself, and yet, in some innately palpable instinct to self preservation, to a lesser degree, one that granted opportunity to alter outcome, one that screamed, I'm drowning and the waters are unfathomably deep.
His mind's voice whispered in response to her unspoken plea for help, asking as he perceived in the only manner left to her, captured as she was amidst a mechanism grinding forward of which she were but an insignificant part, the masticated pulp of what remained, manipulated and manipulating simultaneously.
He rather thought her a grievous animal, teeth bared and gnawing a trapped limb ensnared between the steel claws of a trap, driven to a deliberate act of self amputation, the instinctual urge to survive so fundamentally potent that all concerns involving subsequent become inconsequential to the primal compulsion to survive. Vilely contrary, her actions spoke to a pain so profound it left her base natural will towards survival subjugated, coerced by grief and disillusionment to bite down the cyanide, embrace the sweet almond stench, but for her paradoxical need to be helped. His eyes had watered against the heinousness of the image, and he had little doubt he would never absolutely understand which had formed the steel trap or the shredded limb in her evaluation. Brooding the causes, silently collating the options, her existence in the present, her life's collected participation within the greater mechanism of espionage, or a future so devoid of human connections, the loss of her lover, the longing for an end a craving so excruciating she sought relief, her instinct to survive bending obscenely to accommodate?
Availing himself a vacant desk, he watched at a distance the trio standing in Harry's office. Colin likewise claiming a chair, turning to glance towards the office, then to Zaf whose shrug indicated without words his similar state of uninformed bystander, each waiting for the next task to be parceled, each occupied by thoughts known only to themselves. For his part, he suited himself to observing body language, his earlier precognition of events unfolding straining against the complacency of an idle mind despite his fatigue.
The hallmarks were there, the most obvious of them being the presence of the three to the exclusion of everyone else. His line of vision to Harry was periodically encumbered as Ruth shifted from one foot to the next, and he knew her anxiety was functioning at a higher than customary stratum. Easily anticipated, predictable, he'd guess, her exposed positioning within two overlapping triangles wreaking certain havoc within her. His attention drawn immediately to the details of her earlier ministrations, as well as those of Harry's, he wonders again the voracity of Angela's accusations, those meant to provoke and damage, a rift personal in nature existing without explanation offered outside the suggestion it was, at origin, down to Ruth.
He'd had opportunity, before he and Colin were summarily exiled from the tech suite, to examine those documents that had captured Harry's attention, and the exercise did little to inform the details. Granted, he had been expedient, perhaps excessively so their time dwindling down becoming tenuous by the minute, but his mind was mildly didactic to a point, and the files running behind his eyes, mentally slowed in their progression to a snails pace, still leave him inexplicably dumbfounded.
Clearly the Peter Haigh component figured important to the whole, owing both his association with Ruth and Angela, reminding him that the missing details likely illustrate the tale, those present merely fostering it, providing asylum. Something, something his mind whispered as his imagination colored the obvious conclusion, the words love affairs, unrequited, webs fabricated from convoluted affections figuring prominently, the mental lines and arrows matching those tangibly present on the elaborate flowchart decorating the co-opted plexiglass stood idle to the right of him.
He had just begun adding flesh to the images decorating his consciousness when he caught movement in Harry's office, though he couldn't identify if it were Ruth's or Adam's, and squinted only in time to see Adam gently touch her as she passed to exit. He watched as though screen within a screen, each eye focused on one. Ruth moving quickly across the grid, towards him at the desk sat next to hers, simultaneous to Adam, in profile, turning back to Harry, his lips moving, his fingers flexing at his side. It was Harry's face, exposed in Ruth's physical absence, that compelled his eyes to behave as they were designed, both focused on him, wearing a look of pained resignation, and he knew the choice of solidarity had been made, the haunted eyes lending themselves to the conclusion he had been chosen, and cast out. Now, the ramifications would begin, the slow dissolution of melody and song as the instrument came crashing to the floor.
Her hands were shaking, and her breathing carried with it the barest hint of hiccup, characteristic of a person desperately attempting to maintain control despite the betrayal their body strove to inflict. Things began moving quickly, then, and it was only then he'd thought to notice exactly how much time had passed, the previous nature of it deceiving, the impression that of density, thick syrup sliding languorously from a Maple.
Rising from his chair, he'd intended to move towards Ruth, but as events began to accelerate, his progress was impeded by Adam who had moved next to him, instantly, or it had seemed, followed by Harry, moving at half speed, and at a guess, in a manner best described as leaden, stopping just short of joining the circle they made, the distance deliberate, a quarantine maintaining space from them, and notable for its separation from Ruth.
"I'm going to need you to kit Ruth, Malcolm."
"Wha...Adam, Angela's in the tech suite, she's-"
"Yeah, about that-"
He guessed he shouldn't have been surprised as he watched each of them produce all manner of technical gadgetry secreted in desk drawers, pockets, rucksacks. His eyes widening despite him, a physical effort to clamp down fiercely that urge that wanted expression best left to another time fueling his current state of frustration and fatigue, it nevertheless did not escape notice that amongst the array of plunder, no one had seen fit to cop to the Micro Dot reader missing for well past a month. With this observation, the pieces clicked so substantially into place he'd thought the snapping audible to all present. It had been a Micro Dot, Angela's tooth, and Ruth, oh Ruth, she had known, and it was all so painfully obvious he'd found himself ashamed the length in time wasted to calculate.
Forcing his attention to selecting those implements best suited to task, he ignored the pulsing undercurrents present, the myriad of betrayals and choices thought inconsequential force fed into the maw of a destructive mechanism at work against them and within them. Adam, voice soft so as not to carry beyond, carefully explaining the details, patiently addressing objections, an astonishing number voiced from Zaf, with reasoned argument, calm throughout, and Harry maintaining his distance, curiously silent in the face of muted insubordination.
"We can fit her with this mic, but I, well, I-" Colin allowed the thought to trail off unspoken, his thought process disrupted in the act of examining said mic for damage and efficacy, and thus left me the task of enunciating in his stead.
"It will likely be obvious, the size, and with Ruth's familiarity being kitted infrequent, she could, quite unintentionally mind you, give its presence away. Um, body language, a bit of fidgeting, Angela will hone in immediately. I'm sorry, Ruth, I don't mean to suggest-"
"She understands, Malcolm," hurriedly offered. Adam glanced quickly towards Ruth, reading with astute accuracy she had little feeling on the matter, staring, eyes glazed and slightly unfocused, her continued silence perfectly enhancing those reckless and precarious aspects associated with a plan predicated on sending her as emissary charged with disarming a coiled, venal snake of its poison.
"I believe this would suit nicely." The mic held between thumb and forefinger was the size of a teardrop, opaque, and he thought perfect.
"We could fit it invisible within your necklace, Ruth. Against the charms, she'd not likely find it if she should frisk you. Or, or...follow standard protocol." He wouldn't put it past her, however, forcing Ruth to disrobe, and as though they had shared the same conclusion simultaneously, he listened as Harry voiced the exact concern on which he currently meditated.
"I imagine the humiliation of forced divestment would have its appeal. I rather think it quite likely. We need ears, regardless. Go with it."
His face remained, to all, that mask of cold indifference, and it was only his weight shifting unconsciously, foot to foot, and back again which allowed the suspicion to flourish, based on years of interaction, Harry was at cross purposes as relates this incursion and Ruth. He was, for wont of better descriptives, straddling those opposing circumstances defined by duty and affection, his anguish that he could not satisfy the requirements calling to both evidenced in his refusal to come nearer them, and his customary stoicism giving way to repetitive movements best suited to indecision.
He could see her pulse beating rapidly as he attached the mic to her necklace, fluttering in time with the wings of that hummingbird he had imagined, as she flitted about, and he inwardly chastised himself that he did not request she simply remove her necklace to save her further unsolicited intrusion. The rote objectivity which suspended kindness to an afterthought left him meditating his father's wisdom, the viability of maintaining an untainted soul once Pavlovian habits have taken root. All the more deleterious and vile for having learned his patterned responses within an institution demanding of each sacrifices to preserve the whole, regardless the pound of flesh in the trade.
Despite the fact they were not alone, despite the action teetering the line between duty and insubordinate, despite the fact that he couldn't tear his eyes from her thundering pulse he wished he knew how to soothe, he could not stop himself from leaning closer to her, whispering close to her ear, I'm sorry, Ruth, not entirely certain for what actions he was sorry, his own, theirs, Angela's? What was a definite in his estimation was he, apart from the rest, was most likely to give voice to regrets, the only one among them who would willingly dare the risk of unquestionable accountability, and thus the semantic cerebral calisthenics involving the details of sorrow and regret became moot in consideration of her. It was, ironically, the single circumstance where he had ever proven brave, and perhaps that, in itself, washed him clean.
"Test it." It was not a request, but an order issued from the periphery, the tone carrying an edge which brooked little opportunity to question or argue. Glancing briefly towards him, his eyes took in Harry's face, the look telegraphing without veil that state of mind he'd glimpsed in the past, moments before he'd taken a life with his bare hands, the sounds traveling beyond the earwigs and filling the tech suite, the look that announced silently his willingness to sacrifice one in defense of all.
She had a backbone on her, he'd not deny the truth of that. Instructed coldly to test her listening device, she uttered one word, and in that one word, she managed to do what no one before her had thought possible. She broke him.
"Harry."
His sudden inhalation of breath had been audible, the subsequent flinching back from her had been lightening quick, and yet observable with their close confines, and while she had said nothing further, her voice speaking a single name had carried with it a tone of great sadness, of disappointment so palpable he did not wonder Harry's inability look at her in the aftermath.
"You'll need to secure the detonator, Ruth. The bag is incidental, you understand?" Adam, ever the one to soothe her, speaking quietly into the deadening silence which followed Harry's name, and she nodding silently, eyes still focused on the one amongst us who refused to look at her.
She shifted slightly, placing her hand on my arm, gently tugging, a silent request for me to step back, leaning to unlock the bottom drawer of her desk and retrieving what had looked like, in the vague illumination, a considerably aged cell phone, obsolete now certainly, secreting it into the folds of her skirt, and he resisted the urge to caution her of the risks inherent to venturing off piste, the secreted object an ingredient not having been discussed or approved. The almost imperceptible shake of her head halted that urge within him to question, leaving him to draw a deep breath and allow his eyes to take in those surrounding him instead. Those sets belonging to Colin and Zaf bore matching elements of fear, reservation, and concern, elements which he'd little doubt reflected those present in his mirrored reflection, while Harry and Adam's remained locked on one another, both cold and immovable, and he needed little additional evidence to access that Adam had chosen Ruth, the act viewed as one of solidarity by one, and an intolerable betrayal by the other. It was not without some sadness that he reflected, as their eyes battled against each other, as Ruth quietly began moving towards the offending tech suite, that the music which had so often accompanied them in his mind had ceased, the silence which remained deafeningly present, opaque to such a degree he'd thought to lay his fingertips along its breadth.
It occurred that perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps it was Ruth who had been cast out, her frail frame retreating from them now, alighting to an alternate place beyond their eyes' ability to observe, the tether joining her to them found in the secreted charm adorning her fragile neck, and she had never before appeared so small and vulnerable to his eyes than when she turned and disappeared from sight. The obscenity that the final denouement should rest solely on those slender shoulders was curiously amplified within him as his Pavlovian salivation began, and the curtains began to draw closed, the rote distancing inherent to needs must assuming the mantle of his compromised conscience, by necessity.
Quite despite himself, he felt a moment of kinship with Harry. He didn't want to, but as the curtains come down, one finds them self reaching for anything at hand to bear the consequences. Its what they teach you, its what you know, a horrifying certainty to compliment the horrors that surround us, the psychic antibacterial salve our souls bathe in. He saw Harry, then, set apart, waring with himself, with Adam, adrift, and his heart understood him without judgements, saw his pain and his damage as clear as if he'd held them in his hands held open before him on offer.
The full weight of his responsibilities, the accountability of damage both internal and external, experienced himself to a lesser degree, the pound of flesh an amputation he was only required to imagine, and Harry required to experience habitually, the intensity magnified to a strata that would buckle a lesser man, had buckled those before him. He wondered then the additional damage done, the once done can't be undone nature and power of the resolved will, that psychological defect necessary to send lambs to slaughter, the limits of that reservoir of internal strength drawn from to bear the sorting of corpses in the aftermath?
Despite his objective resolve, despite his internal affections crying foul, despite his wont to blame, and accuse, he could not find it in him to fault Harry any measure of respite found in Ruth, inwardly cursing his assumptions that they were not, at their basest measure, genuine and unequivocally deserved, shaming him in his faulty assessment of the man, the hubris of knowing all there was so egregiously obvious he'd thought to physically expel it as toxin. Who was he to judge the motivations of another, calling one foul and subversive even as he stares at his ceiling and curses the lack of bravery to have chosen her, pining rather than acting, choosing to clasp a fantastical dream to his chest rather than the breathing object of his heart? He feels the flush coloring his cheeks, and can not bring himself to fault Harry's bravery, so very different from his own, and yet just as fragile in love as he had been so many years ago, and calls it lucky that he resides in the woodwork, and lucky that he is alive and able to regard Harry after so many years side by side a friend, a rock which they all may rest against, that fixture that ensures they remain well, that will that prevents the crippling of others for having to choose between rubbish choices and worse.
It was then, in the quiet of lock down, preternatural stillness belying the coming storm, as they anticipated the swell of the orchestra tuning to begin, he considered, not for the first time, if it weren't, in some unmeasurable way, too late for him to escape the clutches of the Services, too late to walk away from Harry and call it at an appropriate end?
Yet, as his eyes took in the form of Jo, hollow eyed and immeasurably fatigued as she rejoined them, he could swear he heard the faint strums of melody begin, the instrument they made proving bowed, not broken, strong enough still to blissfully drown out the voice inside his head which whispered, Not yet, not yet.
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