With those words, the world around me tilts unexpectedly and goes out of focus, a burning sensation fills my chest, and white flashes of light dance before my eyes as I struggle for breath, in the grip of a full-blown asthma attack brought on by the sheer shock of Ruth's question. I am vaguely aware of her running from the room, then my inhaler is pressed into my hand; next I wheeze and heave as I simultaneously try to pull air into my lungs, and fight back the waves of nausea which always accompany a severe episode. As the medication begins to work, I feel a hand moving in calming circles, rubbing my back; Ruth is sitting on the edge of the table next to me, looking at me with an odd mixture of mortification, affection, and concern. "I've put the cats outside," she says apologetically, "I'm so sorry, I didn't realise they were sitting just under the table like that…how are you feeling?" I shake my head to indicate I can't yet speak, and she slips off the table, crosses to the sink, and comes back with a glass of water.
I gulp it down, trying to get rid of the chemical taste of the medication, and concentrate on breathing slowly and deeply, as I have been taught, while a dozen different thoughts and feelings fly through my oxygen-deprived brain. Panic, which wrestles with fear, doubt and sheer disbelief - did she really just say that? and then rather more absurdly, the phrases Operation Compromised and Security Breach, followed by one Harry detests: Plausible Deniability…but this is Ruth, and she already knows. I can see it in her kindness, in her solicitude for my wellbeing, and suddenly I feel very close to tears, worn out by the emotional uncertainty of the last few weeks. This is not how I had planned things, not at all…why does she have to be so bloody good at reading people?
Ruth, from her roost on the table-top next to me, is humming quietly under her breath as she waits for me to regain what little is left of my self-possession and composure. My breathing is returning to normal, and although it feels as if every muscle in my body has been beaten with a thick stick, I am relieved, when I check my pulse, to find that it has dropped back to its usual steady beat…almost. Exhausted, I lower my head into my hands, unable to look at her and confirm what I already know…she doesn't love me. How can she, when she is so very evidently in love with Harry damn-his-eyes Pearce, with his charisma, his air of command, his pithy way with words…again I hear his sad voice in the interrogation room, speaking words not meant to be heard, again I see him, shaking with relief as Danny calls in the news from Forrestal's house that Ruth is safe; and I know that all the love I would gladly pour onto the altar of my worship for her is as nothing when compared with one terse sentence from the object of her adoration. I take a long, shuddering breath, trying to ease the heavy feeling of tightness which is twining itself around my torso, and which has nothing to do with cats or asthma, and everything to do with hopelessness and heartbreak.
As I withdraw into myself, I become aware that the comforting circles being rubbed gently on my back have continued throughout the whole horrible event, and that Ruth is still humming…almost as if she has no idea of the despair and distress engulfing me as the result of her innocuous little enquiry. Aggrieved by her uncharacteristic insensitivity, I glance up at her, and she smiles brightly. "Well?" she asks, and I stare at her in utter incomprehension. "Feeling better now?" I nod, unable to muster the energy or the words to speak, and she frowns slightly. "What's wrong, Malcolm? You're very quiet, even for you." I have to get away, I have to leave, before I lose my last shreds of dignity and self-control, I think desperately. As I try to climb to my feet, I feel Ruth's hands on my shoulders, and something in the quality of her touch makes me look her straight in the eye; what I see there makes my knees weak. I sink back onto the chair as Ruth, eyes glowing, leans forward from her perch on the table and says, "I love you, too." I blink, unable to process this completely unforseen, albeit long-wished for, turn of events. Instead, I blurt out the first thing which comes to mind: "What about Harry?" And there it finally is; the hidden worm at the heart of our nascent relationship, out in the open at last. Ruth looks nonplussed as she considers the ramifications of my agonised question, and then replies in a puzzled tone of voice, "What about Harry? Yes, he's our boss, but he can also be an arrogant ass, and I'd rather he didn't know about us, not at first, anyway." One of the minor blessings of becoming romantically involved with a colleague in the Service is that the supremely embarrassing S24 (permission to socialise) form is not required; however, if Ruth thinks that Harry doesn't know when two of his officers have formed a liaison, then she's more naïve than I would ever have suspected…but then, that's Ruth – a study in contradictions. I simply don't know what to think, and with her immediate physical proximity, I'm rapidly losing the ability to function logically at all. I drag my attention back to the matter at hand and make a final effort to assuage my uncertainty about this sudden shift in a woman I have seen looking wistfully at another man on an almost daily basis. She answered that last question in such an off-the-cuff manner, I could almost believe her, if not for the evidence of my own eyes over the last year…
Getting to my feet, I lean against the edge of the table, mirroring but not touching Ruth, and rub my hands over my face. Relationships, I am beginning to remember, are as fraught with hidden dangers and pitfalls as any security operation, except that one doesn't get to sit at a safely remote distance in the surveillance van; one is out in the field, fending for oneself. Sounding much braver than I feel, I ask, "Why now, Ruth? You must have guessed for some time that I have…feelings…for you, so what's changed?" I ask her, amazed at my boldness. Extremis malis, extrema remedia… Kill or cure, I think grimly.
Ruth turns to look at me, and her eyes show her confusion at my question. "Yes, in hindsight, I suppose so, but I wasn't certain until last night…you were so tender, so patient and careful with me, when I was such a complete mess. Only a lover could have done what you did for me, in the way that you did it; I felt that I was seeing you clearly for the first time…and what I saw is that you're an extraordinary man. One whom I love." A slow blush burns its way up to my hairline in response to this; I am unused to hearing such words from anyone, and it is almost too much to take in, after all my yearning and longing after Ruth.
Fighting back the sense that I am teetering on the edge of a precipice, I doggedly return to my earlier question. "But…I always thought…Harry?" Ruth stiffens at his name. "Harry? He's demanding, he virtually expects miracles from me, but he can also be pig-headed, insensitive, and wrong – and it's my job to steer him back on track when he is. Remind me to tell you about the shambles that was my disciplinary hearing, sometime…"I feel the corner of my mouth quirk up when she says that, in spite of everything.
Ruth barely pauses for breath before she plunges on with, "Yes, Harry's a powerful man, and I'd be lying if I didn't say he's an attractive one, in a world-weary, battered way, but he's seventeen years older than me, with centuries more baggage, in every sense. He would be exhausting to be around, I don't think he knows how to switch off…and most of all, he's already got a mistress." I blink in astonishment – this is news indeed – until Ruth says, "Harry's wedded to the Service, and always will be. Who can compete with that?" All true, I think, and yet…"And I do worry about him sometimes, the pressure he's under, the amount he drinks…the same as I worry about everyone I work with or care about. I can't help it, it's just what I do…my work is my life, and my colleagues are like my family." Presenting the last shred of argument against this sudden sea-change in our relationship, I say plaintively, "But I thought you just wanted to be friends, after...the Requiem?" Ruth sighs, looking at the floor between her feet, before she responds. "I didn't know then what I wanted, Malcolm. I was very unfair to you. That night...it was shattering for me. I hadn't been with anyone for a long time, and while I liked you, very much, I never dreamt that we would be so… compatible. It frightened me, and so I ran. I'm so sorry, for everything… will you forgive me?" Of course, I do, because this is Ruth, and she has said that she loves me, and what other choice do I have? I say not unto thee, until seven times: but, until seventy times seven, I seem to hear my father's voice intone.
Eventually, once all the arguments have been made and answered, and there is no more to be said, Ruth hops off the table and heads over to the Aga, declaring that the bread is ready for the oven. With a thick cloth, she carefully opens one of the little cast iron doors and slides the risen loaf inside, then sets the timer for 35 minutes. Walking back to the table, her phone rings, and when she answers it, I know it is work from the business-like tone she adopts during the short call. By the time she is standing in front of me, her earlier demeanour of barely suppressed delight has returned.
"That was Adam, he said I should take the day off to recover…" I peer at the clock on the wall and sigh – time for me to get going. Fortunately, I always keep a change of clothes and a shaving kit in the car, the habit of more all-nighters on the Grid than I care to count. I become aware that Ruth is smiling at me again, her eyes as luminous as one of her cats', and she steps closer, then says, "Call in sick, and stay here with me…please?" I look aghast at her – I have never done any such thing in my life – and then she reaches up on tiptoe, and whispers a few lines of Latin poetry in my ear…and with that, I send a text to Harry telling him I won't be in, and take Ruth upstairs to bed, where we suit actions to words, and fulfill Catullus' ancient promise to his lover.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus inuidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
...Oh, Ruth!
The bread burns...
A/N: Translation of the poem which changed Malcolm's mind about going to work:
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
Then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then yet thousand, then a hundred.
Then, when we have made up many thousands,
we will confuse our counting, that we may not know the
nor any malicious person blight them with evil eye,
when he knows that our kisses are so many.
From Catullus V
The verse Malcolm remembers his father quoting is from the King James version of Matthew 18:21-22.