On the last night of her stay, Ruth calls me to say she has been delayed on the Grid. We have plans for dinner at a little Italian trattoria in Hampstead Village, and she is apologetic, but firm. "I'm really sorry, but I've been asked to pull everything we have on a certain group…we've just received some disturbing intel, and Harry has asked me to put a briefing package together to take to Whitehall – after Shining Dawn, he's determined not to let another lunatic fringe group get out of control." Her voice sounds only faintly apologetic; there's an edge to it that I can't quite place, but which makes my heart clench in apprehension. "Do you need me to come in? I could help…" She is quick to decline this offer; she doesn't want to spoil my last night off, and there's enough people still on the Grid to assist her if need be. I glance at my watch – it's nearly 7.30pm on a Friday night, and most of the staff will have bolted by now, if there's not actually an operation in progress. Apart from Ruth, and Harry, that is. Sometimes I wonder why he bothers with his small terrace in SW1 at all…the man practically lives at Thames House, after all. "Well, I'll see you later, then…just get a cab when you're finished. I've got a few things to do here, so don't worry about the time."
Ruth breathes into her headset for a moment, before replying softly, "Malcolm, I could be here all night…maybe I should just go back to mine. It's closer…and I don't want to put you out…" I close my eyes, seeking the right words. "Just come home. Here. Please, Ruth," is all I can manage, trying to mask my growing concern, and she sighs. "I'll try, all right? I really have to go now." With that, she rings off, but not before I hear the faint, familiar rumble of Harry's voice in the background. I am left staring at the mobile phone in my hand until the screen blinks off, as different scenarios, each worse than the last, rush through my mind and I try to stem the rising tide of unease and dread that is threatening to overwhelm me, suddenly and quite irrationally.
Excitement…that's it, that's what I was hearing in Ruth's voice; she had sounded slightly breathless, tense, speaking faster than usual…not the usual reaction for someone who has just been tasked with staying back late on a Friday night by their boss. Unless, of course, the boss in question just happens to be charismatic, charming, in love with you, and utterly ruthless. While I'm Ruth-less, I think with a burst of black humour. All my uncertainties and insecurities, where Ruth is concerned, come flooding back, despite the lovely week we have just spent together. I walk through to the conservatory, seeking solace in my plants, and aimlessly tend to them, misting leaves here, clipping a dead bloom there, while I try to order my thoughts and overhead, a huge full moon – the precursor of next month's Harvest moon – begins to rise, its presence almost oppressive, its orange hue ominous in my disturbed state. I have had plenty of practice in keeping calm during dangerous situations during my career in the Service, and I am in sore need of that detachment now.
I look back over the week, which seems to me to have been perfection itself, if such a thing exists on Earth. We had visited Kew Gardens on Sunday, and enjoyed dinner in my favourite riverside restaurant in Richmond afterwards, sitting on a heated terrace overlooking the Thames, while Ruth threw bread to the swans gliding below, and the sunset blazed across the sky before us, streaking the clouds russet and deep crimson, turning the river red; a river of blood, she had pointed out, with a little shiver that was not entirely due to the chill in the air. I had shaken my head, even as I swung my Harris tweed jacket around her shoulders; "Not blood, my love, but fire…the fire of creativity, of energetic endeavour…of passion…"with this last, I had brought her hand to my lips, until her eyes met mine, glowing in the candlelight, and her stockinged foot stealthily busied itself with rubbing along my calf under the starched white cloth, a foretaste of things to come. I had spilled my wine in shock, and she had laughed merrily as she helped me to mop it up…
Harry's hand, resting on the back of Ruth's chair as he leans over her shoulder, looking at the screen together…their faces only inches apart, the only people left on the Grid, as their eyes meet…
Stop it, I will myself, stop imagining things…she would never…yes, but he might… my attention has wandered, and I swear rather vehemently as I realise I have just beheaded an orchid that only flowers every few years, and then only with an inordinate amount of coaxing. Damn Harry bloody Pearce, damn his confidence and his charm and his cunning… With an effort, I remind myself that for the past week Ruth and I have lived perfectly happily together, the long-dreamt of experience surpassing my wildest predictions; Ruth has been loving, tender, witty, and warm, confirming that we are indeed as compatible as I had hoped.
This week, while Ruth was on the Grid, I had worked in my garden, pruning fruit bushes, lifting potatoes, pulling onions, mulching and weeding and bedding down the soil for winter. Leaf fall has not yet begun in earnest, due to the unusually long, warm summer we have enjoyed, but all over the Heath, trees have begun to turn, cloaking themselves in their glorious autumnal regalia. Ruth called to say she was coming home early one afternoon, and found me waiting for her with a new pair of green Wellington boots in her size, and four shiny zinc buckets at my feet. Her puzzled look transformed into joy as I produced a pair of ladies' gauntlet gardening gloves and a scarred walking stick with a hooked handle.
"Berrying, anyone?" I queried, smiling as she raced upstairs to change, and then rejoined me, eagerly tugging on her boots. We headed out onto the Heath, and I showed her the little stand of brambles I had spotted on my morning constitutional, somehow overlooked by the rapacious berry-pickers who have been roaming the hedgerows lately. We worked contentedly together for an hour or so, Ruth using the walking stick to reach tempting clusters of fruit. When we had finally picked all the berries that were easily accessible, I unfurled the tarpaulin I had fetched from the garage on our way out, and threw it over the front of the bushes, Ruth watching curiously as I stepped on to the tough cloth and used my weight to bring the topmost canes within easy reach, walking into the bushes until I was standing in the middle of the tarpaulin, surrounded by all the fruit that until now had remained unattainable. Ruth had laughed as she tramped in behind me, carrying the buckets. "Trust you to come up with an out-of-the-box solution, Malcolm," she told me, as we harvested the fruit; I had raised an eyebrow and answered gravely, "I'm afraid I can't take the credit. My Nain taught me this trick."
In response to Ruth's enquiring look, I had added," My grandmother, on my mother's side; she made the most wonderful jam, and she used to take me with her to pick fruit. She was small – less than your height – and this way, she was guaranteed to reach the berries that no-one else could." Finally, scratched and happy and laden with buckets full of berries, we had made our way back home, crunching through the bright carpet of leaves beginning to cover the woodland paths. After drowning the blackberries to remove any stray maggots, we had drained them and picked them over until our fingers were stained purple with juice. Some we had consigned to the chest freezer in the old butler's pantry; some I set aside for jam, and the rest Ruth turned into a delectable pie, comfortable now with rooting through cupboards for flour and making a mess on the marble bench-tops. Mother would not approve...but then, Mother's not here.
Ruth had been very amused to discover that I know how to make jam, but it is just a simple chemical equation, really, a matter of balancing sweetness with acidity and applying heat until the desired catalytic reaction occurs…after I had finished my explanation, she had doubled over with laughter..."Only you could reduce the art of jam-making to a scientific certainty," she had gasped, while I continued to stir the bubbling mass of molten sugar and fruit, and watched her with a sort of gratified wonder. Ruth happy, is Ruth transformed; and I haven't seen her like this since before Danny died. It does my heart good to hear her laughter and see her smile. Straightening up at last, Ruth had ransacked the pantry again, and come back with a few more ingredients. "It's a good thing I can make bread, then," she had said, and had promptly set about doing so. We had enjoyed a nursery supper of fresh bread and jam, followed by the blackberry and apple pie with cream, and I can't remember when I have enjoyed a meal so much. So simple, yet so satisfying…
Ruth's eyes, huge as they gaze into Harry's, intensely aquamarine, sparking an answering flame in those molten amber irises, then closing as their lips finally meet in the kiss that they both know has been coming since she first walked onto the Grid…her arms around his neck, his hands roaming, as they are consumed with passion for each other…
My stomach flips over completely at this vivid scene, and I castigate my overactive imagination…This is just your fear talking, Wynn-Jones. Get a grip! I tell myself with considerably more conviction than I feel…I notice my hands are trembling, so I put the secateurs down...There's no point cutting off another flower spike…why, oh why, am I such a coward? A bolder man would have made her his long ago, wooed and won her forever… I drag my mind back to the safe-house of reality.
Another night, I recollect, we had gone to the Globe, and had enjoyed the RSC production of Much Ado About Nothing immensely, even though it was a modern-dress version, set in a grand country house in the Thirties. Ruth knew most of the dialogue already, saying under her breath along with Beatrice, You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you , while I answered her silently, along with Benedick, And do it with all thy heart… Afterwards, we had wandered, arm in arm, along the Embankment, enjoying the clear, cool air, after the heat of the theatre, and the lights of London, glimmering in the pitch-black Thames. The slightly rank smell of water at low tide is somehow not unpleasant, but familiar as the fragrance of hot salty chips doused in vinegar, or the close, musty scent of the Tube; just another note in the unique olfactory experience that is London.
Yes, it had been a wonderful week; we had curled up together each night, woken in each other's arms in the morning, made love and laughed and discovered things about each other we had never before known. Ruth likes to sing in the shower, her alto voice made rich and mellow by the steam; she prefers her meat well-done (sacrilege) but her breakfast eggs only lightly cooked (nauseating). She always puts on her right shoe before her left, hums as she brushes her hair, and has a way of leaving bits and pieces around the house that I fully expected to find annoying, but in fact think is charming. It is as if she is leaving little messages in a secret cipher that I have yet to crack…a hair clip in the drawing room, her gloves in the kitchen, her scarf draped over the outstretched metal arm of the suit of armour in the entrance hall…she is making herself at home, settling in, I tell myself hopefully, choosing to forget temporarily about Mother's impending return at the end of the month.
And now…now, with just one phone call, it all seems to be on the brink of vanishing like a beautiful dream. Stop being so melodramatic, I scold myself, but the fact is, I haven't heard that quivering note of excitement in Ruth's voice the entire time we have been together this week. I have heard her laugh heartily, talk animatedly of books and music and art, murmur tender endearments as we moved together in bed, even cry out my name in the throes of passion, but I haven't heard her sounding like that since her first months on the Grid, when she would eagerly do anything Harry asked of her, working to all hours, taking on more and more, keen to prove her worth and value to the formidable head of Section D.
When the mobile phone in my pocket rings, I actually start in surprise, so deeply in my own thoughts am I entangled, before retrieving the instrument and flipping it open. It is not Ruth, as I had hoped, but the restaurant…I have completely forgotten to cancel the booking. I start to apologise, and then on impulse, tell them I will be there in ten minutes, if they can hold the table; I am an old and loyal customer, and Si, Si, comes back down the line. "Oh, and it will be a table for one," I inform them, before terminating the call. Shivering – I am only in shirt sleeves, and the air in the conservatory has turned cool as the evening has advanced – I adjust the central heating, before putting my suit jacket back on, taking off my tie – no need to overdo things tonight, after all – and heading into the library in search of a suitable book to read between courses. My eye falls on my battered paperback copy of Dante's Divina Commedia, and I decide that is far too long since I have last delved into the endless wit and wisdom of Italy's greatest writer. Slipping it into my pocket, I set out.
The trattoria is small, discreet, and has been run by the same family for as long as anyone in Hampstead Village can remember (and some of them have very long memories). The food is simply prepared, absolutely authentic, and one bite of their saltimbocca can transport me back to the happiest time of my life, working on an archaeological dig just outside Rome, the year before I first went up to Cambridge. I had earned the right to the trip, and a gap year, after exceeding my father's exacting standards in my A levels; and the sense of exhilaration and freedom I had experienced upon first seeing the Eternal City was beyond anything I had ever known…it was so very, very beautiful.
Seated in my booth at the back of the room, I order without consulting the menu: Antipasto misto, coteletta alla Milanese, seasonal vegetables, and half a litre of Chianti. The waiter gives a small bow of assent and approval, and disappears into the kitchen.
Settling back, I survey the room – mostly couples, at this time of night, although there is one family with children who are past the point of behaving properly in public, or indeed of doing anything more than flicking spoonsful of tiramisu at each other while their parents, to the relief of the rest of the diners, settle the bill and then hustle their fractious offspring out into the waiting maw of their Range Rover. I feel a pang of loneliness as I witness the other patrons, cosily tucked into their booths, sharing food and wine and each other's company – it's quite staggering how quickly the solitary habits of a lifetime can be forgotten in favour of the more alluring realities of an intimate relationship – and then I recollect the book in my pocket, and retrieving it, I turn to the beginning: Inferno. While I don't speak Italian, per se, my Latin gives me most of the sense of Dante's elegant verse, and I enjoy the challenge of reading him in his own seductive, lovely language. By the time my first course arrives, I am engrossed, and so I don't see her arrive.
"Buona notte, il mio amore," Ruth murmurs, and I look up, startled, into those stunningly translucent eyes, fixed on me as she delicately picks up a fried artichoke heart and winds a piece of prosciutto around it before popping the whole concoction into her mouth, while I stare at her, speechless. Eventually, my brain reconnects to my mouth. "Ruth! I didn't think you were coming…let me call the waiter for you," and with these words I signal the poor man. "A setting for my companion, please, and the menu," I ask, but Ruth shakes her head. "I'll just have whatever you're having, as long as it's not tripe, or liver...I can't bear offal!" and I quickly reply in the negative. Her place is soon laid, and I pour her a glass of the light red I have been drinking. The waiter brings another jug of wine without having to be asked, and takes Ruth's order. "I finished preparing the briefing quicker than I expected, so Harry said I could go…I'm famished! Could we possibly get some more bread?" Ruth asks, as she mops the last piece through its accompanying dish of olive oil. The waiter, hovering nearby, hears her and approaches, smiling, with another basket, and she falls to like a starved wolf.
I am still adjusting to her unexpected presence, but she is really here again, with me, and I am so happy to see her that all my fears and morbid imaginings vanish like will o' the wisps in the sunlight. Ruth smiles appreciatively as our main courses arrive, and there is a comfortable silence, broken only by the chink of cutlery on china or murmured requests to pass the salt, please, or, would you like some more vegetables? Ruth clears everything on her plate in record time, before unselfconsciously picking up the curved rib bone and nibbling at it until it is as clean as an anatomical specimen. I have never seen her with such an appetite; usually she is a moderate eater at best, and certainly not given to gnawing bones in public. I am quite relieved when the waiter arrives to clear away our dishes, as Ruth has begun to eye the bone lying discarded on my own plate with a somewhat disconcerting degree of interest.
While Ruth is contemplating whether she would prefer the zuppa inglese, or the torta della casa, to finish with, and I have ordered cheese (at which she looks at me reprovingly), I ask her, "Do you have clearance to tell me what you were working on, exactly?" The restaurant is nearly empty, but she still looks over her shoulder before replying, "What do you know about the British Way, and more to the point, an MP called William Sampson?"
I blink in surprise, even as my brain begins to marshal the facts; the British Way is one of a small handful of far-right parties which sprung up like toadstools in the wake of 9/11 and have presumably now been once more galvanised into action by the recent events of Shining Dawn. They have been on our watch list for years, but apart from a tendency to hold meetings which appeal to a certain class of lout, where they bluster about doing away with social welfare for non-whites and returning Britain to some sort of pre-World War II state of racial and cultural homogeneity, they have been considered small fry, until now, apparently. I search my memory for more information, recounting the facts to Ruth as they occur to me.
They are fanatical about preventing what they term the "browning of Britain"; their members are against immigrants of every ilk – Britain for the Brits, I believe, is one of their slogans - vocal opponents of the Asian and Caribbean communities, and the whole lot is headed by a man named Keith Moran who is just that that bit too mad to be taken seriously by voters (he was discharged from the Paras after showing psychopathic tendencies, and that is really saying something). I say as much to Ruth, and her eyes cloud over as she nods in agreement. The waiter approaches to take the bella donna's dessert order, and she chooses the cake, with whipped cream and gelato. Once we are alone again, and before I can give her the salient facts concerning Sampson, she speaks, her voice so low I am compelled to lean across the table in order to hear her. To the casual observer, we are just another couple, enjoying an intimate conversation in relaxing surroundings; but the jangling of my nerves, and the subtle tension I can see in every line of Ruth's body, tell a different story.
"That's right, Moran would never be taken credibly by the electorate…but what if he got into bed with Sampson, and made him the figurehead of the party? We've just been advised that a by-election will be called shortly, because Sampson is resigning his seat as an independent MP, in order to stand for the British Way." I sit back in shock. Sampson is a wildly popular politician, who won his seat in a landslide. He is slick, plausible and looks like a matinee idol, the perfect triple threat. If he has decided to team up with Moran, then the presently fringe-dwelling British Way could indeed have a very threatening dog in the fight, come the next General Election. My mind races into high gear…
The independent MPs wield considerable power in Parliament already, representing the voice of voters who are fed up with the major parties' turgidity and political point-scoring, while the country struggles under ever-increasing burdens of population, debt and falling standards of living for many. If they ever banded together under the auspices of the British Way… my God, the fallout could be huge. They mightn't be strong enough to actually win an election outright, but the instability they could cause is significant; I shudder, imagining a hung Parliament, with the British Way obstructing and blocking at every turn; or a Parliament where the winning party did not have enough seats to form a majority government, and found itself having to negotiate terms with a collection of neo-fascists and old skin-heads, all fronted by the sheer charisma and determination of William Sampson…it doesn't bear thinking about. And yet, that's exactly what we must do: think about it, analyse and predict their behaviour, and find a way to stop them. That's what Five is for, after all, maintaining the status quo. Regnum Defende…Ruth's eyes, dark with concern, bring me back to the present as she scans my face, reading on it my shock and consternation at the hideous turn events could take, if we do not act.
"So you agree this is a dangerous development?" Her voice, still pitched low, holds that note of suppressed excitement again, and looking at her, I am reminded of her demeanour, the night of the Security Services Ball: instantly all my senses are on high alert. She has the air of a woman keeping a secret she is especially pleased with; a cat, licking stolen cream off its whiskers, couldn't be more content than Ruth appears to be as she tucks into her towering dessert, while wrinkling her nose at my totally inoffensive Provolone cheese, served with home-made mostarda di frutta. "It does seem that way, if everything we are assuming is true," I reply, "How did we come to know of this?" Ruth's eyes glitter as she answers, "Because six East End councillors have already gone over to the party, and a lot more are expected to follow if Sampson is elected." This is disturbing news indeed. The East End of London has borne more than its fair share of the problems Sampson purports to address, and in recent times has become more and more volatile as religious issues, mixed with racial tensions, have become headline news. "What is Harry planning to do, then?" Ruth shakes her head: not here, not now.
I call for the bill, and as we are leaving, something occurs to me. "How did you know I'd be here?" I ask Ruth as I hand her into the passenger seat of the Rover, parked just down the street from the restaurant. "I didn't, not really – I just happened to spot your car as the cab was heading towards your house, and realised you must have decided to keep the reservation anyway." She turns towards me as I get in, her legs already curled beneath her, her shoes kicked off into the footwell. "I missed you, today, so I took the opportunity to surprise you…that's OK, isn't it?" she wants to know, and I smile back at her. "Of course it is, my love, and I missed you too." More than you will ever know… I start the engine and drive us home, my mind incessantly turning over everything I have thought and heard in the last few hours. I glance at Ruth out of the corner of my eye: does she really look like a woman who would go behind her lover's back? I ask myself, seeing her clear, limpid gaze meet mine. And yet I can't completely dismiss the sense of foreboding that has been hanging over me since her call from the Grid. This is Ruth, loyal, lovely Ruth, who has told me time and again that she loves me…yes, but why hasn't she told me what she was doing with the Tessina on the night of the Ball, and why is it that whenever she and Harry are together, it somehow feels as if the rest of us are just spectators, watching two consummate performers on an empty stage?
When we arrive home, Ruth heads straight upstairs for a shower and then to bed, citing tiredness from the long day and the (very) large meal she has just enjoyed. I am happy to make it an early night, and prepare to join her by taking a shower too. While standing under the blissful stream of hot water, emptying my mind of the day's worries, a horrifying idea blazes unbidden through my brain: her air of suppressed excitement, her uncharacteristic appetite, her change of mind about meeting me for dinner…What if she's…I do not want to finish this thought. Did she drink any wine, tonight? I close my eyes, trying to see in memory what I had been too distracted by her unforeseen appearance to notice at the time. I remember filling her glass, once…the waiter bringing another jug, but that went untouched – I had already had a glass, and didn't want another, as I was driving. I stand under the shower, trying to piece things together, until I hear Ruth knocking and asking if I was going to be in here all night, and if so, would I mind if she just nipped to the loo, as she was dying to go?
Blushing, I hastily exit the bathroom, a towel swathed around my middle, and drip water all the way back to my dressing room. What if…what if…and when? These words buzz around and around my head like trapped hornets, as I dry myself, climb into my pyjamas, and get into bed, Ruth already half asleep and turned on her side away from me. I move to wrap myself around her as I usually do, one hand resting on her belly, the other arm just above her breasts, but she mutters, "'S too hot for that, tonight," and curls further into herself like a dormouse…or a hedgehog. It is a decidedly crisp night: the mercury is hovering around five degrees outside, but I have not yet turned up the central heating, and the ambient warmth of our bedroom is the same as it was on Ruth's first night here; usually, if anything, she feels the cold, and is happy to snuggle into my body heat…my own personal radiator, she once called me, tucking her icy little feet between my large, warm ones until they began to thaw. This is definitely a new development…what other new developments might be lurking, unseen, in the dark tonight?
Outside the window, the moon seems to be watching us with a baleful, jaundiced eye, until I sit up and find the remote control to darken the glass. Sliding back beneath the duvet, trying to keep to my side of the bed, feeling foolishly hurt at Ruth's stated preference not to sleep in my arms, on her last night in my house, I close my eyes, which are unaccountably hot and prickly all of a sudden. Just as I am hovering on the edge of unconsciousness at last, I remember: her wineglass had been taken away at the end of the night, untouched. I calculate, and re-calculate, and can only come up with one conclusion: Toad Hall. It had to have been the night of the Ball… Sleep deserts me entirely, then, and rather than spend the night bothering Ruth, who presently appears to be sound asleep, with my tossing and turning, I get up and pad silently downstairs, taking a striped Welsh wool blanket from the press on the landing as I go. Stretching myself out on one of the Chesterfields in the drawing room, wrapped in the soft old blanket, I give myself over to all my thoughts and fears, gazing at the graceful dancers on the ceiling, as they pirouette and twirl together through the shifting shadows cast by the moon shining through the boughs of the ancient oak outside the window. They're together forever, I ruminate, but am I doomed to be always alone?
Oh, Ruth, my Ruth…what have you done?