What happens next is that Harry, upon viewing this missive from the enemy, brusquely demands that Ruth get him the Security and Intelligence Coordinator (a misnomer, if ever there was one), as if she were a mere secretary and not the most brilliant person in the room. Next, he storms out to meet with the man, wearing what I think of privately as his bulldog expression, lower jaw thrust out truculently, head carried well forward, a human battering ram.
Harry's departure seems to leave Ruth nominally in charge; from behind my monitor I see her sit a little taller as she listens avidly to Adam's feed through her headset, a look of pure concentration on her face as she follows the woman's accented English as Adam tries to keep her talking, desperately playing for time now. And then it happens: relayed via Ruth's comms, we hear that one of the hostages is to be executed in retaliation for the death of one of the terrorists during a failed escape attempt, and that he must choose which one it is to be. Oh, no, dear God… I daren't take my eyes from my screen, still working on finding anything, anything at all about the three operatives, but I hear Ruth's sudden intake of breath; she keeps her head admirably as she instructs Sam to fetch Harry, now.
Harry barrels back into the tech suite in as near an attempt at a run as I have seen him make in years, bad knee and all, with Sam, breathing hard, just in front of him. The junior officer, I fear, is beginning to go to pieces under the pressure, her voice cracking as she begs Harry to do something, anything, to save them. I eye Sam warily from behind my monitor, and take mental stock of the medical kit under my desk – as senior technical officer, I am also the Grid's first aid officer, and I have authorisation to not only treat wounds and injuries, but to issue medication if deemed appropriate. A somewhat different sort of workplace means Five has somewhat different rules to the rest of the UK, where a first aider cannot hand out so much as an aspirin without fear of recriminations. Here, I could sedate a colleague with an injection of sodium pentothal or dose them to the eyeballs with temazepam, and not even have opened the medical kit…
And then we are in the room with Fiona and Danny, albeit ever so faintly, via the handset held to Adam's wired ear, as Fiona sobs, telling Adam she loves him, and not to listen to this psychopath… my heart, all our hearts, are in our mouths as we listen, helpless to do anything more. Then, from slightly further away, comes Danny's voice, steady and strong and sure, speaking fine, brave words that fill me with horrified admiration as I realise what he is doing. Danny, who loves Zoe hopelessly, Danny, who is even better at surveillance than me, Danny, Ruth's friend from her first day on the Grid, is going to sacrifice himself for Fiona, perhaps for us all.
Weeping, Fiona begs him not to, and Danny says something incongruous about looking at cake and presents, before continuing to bait his captor, drawing his attention away from Fiona. This is the most selfless act I will ever witness, I think wildly…a single shot rings out and then, as if in confirmation, Fiona speaks his name brokenly, with such grief that I know it must be true. Danny is dead. In the second of stunned silence which follows, a verse from the Gospel according to John comes to mind, and I whisper it to myself, hearing my father's voice reading it from the pulpit once more on Remembrance Days long past. Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends…and then, all hell breaks loose. Adam's phone seems to drop onto the floor; Ruth recoils from the sound of the shot, coming clearly through her headset; Harry's hand goes to his eyes, sheltering them from the rest of us who would read there the shocking truth of the situation; Zaf seems to turn pale; Colin blinks, looking down at his hands; and Sam stands up as if to run from the room, before crumpling to the floor like a stricken deer, emitting a series of piercing shrieks as she falls.
My heart aches with pity for her, but now is not the time for hysterics. I hastily get to my feet, then trot back to my desk, diving under it for the med kit and digging out the vial of Valium, before returning to the tech suite post-haste. From previous experience with Mother, I know that people who are hysterical are not amenable to swallowing pills, so I have swiftly crushed three tablets and mixed them into a small bottle of apple juice which I keep in the tea room fridge (clearly labelled, Urine Specimen, to prevent unauthorised consumption) for just such a time as this. Sam is still on the floor, still screaming like a banshee, as I drop to my knees beside her. Harry is flinching from the sheer volume of her naked grief, and as I get an arm around her and assist her to sit up, he abruptly leaves the room. Watching him walk away, I think sadly, Master spy and leader of men you might be, but when it comes to mercy and compassion, I've got the edge…I know who I'd rather be, right now, and it's not Harry bloody Pearce. I coax Sam, still sobbing and hiccupping, to drink a mouthful, then another, and by the third swallow she has relaxed against my shoulder, her breathing becoming slow and regular as the drug takes effect.
When Sam's eyes flutter shut, I delicately settle her back on the floor in the recovery position, and taking off my jacket, I drape it over her for warmth while I phone for an ambulance. It all takes less than quarter of an hour, and yet by the time the ambulance has trundled off with Sam in the back, and one of the admin officers sitting next to her in a motherly fashion (yes, I know I should have gone with her, but what's the point of being a senior technical officer if not to delegate from time to time, and I could no more leave Ruth now than I could fly through the air), a whole world of events has occurred…
Adam has gone dark, pulling his earpiece out, before going off to do God only knows what with the Iraqi woman; I hear Ruth first talking to him in a remarkably calm tone, trying to find out what happened, clinging to the hope that it was a mock execution, then calling his name desperately, before giving up, the tell-tale crackle of dead air coming through her headset confirming the futility of continuing…
The paramedics arrive in their green uniforms and load a sleepy Sam onto a gurney, wheeling her out through the pods and down to the waiting vehicle; I accompany them as far as the front door of Thames House, before handing her over to the admin officer, a Miss…Smith…and returning to the Grid. Harry, hearing no more keening from Sam, comes back into the tech suite where Zaf and Ruth are still sitting, and I enter just in time to not quite catch the end of his sotto voce conversation with Ruth, full of urgency and urging; her eyes as she watches him leave break my heart. Not, for once, because she is again watching him, but because they are so unrelentingly sad. Underneath her sorrow, there is a lost look, which flickers briefly, before another, steelier expression supplants everything which has gone before, as her fighting spirit asserts itself, goaded by whatever Harry has just told her, and she turns back to her screen like an automaton.
Observing this, feeling sick at the inhumanity and necessity of his demands, I sincerely hope that Harry recognises the enormous sacrifice which Ruth has just made for him. Against every normal human feeling and instinct, against nature itself, she is heeding his call and bravely climbing back up to stand with him on the rampart, even though her friend now lies dead at the foot of the castle wall. There is nothing I can do here which will help, much to my frustration. I sense that focusing fiercely on her work is the only thing keeping Ruth together at the moment, and I quietly retreat back to my desk, where I spend a moment in silent prayer, for Ruth, for Danny, for Sam, and for us all. I make a mental note to ask her what Harry said, at a better time; to me, it looked very much as if he was coercing and coaxing her by turns, and I'm not sure which one is worse.
As it turns out, Zaf is not just a pretty face; he has brains too, and he is the one who first suggests that the whole hostage business is a ruse. An ugly, deadly ruse, in order to draw attention away from the real target: a formal dinner with the PM and assorted Middle Eastern dignitaries, at the Mansion House. Once the connection is made, Harry, only slightly pleased that at last we are ahead of the game, despatches SO-19 to the Mansion House. Shortly after, we hear from Adam, voice shaking slightly as he tells us what is happening, something about an implanted bomb, and where Fiona is. Harry and Zaf bolt for the pods, calling for helicopters, cars, ambulances, and backup, with Ruth hard on their heels, in her coat. Harry whirls round, stopping her from going through the pods, talking softly to her, but she pushes away his hand on her arm before squaring up to him, eyes blazing. "I. Want. To. See. Danny," she grits out between clenched teeth, and Harry actually takes a step back in the face of her ferocious determination.
"Ruth, if there's…if he's…" Harry falters, and she pounces, voice low but carrying with the strength of her emotion. "If he's dead, do you mean? If there's a lot of blood? I'm not a child to be protected from the realities of the life we lead, Harry. If Danny is dead, I need to see it for myself, I need to be there for him. I owe him that much… god, don't you get it? If he's dead, it's because I couldn't find that fucking cell in time, no matter how much I searched…it's my fault, and I'll take the blame." Her eyes are like sapphires, bright and hard and impenetrable, as she turns from him and marches through the pods. Harry stares after her like a man who has just seen his faithful lapdog turn into a ravening she-wolf, before shaking his head slowly, and following her out to the waiting car. Zaf, who has stood by, mute, during this exchange, raises both eyebrows and whistles soundlessly, before joining them. No-one has ever seen Ruth openly defy Harry before, much less swear; the shock that ripples around the Grid in the wake of this display has as much to do with the one, as the other.
I watch it all from the relative safety of my little alcove, thinking that for once I do not envy Harry at all; I have never seen Ruth so angry, not even on our first night together when she slapped me for questioning her motives. This reminds me of my plans for tonight, and I go back up to the roof to cancel our dinner reservation, sure that going out to enjoy herself will be the last thing on Ruth's mind for quite some time. It certainly is the last thing on mine; instead, I begin to worry about the intensity of Ruth's reaction on the Grid as she opposed Harry. In particular, her statement about being to blame concerns me. My mind goes back uneasily, again and again, to the conversation we had some months ago about her father's death, and a nebulous sense of foreboding starts to take hold. I must ensure that she understands this is not her fault, nor indeed anyone's except the perpetrator of Danny's murder. I vow to keep a closer eye on her than usual, make myself even more available to her, over the coming weeks – at some point, she will need to talk, to seek comfort, and I fervently hope that it is me to whom she will turn. Me, who loves her so well, and has waited so patiently, for so long. I turn back to my array, and try to concentrate on my work. What am I doing here again? Oh yes, checking comms…
It is SOP for all staff entering the field to wear comms; in their haste to depart, I was unable to give Zaf or Ruth any, not that I suppose she would have been receptive to the idea, but I know that Harry carries his Bluetooth earpiece with him wherever he goes. Sitting back down at my desk, I quickly locate their car by its inbuilt tracker, and watch as it makes its way out to Virginia Water; if when they arrive, Harry follows the habit of a lifetime, he won't get out of the car without comms in place. It's a slim hope, but it's all I have. If we were officially together, it would have been me going with Ruth to find Danny; but in this tenuous, shadowy world, nothing is ever so simple.
My luck holds, and my heart pounds when I hear the familiar noise of electronic feedback an hour later, as Harry's earpiece is switched on; I can hear the beating of helicopter rotors, cars driving up at speed, the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the sounds of people focused on their specific tasks – ambulance officers, police, Special Branch…but from Harry and Ruth, not a word. Maybe she's still cross with him, I speculate, as I hear Harry's firm footsteps, followed by a loud rustling noise, and the sound of a heavy-duty zipper being pulled open. I frown, trying to picture in my mind's eye what they are seeing, and then Ruth speaks two words which tell me everything. "Oh, no!" she exclaims, voice soft and shocked; I can hear the tears in the tightness of her throat, and my own eyes prickle in sympathy and in sorrow at the loss of one of the finest young men I have ever known.
Harry's voice says, in a more than usually conciliatory and gentle tone, "I have to leave you for a moment, Ruth." Silence, then, "I'm staying here with Danny", she replies, on the verge of crying; then Harry's footsteps again, accompanied by a heavy sigh, before the earpiece is switched off with a curse muttered under his breath, something about never having a single moment of privacy in this job… Feeing very, very tired, I shut down my system for the night, and walk out into the fine early July evening, heart heavy as lead in my chest. I don't want to go home feeling like this, and I'm not sure where Ruth will be, especially if she insists on staying with Danny's body, as seems likely, so I do something I haven't felt the need for in months…since Ruth and I began, in fact. I walk down the Thames, around to the Houses of Parliament, deserted for summer recess, with only a few tourists about now to admire its Gothic architecture in the golden twilight, and slip into the beautiful old church of St Margaret's near the hulking grey edifice of Westminster Abbey.
As the door closes behind me, I am surprised to see the choir stalls are occupied, and there are perhaps two dozen people sitting in the nave; a glance at my watch confirms that I must have arrived just in time for the end of Evensong. Unwilling to interrupt, I take a side pew at the back, in the shadows, and try to compose myself amidst the familiar surroundings of the church. The congregation stands as the vicar speaks some words, which I know must be the Benediction, and then the choir rises for the closing hymn. Tears begin to trickle down my cheeks as they sing the Paternoster, the ancient words bringing no comfort tonight as the reality of Danny's brutal death overwhelms me, and like Job, I rail against the Almighty Himself.
Our Father, which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name;
That's all very well, but…
thy kingdom come;
thy will be done,
in earth as it is in heaven.
My God, was this truly your will for Danny?
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive them that trespass against us.
How do we even begin to forgive such men, who execute their captives on a whim?
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
You didn't do a very good job of that, either, if the thoughts I have daily about Ruth are any indication; and as for evil, this world is mainly made up of it, from what I can see.
For thine is the kingdom,
the power, and the glory,
For ever and ever.
What's the use of all that eternal power and glory, if You cannot save even one good man from an undeserved death?
Amen.
You're not seriously expecting me to agree with all that, are You? I rant silently, head in my hands, as the congregation files out past me. I am angry, and sad, and sick at heart, and for once I cannot find comfort in my faith. Even when the last parishioner has left, and I am alone in the deep silence which fills old churches, I cannot feel that sense of inexplicable peace which usually fills me if I sit there long enough. The shadows around me lengthen, and I know that the church must soon be locked for the night, and yet I stay, hoping against hope to regain some semblance of equanimity before I must go back out into the world again.
The first thing that tells me I am not alone is a light tap on my shoulder. My startled upwards glance is met by a pair of shrewd, yet kind, brown eyes, set in a face marked by a hard life. It must be the churchwarden, I think, come to lock up, and embarrassed to have put the old gentleman to trouble, I make as if to stand up, but he shakes his head and smiles reassuringly at me. Confused, I subside back into the pew, and to my astonishment, the older man takes a seat beside me. We sit there for a time, saying nothing, just looking into the gloaming, and I am surprised to find that a sense of calm is slowly seeping back into me as we share a comfortable silence. Eventually, I close my eyes, now feeling better able to properly address God, and when I open them, my companion is still there; when he sees me look at him, he nods, then says, "See, you've really got to let it soak in, you know? It's no good people coming in for two minutes, then leaving without finding what they didn't even know they was looking for."
I blink in amazement at this speech, as he goes on, "And sometimes, two's better than one, when you're looking for something. I knew when I saw you sitting there that you'd lost something today…or someone." I look at him, really seeing him for the first time, and I notice that he is dressed in clothes the likes of which I haven't seen since I was a child – an old-fashioned, full cut suit with polished brown brogues, and a watch-chain looped through his waistcoat. In his left hand, he holds a large iron key-ring; so he is the churchwarden, I think, and frown at the idea of such an elderly man – he must be in his eighties – wandering about a deserted church at night alone, in a city like London. There is something about him, though, a robust quality which belies his age and reminds me irresistibly of someone else…my paternal grandfather, perhaps, who had needed to be strong in order to survive life as an impoverished baronet, and married to Grandmamma to boot.
I force my attention back to the present, and as he seems to be waiting for an answer, I say, "Someone. We lost someone today…a good man, killed senselessly while doing his job." My bitter words drop into the silence like stones into a millpond, and after a while the old man nods. "Ah, I thought so. You've the look of someone who's just lost a comrade in arms…oh, yes" – this at my stunned glance – "I've seen that look enough in me day, I can tell you. Worn it too, more times than I care to remember. It was common enough, during the War. Boys I'd grown up alongside of, blown to bits. Women who had looked after me as a child, killed in their own homes during the Blitz. Men what I ate breakfast with in the morning, and buried the same night. It was a bad time, all right, but we came through it, in the end. Britain came through, when the world thought we was done for." He sits back, then, and with his right hand he gestures to the nearly dark interior of the church. "She came through, too, you know – survived the Blitz, when half of London was burnin', even if we did have to stand on top of Westminster Palace with ack-ack guns on the go all night, and bucket brigades ready to put out the spot fires."
It takes me a moment to realise he is referring to the building. I look around, seeming to see not only the intact stonework, but the courage and determination of the Great Generation which fought and won the most terrible war in history. It occurs to me that in my own way, I am now part of that proud lineage; I too stand on the roof, manning the defences and putting out spot fires. I begin to remember that this is true of us all in the Service; any one of us could be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice for our country, and today, Danny had chosen not only to die for his country, but to give his life willingly, that Fiona might live, that their son, Wes, might still have a mother and Adam, a beloved wife. It is still terrible, and tragic, and I have not even begun to understand, but somewhere deep inside of me, there is a small, still centre once more, a place from which I can begin to help others to come to terms with Danny's loss.
I turn back to my companion and say, "He died a hero," and the other man nods. "Then he's in good company. They all died heroes, every one of them what gave their lives. Will you be alright now, d'you think?" I give him a half-smile, and reply, "Me? Oh, yes. Thank you so much for…for bearing witness with me. I'd better be getting home now, I've delayed you from your duties for far too long." The old gentleman gets up slowly so I can exit the pew, and we shake hands as I pass. His grip is cool and dry, and surprisingly strong. It occurs to me as I reach the door that I never even introduced myself, nor asked his name; intending to remedy this appalling breach of good manners on my part, I look back into the darkened church, but I can see no sign of him anywhere. I call out, Hello, a couple of times, but there is no answer, and with the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise, despite all my rational, logical thoughts and explanations for his sudden and complete disappearance, I take my leave, feeling very glad to get out into the fresh evening air.
As I walk out of the churchyard and back towards the Thames, I am sure I hear the solid clunk of an ancient iron key turning in its lock; but I don't look around. Some things, I decide, should remain a mystery, and as I gain the riverside path and walk back towards Thames House, I think of the Prince of Denmark's immortal observation to his friend on the subject…there are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy, then smile at the absurdity of my febrile imagination. Ruth will be interested to hear of my curious encounter…at that thought, I stop in my tracks, just before the curving bulk of Thames House, which, iceberg-like, is far larger beneath the surface, and take out my phone to call her. Her desk number goes through to the night relief officer, and I hang up hastily when I hear his voice. Next I try her home landline, which rings out. Finally, I call her mobile phone – unlike most of us, she has only the one issued to her by Five.
It goes straight to the voicemail which Danny helped her set up, and my heart clenches at the sound of his voice in the background, instructing her about which button to push after she finished recording her greeting. I leave a brief message, that of a concerned colleague checking in on a workmate after a difficult day, and hang up, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling beginning to churn in my gut.
I wonder where she could be at this time of night, but once again I am determined not to play the part of the jealous lover by tearing straight round to her house; Ruth is still very much her own woman, and a particularly private one, at that. Just as I pull into my own driveway, she calls me, voice utterly drained, to tell me that she has only just arrived home from being with Harry while he informed Danny's family of his death, and that she is going straight to bed to sleep the clock round, too exhausted to even think straight any more. "But we'll talk, soon…I have so much I need to tell you," she promises me, and rings off, leaving me clinging to the hope that she needs me, and trying not to think of all the time she has just spent, presumably alone, with Harry, as they dealt with the immediate aftermath of Danny's death.
I feel a sudden stab of anger towards Harry, knowing that he will have drawn heavily on her interpersonal skills and calmness under pressure to get him through the worst part of his job, one I know he dreads; it seems that has begun to expect the impossible from her, and Ruth, eager to stay on at Five, has delivered every time – but at what cost? If only I was free to declare that we're together, I would be able to protect her from some of this, intervene to prevent Harry from taking advantage, just as Adam would stand up for Fiona if he felt the need. Despite my (largely irrational, I suspect) fear of Harry finding out about us, I am beginning to wish that Ruth would allow our relationship to become public knowledge, but until she is willing, I have no choice other than to accede to her request for secrecy, or risk losing her altogether.
Resting my head against the soft leather upholstery of the Rover, I close my eyes in sheer exhaustion…I am too tired to think any more, almost too tired to get out of the car. Today has been one of the worst in my life, and all I want to do is sleep. With a groan, I drag myself into the house, trying with every step not to think of Ruth, all alone, full of grief and misplaced guilt over the death of her friend. I fail, miserably, and finally fall into a restless sleep, interspersed with broken and disturbing dreams. Oh, Ruth…
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
A/N: The poem is On Another's Sorrow by William Blake. It just seemed so very Malcolm...