A/N: Malcolm's thoughts really do jump around a lot in this chapter! Hopefully it all makes sense, and is in the right tense. Thanks as always to my readers, especially those who are faithfully reviewing as well. It is very much appreciated! Oh, and to my American readers, Happy Holidays, and I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving :)
The pods whir open, and I step through, back onto the Grid. Adam glances up and nods a greeting, and as I cross the floor on the way to my hidey-hole, I am pleased to see that Fiona has returned to work. I stop at her desk to welcome her back, and she smiles gratefully; I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for her to return, and I admire her courage enormously. Stepping into my workspace, I note that Colin is already in, if the steaming mug of tea and half-completed cryptic crossword on his desk are anything to go by. A minute or two later, he comes loping in, and I have the sensation of my world clicking back into place; the first few minutes of being back on the Grid after being away is always slightly disorienting, I find. So much happens here, that it feels as if time itself runs differently, faster than in the real world, but Colin will bring me up to speed more efficiently than any team briefing, with his intrinsic understanding of what truly matters in our little corner of the Grid. We exchange "good mornings" as I boot up my system, and then Colin launches into our usual post-holiday routine, reciting a litany of tech-related woes and piling my desk with server performance reports, gear requisitions and repairs to be signed off. Adam's machine will have to be re-imaged to resolve its sluggish performance, Fiona has asked for a new mobile phone as hers was damaged beyond repair in her attempt to escape her captors, the network switches in server stack sixteen need replacing…all the usual, unglamorous little jobs that we do, generally without thanks or acknowledgement, and for which I am very grateful this morning. Anything is better than thinking about last night…
I work my way through the pile, and then stop as my eye falls on the next report: a gadgetry audit, detailing everything we have to hand, and a few things we don't. A pair of earrings wired for sound, several earwigs, a set of lock-picks – these are small items that field officers sometimes forget to return after operations, irritating for us, but not unusual; a microdot reader, on the other hand, is a very expensive bit of kit, and by the time I read the final item on the list I am really annoyed. Colin looks over, sensing the change in my mood. "It's official. We work with a lot of petty thieves and pilferers…why can't they just follow procedure, it's not that hard, for heaven's sake!" Colin rolls his eyes in agreement. "Field officers, you know they're all kleptomaniacs by trade. So, shall I send out the usual amnesty email?" I hmmm in acknowledgement, and collect my mug from my desk drawer. "Refill?" In answer, Colin silently hands me his mug, his nose in the crossword page. That's one of the reasons we have been friends for so long, I think as I rinse out our mugs preparatory to making tea; we know when to leave each other alone. I know I'm in an uncharacteristically testy mood, and that my colleagues will probably put it down to post –holiday comedown, but the truth is much more convoluted than that. And speaking of the truth, here comes the most complicated aspect of it now...
Ruth hesitates before walking into the tea room, holding her enormous, cat-adorned Dunoon china mug in front of her like a talisman to ward off evil. "Hello, Malcolm," she tries, voice uncertain. I turn away to hide the colour rising in my cheeks, and mumble a greeting, concentrating fiercely on spooning the right number of sugars (three) into Colin's tea, before adding milk to both mugs. Ruth moves tentatively towards the sink; flustered, I open the nearest cupboard, peering inside at plates and packets of herbal infusions (whatever they might be) as if my life depends on it. This morning had not gone well…
Ruth had come downstairs very early, puzzled at my absence, and had found me half asleep on the sofa in the grey light just beginning to creep into the room. As she touched my shoulder, she had asked softly, "Malcolm? why aren't you upstairs? What's wrong?" I had turned away from her, but she sat down in the space made by the crook of my knees, and began to smooth the blanket over me, the soothing movement reminding me of when I was a very small boy, and my mother would rub my back when I was ill. I hadn't known what to say to her; all night I have been thinking dark thoughts and growing sick at heart. The Ball was just over three months ago; and suddenly, Ruth is eating like a horse, not drinking, complaining of feeling hot… I might be inexperienced, when it comes to women, but I'm not totally naïve. I recalled, my face burning with shame, Ruth's apparent eagerness that night (my back against the door, her legs wrapped around me…) and interspersed with the memory, are recollections of the times during that evening when Ruth simply disappeared; half an hour here, twenty minutes there...what the hell was she doing, or should that be, with whom?
In my mind's eye, I had again seen Ruth, curled protectively around her belly, flinching away from my touch. My heart plummeted as I considered what it might mean, if, and I concede that is still a very big if, she is indeed with child. The one thing I know for certain, is that it is not mine; it can't be, will never be mine. I can still hear, all these years later, the grave finality in the doctor's voice as he gave me the news…
When Sarah had announced her condition, I had been appalled – at the time, we had only been together once, and then only at her instigation. "Once is all it takes," she had informed me crisply, and thus had successfully pulled the wool over my eyes long enough to secure both my hesitant, awkward proposal, and my grandmother's ruby engagement ring. A few weeks later, she told me that it "had been a false alarm after all", and from that moment I had felt trapped, my mother's bitter words echoing constantly in my ears…"How could you, Malcolm?" Afterwards, I had determined never to be taken in like that again, and in my pain and despair, I had gone off to see a doctor, with the idea of doing something permanent about it. I was very young, I knew, for that sort of thing, but the humiliation I had suffered at Sarah's hands was simply more than I could bear. The doctor had been sympathetic, seeing my devastation, but had been reluctant to proceed: hoping to buy some time, he had sent me off for 'standard tests', to my great embarrassment and mortification. And that is how I came to find out that the Wynn-Jones name will die out with me.
I had been in a state of shock at the time; the wish to protect myself from being deceived again was quite different from the unexpected and harsh reality my innocent enquiry had produced. It had confirmed my deepest fears: I'm different from other men, and, No woman will ever want me now… Over time, though, it had become just another reason to avoid relationships, and stay safely within my shell, watching as my fears became self-fulfilling prophecies. Now, at nearly forty-seven, I have long since come to view it as one of Nature's cruel jokes, and even to accept it, inasmuch as any man ever can. And as my life to date attests, it hasn't made one whit of difference, until now. Until Ruth.
"Malcolm?" her voice sounded worried; and in my tormented state, her presence was suddenly intolerable. I had sat up, with the blanket sliding off my shoulders, and looked her in the eye. "I'm fine, just a bit of a headache…why don't you go and get ready for work, and I'll drop you at the station." We had discussed this last night; we can't be seen arriving together, so the plan is for Ruth to make her way in by Tube. She looked at me, her eyes searching. "Why do I have the feeling you're not telling me something?" I stood up and crossed to the door, unable to continue the conversation; it was only with the greatest difficulty that I managed to refrain from bursting out with my suspicions and fears. The one thing stopping me was the hope that it might not be true, that there might be some other perfectly reasonable and rational explanation. That, and the fact that if I say anything, I will destroy the best thing that has ever happened to me; it is for Ruth to tell me, or not. But I couldn't bear to be near her, not until I had gotten the seething turmoil inside me under tight control. It's simply too painful.
Ruth asked the question again, and I shrugged in reply, unable to speak or look at her, before going upstairs to begin my workday routine. By the time I had come out of my dressing room, she was showered, dressed, and packing her oversized tote. Turning around as I walked into the bedroom, she had gasped, "I'd nearly forgotten what you look like in work clothes… it's funny how much things can change in a week." I forced a smile, her innocent words like barbed darts in my current state, and picked up her bag to take to the car. "We'd better get going, then," I told her, striving for a normal tone of voice, and she looked disconcerted; usually we would eat breakfast in the conservatory together, but today I couldn't wait to get out of the house, and away from the scene of so much happiness, now hanging in the balance. After a moment, she had nodded, and meekly followed me out the door.
There was a frost this morning, and mist hung over the Heath like a gossamer veil, low where the ground dipped, clinging to trees and hedgerows. As the sun had risen, the mist took on a rosy hue, and small details stood out with unusual intensity; a cobweb pearled with dewdrops in the corner of the portico; the bright flash of a robin's breast as it hopped from one branch to another; a grey squirrel rippled swiftly across the crisp white of the lawn. The Rover, even garaged, needed a while to warm up, so I pulled the choke out all the way, and the engine started to purr. In the passenger seat, Ruth was silent, bag clutched on her lap, looking out the window; we said nothing until I pulled up at Hampstead Tube station.
I had waited for Ruth to get out, keeping the engine idling; even at this early hour, commuters were starting to trickle into the station, bundled against the cold. Ruth thanked me for a lovely week, and my heart had squeezed tight with remorse at the uncertain tone I heard in her voice; she's never seen me like this before. She leant over to kiss me, but I only offered her my cheek, hands gripping the steering wheel as I fought the impulse to sweep her up in my arms and forget everything that has kept me awake all night, but there is too much at stake. I could see that my behaviour was puzzling her; her eyes rested on me for a long moment, before she got out and walked quickly into the station. Once she was out of sight, I had swung the Rover out from the kerb, and headed for Thames House, through the dissipating remnants of fog; I felt distinctly foggy, myself, after a sleepless night of the worst sort of speculation…
Dimly, I become aware that Ruth is speaking to me, here and now, in the tea room. "Those belonged to Sam," she is saying, and I look at the half-empty packet of chocolate bourbons that have somehow appeared in my hand. "Malcolm? Malcolm, I'm worried about you…you don't seem to be yourself today."
"Yes, that seems to be going around at the moment…people not being themselves. Or perhaps, in fact, they are…"Ruth stares at me in bemusement and I realise I must have spoken aloud. Flushing, and before I can say anything more revealing, I walk away, biscuits in one hand, mugs of tea in the other. Behind me, Ruth bangs her mug onto the bench, not quite loud enough to mask her muttered imprecation of "Men, they're all impossible, why do I even bother?"
Colin's face registers surprise as I plonk the biscuits down on the return between us, before handing him his cooling tea. "Weren't those…"he begins, and I say irritably, "Sam's? Yes, apparently. But she's not here, and we are, so why let them go to waste. Tuck in!" I take three, and turn back to my array, working through my inboxes, catching up on the week that was on the Grid. I am busily filing, categorising, and flagging, when Colin parks himself on the edge of my desk. "Malcolm," he begins, his voice solicitous. I keep working, eyes fixed on the screens in front of me. He repeats my name, and I say, "Haven't you got something pressing to do?" my tone warning him not to push it. "Fine, then. Suit yourself, be like a bear with a sore head," he tells me, heading back to his workstation. Five minutes later, his email announcing the amnesty for returning accountable items (one week, he writes, or else we're coming after you like the KGB cleaning an operation…) pings into my inbox, followed shortly after by another one, this time with nothing in the subject field.
Are you OK? Colin writes.
Yes, fine. I type back, after a few minutes.
You don't look fine. The Cricketers for lunch?
Thank you, but not today. I just want to be left alone, I add mentally.
Colin drops it after that, to my relief, and shortly after that we are summoned to the briefing room. I steel myself to face Ruth, but she isn't there, just Adam, Fiona, and Harry. Adam takes the lead, explaining there have been racially-motivated riots on a housing estate in the East End overnight. He and Fiona are preparing to go undercover with the British Way, him as one of the rank and file, her on the other side of the fence as a PR agent with Sampson; they will require fully stocked legends and backstories. "Make up whatever you fancy for me, the rougher and readier, the better, but Fiona will tailor her own, and come to you for the fiddly bits; wallet litter, ID, photos, the usual."
Colin nods and makes a couple of notes on the dossier that Fiona slides across the table to us; I gaze at the table in front of me, reluctant to look at Harry, fearful of what I will find. Legends, stocking backstories, convincing-looking bits of paper to stick into wallets belonging to people who don't exist…year in, year out, this is what I do, and I do it jolly well; so why am I having such difficulty focusing on even the simplest tasks, today? Both Adam and Harry shoot enquiring glances at me, but I refuse to meet their eyes. On the way out of the room, Harry detains me. "Malcolm. A word, if you don't mind?" Actually, I damned well do mind, I think, even as I stop at the doorway and turn to look at him, my face as neutral as I can manage, given the circumstances. Harry cocks his hip and half-sits on the polished conference table, arms crossed, gazing steadily at me. I can't help it; I can feel the blush rising in my face under Harry's unnervingly silent scrutiny, his hawk's eyes as opaque as obsidian now. After what feels like a very long minute, he speaks.
"Have a good week off, did you? Where was it this time…the Highlands, or down to the West Country?" Stammering nervously, I answer, "N..n…neither. Actually, I just stayed home. I had a lot to do in the garden…" Harry nods, his face as blank as stone, but I know him well enough to notice the slight twitch of his foot at the word garden. "Are you feeling up to it, today? You don't seem to be on your usual form." I nod, hastening to reassure him that everything's fine, I just had a bad night's sleep due to an asthma attack. He frowns at this. "Do you need to see the MO?" I shake my head, unhappy at the turn this conversation appears to be taking. Seeing the Medical Officer is bad enough when compelled to attend for my annual physical; nice lady though she may be, I have no wish to see Dr Chapman more than once a year, when we all must endure what Harry calls "getting MOT'ed" and I consider to be a gross invasion of my personal and physical boundaries. "No, I'm perfectly fine, thank you." Oh, what a liar I am turning into…I hate it!
"In that case, I've got a couple of extra tasks for you. I want you to keep an eye on our young friend Zaf – he's going to be running a dirty tricks campaign on Sampson, and I for one would appreciate some reassurance that he's not going to get up to anything too outrageous, so if you could shadow him – electronically, of course – that would be one less thing for me to worry about. We're aiming to disrupt the man's life, not recreate the Profumo affair…" I nod my understanding and acceptance of the task, and wait to hear what else Harry has in mind. "I'm afraid you've drawn the short straw, though, for this next job. It comes of just having had a week off, leaving us all in a jam."
My heart nearly stops at the mention of jam, before I realise Harry is just using a figure of speech, with a slight twinkle in his voice: Oh, he's joking with me! "You're the night duty officer for this op. I want someone experienced and sensible on the Grid – Adam and Fiona are in the field, Zaf will be God knows where, I have to do battle with Juliet, who's proud as Lucifer now she's attained the exalted rank of National Security Coordinator, we're still short staffed...and Fiona asked for you, besides." My face must show my surprise – Fiona has never demonstrated much interest in me or my abilities, other than in passing, and Harry explains, "She's still a bit shaky, poor girl, and she's very worried about Adam – the elements he'll be mucking in with are a lovely lot of louts, and she said she would feel better if she knew you were watching over him. Night's the danger time, you know – that's when they hold their meetings, then go out to do the devil only knows what under cover of darkness, fuelled by the lunatic ravings of William Sampson. It's like being in Northern Ireland all over again, only this time it's our fellow Englishmen who are betraying us."
Touched by Fiona's faith in me, I reply, "Of course, I'd be happy to do anything to help put her mind at ease. Was that all?" Harry straightens up by way of reply, putting both feet on the floor with a familiar grunt, half in pain, half in protest at the unwelcome reminder of the limitations of his battered body. Before I can check myself, I ask, "Knee playing up again?", my voice tinged with concern, and Harry glares – I had forgotten that he hates any reference to his own aches and pains – before admitting that it is. "Glucosamine, twice a day. Mother swears by it," I advise him, and he chuckles, despite his discomfort. "While I just swear at it, I'm afraid. When did we become so old, Malcolm? It seems like only yesterday I was doing ten mile runs with full kit, in the Dragoons. I thought I was immortal then, but now if I hop off the table the wrong way, my knee will give me gyp all day." He grimaces at the thought as we leave the room, his behaviour more relaxed than it's been since the day Danny died.
And there it is, the notorious, self-deprecating and totally disarming, Harry Pearce charm offensive, I muse, walking back to my desk. It still works on me, so I can only imagine its effect on susceptible females…that's the trouble with him, he's so damn likeable, and when he lets his guard down, I can see the sort of man he would have been, if not for the life of self-discipline and self-denial which he has chosen: Country before all else. That's been his motto, his life, and his ruin, for the last thirty years. Unlocking my system as I sit down, I am not entirely surprised to see a heavily encrypted email from Ruth, sent just after I went into the briefing.
So, who are you, and what have you done with Malcolm?
I stare at it for a long time, before reluctantly replying, Sorry. Just not feeling A-1 at Lloyds today.
You're not an ocean liner, and I'm not a mind reader. Can you be a bit more specific?
Not really, and certainly not in this medium.
OK. Let's talk later, shall we? x
I don't respond immediately; I don't want to get caught up in the tendrils of an email conversation with Ruth, when we both have work to do. Instead, I busy myself with making the preparations necessary to keep track of Zaf's activities - discreetly, that goes without saying – and then Fiona sends me a list of her requirements. I reply, advising that everything will be ready by 16:00, and hesitate, before writing Cheers, Malcolm, instead of my usual Kind Regards. Fiona answers, Excellent, thankyou! :) which, while certainly not a properly formatted communication, makes me smile in spite of myself.
Next, I turn my attention to Ruth's last missive, but before I can answer it, Colin returns, a determined look on his face. "Server room, now," he orders, in a voice that will brook no opposition, no pulling rank or standing on ceremony. With a groan of protest, I follow him into the chill, still air between the stacks. "It's gone, again," he informs me, and at my puzzled look, he clarifies, "The Tessina…un-bloody-believable. It was there when I did the audit, a day ago. I've just been in the cage with a handful of earwigs that Adam had stashed in his desk and 'forgotten' until he read my email, and it was gone… I've had it, if I have to sift through all the CCTV footage on the Grid for the last forty-eight hours, I'm going to find the culprit. I'd really like to know how they got in there in the first place – only you and I have access to that area, and obviously it wasn't either of us." Colin's dander is well and truly up; he is pacing as he talks, and his eyes glitter, behind the lenses of his spectacles. I am only half listening, my mind elsewhere: the Tessina means only one thing to me. Ruth. Colin comes to a standstill and peers at me, perturbed. "Earth to Malcolm! Come in…" I look at him vaguely, and he sighs in exasperation. "It's her, isn't it. You've gone doolally, because of Ruth. Don't say I didn't warn you…so, what's happened?"
For a heartbeat, the temptation to unburden myself almost wins out over my natural reticence; it would be such a relief to talk it over with him. I can't, though; it would be a complete betrayal of her hard-won trust. I would make a rotten field spook… Colin moves closer, impatient at my lack of response. "Let me guess…" I hold up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "I'm not discussing this. I can't, and I won't." Colin blinks at the coldness of my tone, before retorting, " I really don't want to go there either, but I'm worried about you." I don't know what to say to that; I've never had a friend like Colin before, and I don't want to upset him, but I know that the worst thing I could do would be to talk about Ruth behind her back.
He looks away after an uncomfortable silence, and says, "OK, then. That was properly awkward." Even through my anxiety, I am deeply touched, so I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile; he doesn't look convinced, but turns away, heading back to the Grid. Just as we are about to leave the server room, I remember something. "About the Tessina – leave that to me." He shrugs his assent, and stalks out. I can tell he's not pleased, but I had no choice; a gentleman, my grandfather once told me with a solemn wink, must learn to keep his own counsel, where women are concerned; and he set an excellent example. Never once did I ever hear him complain about or even discuss Grandmamma, or refer to her as anything other than, "My dear". I have a lot to live up to…
Returning once more to my workstation, I finally write back:
It will have to be much later, I'm afraid - I've got night duty for this op. This is going to be a very long day…but needs must, where one's colleagues are concerned, and when HP hath commanded.
There is no reply.
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
A/N: The lines are from Sonnet 137 by Shakespeare.
For un-nautical types, 'not feeling A-1 at Lloyds' is an expression based on the Lloyds Shipping Register, held in London. An A-1 classification is for a top of the line vessel in tip-top order for insurance purposes, so conversely, if one is not feeling A-1 at Lloyds, it implies that one is not feeling at their best.