It is three days before I have an opportunity to speak with Ruth in private again; at Harry's request, she is not only doing her usual work, but serving as the family liaison officer, working with Danny's family as they struggle to come to terms with the shock of his loss, helping them negotiate the complex bureaucratic maze of a death in the Service. I don't want to know what story Harry spun Danny's mother to explain it all away. The poor woman thinks that Danny worked in the Department of the Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs, for heaven's sake; how will she ever be reconciled with the fact that her only son got up one morning like any other, went to work in a nice, safe Civil Service job, and died? I'm sure Harry will have been sincere in his condolences, that he will have looked Mrs. Hunter in the eye as he told her a plausible lie to mask the truth, and that Ruth will have backed him to the hilt, adding veracity to his tale.
My anger with Harry at involving Ruth to this degree simmers, unspoken, as I observe her trying to be all things to all people over the next few days, at tremendous cost to herself. Her complexion takes on a sallowness I have never seen, her hair, normally shiny and clean, looks dull, scraped back into a plastic clip I have only ever known her use first thing in the morning, before she is showered and dressed for the day; and her eyes, circled with dark, bruised-looking skin, are the pale grey of a winter sky. She does her job as efficiently as ever, and then she leaves the Grid to meet with Danny's mother, his cousins, his uncles and aunts, even his grandmother, answering their questions, helping with paperwork, assisting with funeral arrangements, but it is as if she is not quite here, present with the rest of us; she seems somehow remote, as if she is trapped behind a thick pane of glass which separates her from the world, and it frightens me.
Harry notices it too, if his more frequent visits to Ruth's desk, his concerned glances at her from behind the blinds in his office, his clumsy efforts to engage her in conversation are anything to go by. Ruth seems to accept his unaccustomed solicitude passively, but I can't help but wonder what passed between them in the immediate aftermath of Danny's death. Sometimes I think that he looks at her differently…with more respect, as if her fierce insistence on going with him to find Danny and Fiona has reminded him of the warrior within her unassuming exterior. Or as if he sees her in a whole new light…tragedy often has a way of forging unexpected alliances, on the one hand, and of destroying relationships, on the other, but whatever is passing between them, I have once more begun to feel uncertain of my ground, where Ruth is concerned. I tell myself that this is a difficult time, that none of us are feeling like our usual selves; and besides, there is a depth, an intensity, to her reaction to Danny's death which seems to come from a very dark place indeed, and is far beyond the normal sense of sadness and loss which accompanies the death of a friend, or colleague, in our line of work.
I just feel so helpless, unable to speak with Ruth freely at work, missing her fiercely, and watching worriedly from the other side of the glass, as time and again she beats back her grief, denying herself in order to meet someone else's needs. I know that I must wait for her to come to me; I do not want to make any more demands, or place any more expectations on her. So I do what I can: I take on as much of her routine work as she will allow, and give her the space she so obviously craves, even though every instinct is telling me to hold her close, safe in my arms, and never let her go.
Self denial, self discipline… these words haunt me now as never before, witnessing Ruth's efforts to meet Harry's standards for both. But a vice can be made of a virtue, too, and if Ruth does not allow herself to grieve, and soon, I fear the consequences for her. I can love and support her as much as I like, but I know that grief makes its own way through people's lives, like water finding its level, and the one thing we must never do is to dam it up and deny it, lest it drown us.
On the third day after Danny's death, our paths cross in the tea room; I am making Colin and I a final cup for the day, when she comes in silently behind me, and pours what looks to be a full mug of tea down the sink with a little moue of distaste, before rinsing out a swirl of half-dissolved sugar. I raise an eyebrow in surprise: Ruth does not take sugar in her tea. She sees my face, and shrugs. "Harry. He brought it to me ages ago, but he must either think I'm still in shock, or that I actually like builder's tea." She speaks without humour, almost without inflection, and in her voice I can hear how exhausted she is. We are alone in the room, I am facing the only entrance, and so I decide to risk it.
"I miss you, so very much," I say in a voice just above a whisper – contrary to popular belief, whispers are not quiet, there is a carrying quality to their sibilance, and nothing would be guaranteed to catch our colleagues' attention faster than the sight of us standing, heads together, whispering. Ruth is leaning back against the kitchen bench, just out of arm's reach, looking straight ahead. She nods once, and then says in an equally muted tone, "Me, too." And that is all we have time for, as Zaf comes breezing in to rummage for something in the fridge, and Ruth walks away, eyes downcast. I turn back to finish making tea and realise that she has left her mug; so I make one for her too, the way she likes it, not too strong, with a dash of milk, and no sugar. It's a tiny gesture, I know, but it's all I can do for now, and perhaps, as I see Ruth smile for the first time in days, it is enough: a perfect cup of tea. Ruth, see how well I know you; I even know how you take your tea…
The next day, Ruth informs me that Danny's family have agreed to a funeral date, and I offer to call Adam, who is on personal leave, taking care of a deeply traumatised Fiona, to let him know of the arrangements. Adam is grateful, but terse, wanting to get back to his wife; hesitantly, I enquire after her, and his short silence tells me everything, before he speaks in his usual light tone. "Yeah, what can I say, Malcolm, it's been a big shock for her, but she's tough, and she's got me to wait on her hand and foot, and Wes is home for a few days from school…he's the best thing for her, right now. Thanks for letting me know, we'll try to be there on Friday." He hangs up, and I find myself imagining what how it would be if I could speak of Ruth as effortlessly as he has just referred to Fiona. Turning in my chair, I glance across to Ruth's desk and frown involuntarily as I see Harry, standing with his back to me, leaning towards her to emphasise his point. I can just see Ruth's face, haggard with strain and pale with exhaustion; but her eyes are alive with interest as Harry talks. As soon as he walks away, back to his office, she slumps as if her bones have suddenly dissolved.
I would love nothing more than to be able to take her away from all this, but I am keenly aware that Ruth has been deliberately keeping me at arm's length all week; what I am less sure about is why. Colin has already left for the day, muttering something about having to get his good suit from the dry cleaners, and as is so often the case, Harry, Ruth, and I are the only ones still on the Grid. I turn back to my monitor and swiftly tap out a message to Ruth.
Are you all right?
Yes, fine, she responds a minute later, just going over the final arrangements for Friday.
You look done in. How about a lift home? I'm leaving shortly...
No thanks, I'll take the bus.
Are you sure? It's no trouble.
I'm OK, please stop fussing.
Sorry, it's just that I'm worried about you.
Why?
I blink at her stark, one-word interrogation, trying to think how best to phrase my reply, when I sense that someone is behind me. Hastily, I minimise all windows, then turn around. Harry.
"Yes? Was there something you wanted, Harry?" I force myself to speak normally, but my voice is higher than usual as the old, familiar tightness begins to squeeze my chest inwards. Harry gives me an opaque look, then hitches a shoulder in the direction of the pods, and turns on his heel. Getting up, I follow him, mind racing as I try to work out what's going on. We pass through the pods, and Harry turns to the left, towards the lift wells. He enters an empty lift car and waits for me to join him, before pressing the button for the roof level. We ride up in silence together, not the comfortable silence of old friends, but one filled with tension. Harry exits the lift first, and opens the door to the short flight of stairs leading out onto the rooftop, gesturing for me to go up first.
Once I am standing in the mellow evening light, I begin to breathe slightly more easily; over the years, Harry and I have often come up to the roof to stretch our legs and snatch some fresh air after a long night on the Grid, or to discuss an operational aspect which is too sensitive for others' ears. Harry comes to stand next to me as I take in what must be one of the best views in London, overlooking the Thames, with the serene perfection of St Pauls in the distance in one direction, and the futuristic structure of the London Eye in the other. Harry is not a man of many words, so I am not surprised that he takes his time before speaking, marshalling his thoughts. Eventually, he says, still looking out at the Thames, "I'm worried, Malcolm." I remain silent, waiting for Harry to elaborate on this statement. He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, before adding, "About Ruth."
I turn to look at him, noting the colour mounting in his cheeks, the way his fingers are clenching around the guard railing, and my heart feels heavy as I reply, "She's had a dreadful week, and she and Danny were very close." Harry sighs his agreement, before saying sadly, "I know. Poor lad. If only Guy Facer wasn't such a pompous, self-righteous, self-serving worm, Danny might still be alive today." I don't quite know what to say to this, so I settle for a non-committal "Mmmm…" It seems to be enough, as he continues, "She was…very upset, when she saw him, afterwards…I really didn't want her to come, you know, but she insisted." I nod my head, again seeing Ruth's blazing anger on the Grid as Harry tried to prevent her from going to Danny. "She was…extraordinary, the way she spoke to his family, not three hours later…I don't know how she did it." She didn't have a choice, I think angrily, but do not say, reminding myself to remain dispassionate and calm, Harry's trusted friend and confidante. "But what I'm seeing now worries me. Malcolm, it's as if she's not quite…here, somehow." Harry is an intelligent man, but he can be remarkably obtuse, especially if it doesn't suit him to acknowledge the truth. Before I can speak, he turns away, headed back towards the stairs. "She won't even go home, and she refuses to let me call a driver, even though she's almost asleep at her desk…"Harry almost sounds as if he is talking to himself, as I catch him up in a couple of strides. "Do something for me, would you, and see if you can make her see sense? She seems to listen to you." I don't miss the ironic emphasis he places on "to you", as I trot down the stairs after him, vastly relieved that our interview seems to be at an end. Back in the lift, Harry coughs, before saying, "Actually, there is another matter on which it seems I have been remiss…how is Sam?"
In the mirrored surface of the lift walls, I watch my face take on an even more sombre expression than usual, as I think back to my last sight of Sam, two days ago, in the secure ward at St Thomas', lying still and pale in a green hospital gown, an IV line in her arm. "Ah, well, she's been sectioned, and I've arranged for her transfer to Tring. It's going to take time, but it doesn't look good…she was very fond of Danny." Harry looks down at his shoes, and I realise that he is ashamed for not having been to see Sam himself – but with Adam away, and the aftermath of Danny's death to contend with, Harry simply hasn't had time, and so I had gone myself, concerned for the junior officer. As we reach the level of the Grid, he mutters, "Thank you," and then he is gone, trudging away down the hall, shoulders hunched, hands thrust deeply in his pockets.
I watch him go, before turning and making my way back through the pods and onto the Grid. I understand that, for whatever reason, Harry is giving me an opportunity to speak to Ruth alone, and I am as grateful for this unusual display of tact as I am conflicted about the way in which he has treated her this week, relying ever more heavily on her to share the burden of leadership with him. Adam being away hasn't helped matters; usually it would fall to him to manage the interpersonal aspects of Section D, and had he been here, I'm certain that he would never have allowed Harry to foist the family liaison officer's duties onto Ruth. Adam would have understood that Ruth needed time to process her own reactions to the shock of Danny's death, and taken these unpleasant additional tasks on himself, in the way that he has of carrying twice as much responsibility as anyone else, with half as much fuss. To my mind, Tom will always be the ultimate team leader, but Adam comes a very close second. In some ways, perhaps, he is the more humane of the two; there is a hidden tenderness at his core, the wellspring of his deep love for Fiona and his son.
These thoughts carry me from the pods to Ruth's desk, where she is on the telephone to Danny's mother, by the sound of it. I walk back to my own workstation and close down my array, then hear a tiny click as Ruth takes off her headset and lets it fall onto her keyboard, rubbing her eyes as if they prickle and sting with unshed tears: I know how she feels. She stares at her monitor, and I see her face crumple; I'm at her side in a second. "Ruth, please. You've done enough for now – won't you let me take you home?" She buries her face in her hands for a moment, struggling for composure, and when she looks up at me I am shocked by the bitterness of her expression. "But that's just it, don't you see?" Her voice is low and filled with self-loathing, and the despairing sound of it wrings my heart. "I didn't do enough. I couldn't find them in time, and now Danny's dead."
I shake my head, longing to reach out and hold her, but knowing that our every move is being captured on a dozen different internal security cameras. "We can't talk here, not properly. Eye in the sky, you know…please, please let me give you a lift home," I almost beg, and when she begins to shake her head, I add, "Harry's orders," in what I hope is a tone that brooks no argument. An unreadable look flits across her countenance, before she rolls her eyes in a final, silent protest, and shuts her system down for the night. Relieved that she seems to be cooperating, I hastily collect my coat as she retrieves her outsized bag from her desk drawer, and then slowly walks towards the pods. As we walk through together, I try to guess what's going on in her head – a daunting task with any woman, but even more so when the woman in question possesses the most scintillating intellect I have ever met, and whom I love beyond the power of mere words to say.
I knew she was taking it hard, but now that I understand Ruth is actually holding herself responsible for Danny's murder, I am deeply disturbed. Thinking back to what she had told Harry as she insisted on going with him to find her friend, a chill runs up my spine as I again hear her say, 'It's my fault, and I'll take the blame…' At the time, I had thought it was shock talking, but now, the pieces of the puzzle start to tumble into place, and I draw in my breath sharply as I reach some upsetting conclusions. Walking next to me, just out of reach as we make our way down to the car-park, Ruth glances up at the sound, and I force myself to smile back at her reassuringly. I will not say anything, I promise myself, not until we are well away from this wretched place. As we reach my old Rover, parked in its usual spot near the front of the top level parking deck – the earlier one arrives, after all, the closer to the lifts one can park – I open the passenger side door for her, and wait until she is installed, both feet on the floor, bag clutched on her lap, gazing straight ahead, before I walk round to the driver's side and slide in.
The drive home is a silent one, both of us fathoms deep in our own thoughts, and as I turn into her street, I can see out of the corner of my eye that Ruth has fallen asleep, head leaning against the B-pillar. I pull up, but leave the engine idling so as not to wake her by the absence of its comforting hum, and close my own eyes for a moment as I order my thoughts:
The Havensworth red flash, which turned into a wild goose chase;
Harry's growing frustration over the following fortnight, as the suspected terrorists continued to elude us;
Ruth's increasing dedication to finding them, driven by feelings of failure;
Danny, that last morning on the Grid, happy for once as he spoke with Fiona;
The preternatural silence which followed the sharp crack of that fatal gunshot;
Ruth, demanding to go with Harry, already blaming herself;
Harry's silence at her words of self-accusation; and finally,
The brokenness in her voice as she was confronted with the reality of Danny's death…
Dear God, she really does believe that she is somehow responsible...in that almost childlike way she has of taking everything so seriously, Ruth has convinced herself that if only she had tried harder, worked longer, seen the unseeable, Danny would still be alive. The guilt she is carrying is a soul-crushing burden, and like a medieval penitent, she is dragging it with her wherever she goes.
Harry should have seen this coming, I think furiously, he should have rebutted her mea culpa as soon as she first spoke the words, should have done something to reassure her…and then my eyes fly open, outraged, as another realisation hits: he did see it coming, and he is doing something about it; that's why he left us alone on the Grid. Harry, unable or incapable of offering her the reassurance and comfort she so desperately needs, has sent me instead. How much does he know, or think he knows, about us? comes to me in a blind panic, before something else occurs: I am also the Grid's first aid officer, and like a battlefield medic, I am being ordered into the fray to retrieve and patch up the fallen. I grit my teeth, chagrined at the way Harry has played me as he so often plays others, a master angler playing a salmon.
"I can practically hear the wheels in your head turning, you know." Ruth's voice, small and tired, brings me back to the present, and I turn towards her, schooling my feelings until I am able to smile. "Hello, my darling," I offer, and she gives me a wan smile in return. "What were you thinking about?" she asks, but I shake my head, not wanting to begin this particular conversation here, or now; the exhaustion on Ruth's face, plain even in this fading light, concerns me far more at present. "Let's get you inside," I suggest, switching off the ignition, before opening Ruth's door with the little bow I know amuses her. Now, though, she avoids my eye as we walk up to her house. "Well, thank you for the lift," she tells me, digging through her bag, looking for her keys. Her tone is polite, but dismissal is implicit, too. I hesitate, not wanting to leave her alone, but sensing her wish is for solitude. She is so small, standing in the doorway, staring down at her feet; so alone. Before I can stop myself, I reach out to hug her, but she flinches away, turning to open the door. "Not now, Malcolm. Not tonight…I can't, I just can't. I need to be by myself." Hurt, I stand back, seeing the sheen of tears in her eyes as she passes. I can't let her go, not like this…say something!
"It's not your fault, you know. And Danny would hate to think you were blaming yourself." I speak softly, but my voice is steady, as I watch her small, forlorn figure come to a standstill in the hallway, ignoring the cats that are twining themselves around her legs and uttering cries of welcome. I step inside and close the door, uninvited, but unable to leave her like this. "Ruth? This is not your fault," I repeat, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She stiffens at my touch, but doesn't shake me off; heartened by this, I slide my arms around her waist, drawing her towards me until our bodies are just touching. For a moment, she allows herself to relax against me, and I can feel her shaking with the effort to hold in her sobs; and then she breaks away, disappearing back behind the wall of glass. "Please, just go...I'm so tired, and I still have to get through the…the funeral, and Harry is asking so much of me, that if I start thinking about it all, if you're kind to me now, I'll go to pieces…"Her voice is pleading, and she has picked up one of her cats, holding it against her like a shield; she knows that I can't approach her closely, not with a cat in her arms. Already, my eyes are beginning to water, my chest is feeling tighter, and not just with sympathy for Ruth's distress; my wretched allergies are making themselves felt. Defeated, I nod and turn for the door, aware of her eyes on my back. As I am about to let myself out, she says in a tiny voice, "Malcolm?" I look around, my hand on the doorknob. "Thank you, for not giving up on me. I love that about you…your faith in me." Her eyes are locked on mine, saying all the things she is unable to verbalise right now; I give her the shadow of a smile in return, heart too full for speech, and go through the door.
Once safely back in the warm interior of the Rover, I cross my hands, one on top of the other, on the walnut steering wheel, and rest my head on them, fighting back the rising waves of sorrow which threaten to overwhelm me. I ache for Ruth, not just physically, although that has become more and more of an issue since Havensworth, but mentally and spiritually too; there is a bond between us, whether she acknowledges it or not, which means that her pain is my pain too, her happiness my primary object, and to be shut out from her, even though I know she is only acting out of self-preservation, is heart-wrenchingly hard to bear.
Reluctantly, I start the car and head, not for home this time, but for the hills. Feeling the need for some solitude myself, I drive across the city to Muswell Hill, and walk up to Alexandra Palace, its vaulted glass roof glinting in the last rays of light. I recall the history of this beautiful building, how it was destroyed by fire not a month after its triumphant opening, but like a phoenix, rose from the ashes to stand towering over the city once more. As I watch night fall, with all of London spread out below like a twinkling carpet of lights, I begin to feel my pain and anxiety ease, as I am reminded that given enough time, almost anything is possible: even a palace can be rebuilt, a sorrowing heart consoled, or a relationship restored…after Danny's funeral, I decide, I will bring Ruth up here, so she too can be reminded of this simple, yet profound truth. Sitting there, watching the darkness come down to meet the illuminated skyline, I am reminded of the evenings when, as a boy, I would watch the sun set over the rolling hills near Dunvant, from my perch high in the square Norman church tower, my father beside me, his soft voice soothing as he would quote from the Psalms he so loved:
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help…
It is nearly twenty years since my father passed away, and yet I still miss his wisdom, his gentle way with people, his kindly presence; if I have learnt anything from this, the most significant loss in my life to date, it is that we never truly stop mourning for those we love, but we find ways to live with the knowledge of their loss. I must find a way to reach Ruth, to show her this, before she drowns…
A/N: The verse is Psalm 121:1.