When I hear that Ruth is bringing Curtis in, after another attempt on his life on the street early this morning, I am both angry that she has been put in such danger - she is not, after all, a field spook – and very relieved to know that she is returning to the safety of the Grid. I am anxious to see her, concerned about the strain she has been under for the last week; and compounding this is the additional urgency and pressure of the present situation.
As the pods whir open and Ruth steps onto the Grid, Professor Curtis at her side, I watch her from the entrance to the tech suite, noting her rigid posture and the tight line of her shoulders, observing the dark circles under her eyes and the clenching of her fists as she speaks tersely to Curtis. I can tell that she doesn't like him, just as I had postulated when reading his profile; that much is clear, as is her exhaustion and fatigue, etched cruelly on her face. Ruth is digging deep now, running on nerves and adrenaline, as are we all. She is still behind the glass, still unreachable, but she is here, doing what she has been trained to do, and I know that she will not stop until the threat is over. She leads Curtis towards me, a determined look on her face, as he trails behind her, sauntering in a way that suggests he resents being at Her Majesty's pleasure, in a manner of speaking. I begin to understand her distaste, not only for his radical theories, but for the man himself. Colin joins me for a moment, looking over my shoulder. "Oh good, Ruth's back…is that Curtis? What a git…are those beads he's wearing?" I hmmm in reply, wondering why Ruth is headed for the tech suite.
I soon find out. Curtis thinks he has seen someone he recognises from Shining Dawn, here in Thames House, and Ruth is intent on using our face-recognition and reconstruction software to help jog the Professor's memory. He proves to be an obstinate and odious man, acting as if it is all some sort of game, until Adam gives him a short sharp dose of reality. Ruth, not wishing to fail again, needles him about his supposedly excellent memory, until he capitulates and cooperates, identifying one of the CIA agents, Richard Boyd, as the operative he remembers from meetings with Munro, their charismatic, albeit mad-as-a-hatter, leader. Our American cousins… I feel very glad I did not grant any of them the systems access Harry thinks I did…who knows what Boyd might have done?
This breakthrough is the beginning of the end; but until we find the final bomb, planted beneath a major hospital, with that plucky young woman, Tash, strapped to it for good measure, and Adam comes within seconds of death as he disarms the device, none of us stop. We work on, through the overwhelming need to sleep, ignoring hunger and aching backs and sore eyes and relentless headaches from staring too long into screens, because we must. We are the invisible defenders, the faceless men and women who stand in the breach until the wall is shored up once more and the status quo of our nation is restored, and people can once more go about their ordinary lives without fear, almost without thinking; certainly without knowing how close we have all just come to utter chaos, death and destruction on a hideous scale. After all, Harry will settle for nothing less…
Finally, the all-clear is given, and Harry orders everyone home, on his way off the Grid to yet another meeting in Whitehall. Only three of us remain: me, busily erasing all traces of the shadow system copy the Americans have been playing in, Zaf, and Ruth, both of whom refuse to leave until they have seen Adam with their own eyes. Ruth is dozing, resting her head in her hand as she sits at her workstation, while Zaf is fast asleep, head on his desk in what must be a very uncomfortable position. I am bone tired, my eyes gritty with overuse and lack of sleep, but I don't want to leave Ruth, looking as fragile as a waxwork figure as she waits for Adam. The last two days have taken a huge toll on her, and I am worried. Very much so.
Seeing Adam walk through the pods, exhausted, more dishevelled than usual, but Adam nonetheless, still exuding his particular brand of raffish charm, smiling despite everything he has seen and done in the last forty-eight hours, is like seeing the sun after days of fog and rain. I nod in acknowledgement from behind my array, thankful to see him alive and whole, and he gives me that swift, boyish grin of his, the one that belies his age and life experience, before crossing to where Ruth and Zaf slumber on. I watch as he gently wakes them, seeing their faces light up with pleasure and relief; he speaks to them briefly, and I see her eyes returning again and again to his face, almost as if she cannot believe he is here. After a short discussion with them both, he turns to leave, and Zaf gets up to go too. Ruth is left alone, and, apparently thinking herself alone, she gets up slowly, like a very old woman, and walks over to Danny's workstation, now standing empty after having been used as a hotdesk for the past two days. The deserted Grid is in semi-darkness, but I can see her shoulders begin to shake as she reaches a hand out to touch the back of Danny's chair. I hold my breath, waiting for the storm to break…
And then I stare, disbelieving, as Harry returns to the Grid, his whole body slumping with weariness, shambling across the floor like a punch-drunk boxer, relief plain on his face. Ruth's head lifts, hearing his familiar footfall; and he stops mid-step as he registers her presence. They regard each other for a long moment, motionless, but even from where I am standing, I can see that each is tense, on guard, waiting for the other to move first. For a moment, I feel as if I am watching two fighters circling each other in the ring; but then Harry speaks, and the tension is broken. "Ruth," he begins, his voice deeper than usual, and roughened with exhaustion. She stands like a statue, only her eyes moving as she watches him take a tentative step, then another, towards her. Her hand clutches the back of Danny's chair, which moments before it had been stroking tenderly, and I see her turn her feet inward slightly, in defiance. If she was a cat, her fur would be on end and her tail whipping to and fro. I know should say something to let them know they're not alone, but the words refuse to form in my dry, tight throat. I can't quite catch my breath, either, but I can't turn away now to look for my inhaler; I cannot move. So this is what being rooted to the spot feels like…horrible!
"Ruth, I am…so sorry," he tries again, and only her whitening knuckles on the back of the chair indicate that she has heard him. Harry exhales heavily, a sound born of deep frustration, and walks toward her, stopping just shy of arm's length. She turns her head to regard him warily, and her body stiffens further still. Harry's shoulders droop in defeat, as he says, "I had no other choice, Ruth, Facer wouldn't budge about negotiating …he just said they weren't civilians, as if that somehow made things better…" She gives a half nod, but her demeanour doesn't change. Harry, having set his hand to the plough, seems determined to finish, even on such stony ground as this. "I tried, Ruth, I really did. I hate this too, you know, losing a fine young officer like that." Ruth gives him a long, silent look, before shrugging at his words, and turning away. "It's not your fault," she says, and at his surprised look she adds, "I kept looking for them, but I couldn't find them. I failed, Harry, and Danny died." Her voice betrays the pain she is in, and he instinctively moves closer, while my heart stutters at the sight of him reaching out slowly towards her, until at the last moment his hand falls away, back to his side, as if he is unsure or afraid of her response. From behind the glass of her grief, she is still keeping us all at a safe distance, but it would only take the right touch, at the right time, from the right person, to shatter her self-imposed solitude… "Oh, Ruth," he says, and everything he feels for her is expressed in those three syllables. I feel sick to my stomach; how can she not hear the longing in his voice?
After what feels like an interminable silence, but must only be a minute or two in reality, she speaks again, her tone brittle now. "Just one day, that was all I wanted, to say goodbye, to, to honour him, but I couldn't even have that…you said you needed me, and so that was that, I was the one without a choice, then. I can hardly say no to my boss, can I?" She wraps her arms defensively around herself, and turns to face him. Harry looks as if he is at a loss, a rare sight indeed, but not one I am enjoying. In the end, he answers her simply. "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry about that too." Ruth makes an odd noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob, and I involuntarily take half a step towards her. "You're sorry, I'm sorry, but what good does it do, Harry? What good does any of it do? We're surrounded by danger and death…in the last week, I've lost two colleagues, I've been in danger myself, and we so very nearly lost Adam today, as well…how do you keep doing it? How do you keep living with the knowledge that any one of us could be next?" Her voice cracks, and she stops.
"I don't know. I just keep doing what I've always done, Ruth. Some days are worse than others, some days are worse than anything that Hell itself could let loose; but then there are the days like today, where we win through. Those are the days to live for, even while we remember those whom we have lost…in the end, days like these are all we have." Ruth listens intently, her eyes fixed on his face. When he falls silent, she continues to watch him, until he looks away. He knows he has not told her the truth…not the whole truth; she is not ready to hear it now, or perhaps ever.
Ruth moves first; stepping past Harry, she collects her bag and coat, preparing to leave. He says, "Let me at least call a driver for you," and we are both taken aback as she whirls around on him. "No thank you! I'd rather take the bus…it's much safer, you know. Nice and safe, and full of ordinary people going about their normal lives. I could do with a bit of that, right now." And with those words, Ruth walks purposefully through the pods, and out into the night. Harry watches her go, then shakes his head and says something that sounds suspiciously like "Stubborn mule!" in a voice that is perilously close to affection, before heading back to his office. I take the opportunity to slip out and off the Grid without being observed, and hail a black cab, too tired to drive home after two days straight on the job, and too rattled from what I have just inadvertently witnessed.
Slumping into the back seat, I give the cabbie my address, and close my eyes, all the better to think. Harry is deeply in love with her, of that I have no doubt; what I am not sure of, is how Ruth feels. She has done nothing untoward, they did not even touch, but I am very, very anxious; how easy it would be for him to capture her heart, if he was so inclined. All he would need to do is to be completely honest with her…in addition, I am still deeply worried about the way in which Ruth has chosen to handle her grief, and the guilt which she is feeling. By the time the cab turns into my street, I have the beginnings of a plan…we haven't been much together, in the last fortnight, but with Mother away in Bournemouth, now seems the perfect time for me to play the gracious host, and later, the tender lover…for what else can I do, but try and walk with her through this dark time?
Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries…
A/N: The lines are from Keats' Ode to Fanny.