The operation against the British Way is a great success; over the next fortnight, the party tears itself apart as we play Sampson off against Moran, and the two of them off against the venerable, but still robust, democratic system which is one of Britain's greatest gifts to the world, if only we would take the trouble to appreciate it every now and then, instead of moaning endlessly about our present government. I am grateful to have drawn night duty, for I am finding my house unbearably lonely without Ruth. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of her. My music room is the only place which I had not shown her, unable to overcome my instinctive need to retain some vestige of privacy, and I retreat to it often, hiding away in a world of sublime sound that no longer quite reaches my soul. I spend my days, once I have caught up on sleep as best I am able, either working in my garden to proof it against the ravages of winter, now rapidly approaching with each frosty morning, or rambling over the Heath, clad in its glorious autumnal raiment of scarlet and gold, the tawny leaves an ever-changing tapestry that lines the same woodland paths that Keats and Fanny Brawne wandered together, more than two centuries ago.
I am used to solitude, and for most of my life have actively sought it, but now it only serves to remind me that Ruth is in Cheltenham, doing whatever it is that one does when sent undercover into the country's main signals directorate, while ostensibly there for another purpose entirely. I miss her dreadfully, and nowhere more than in bed. It's not the sex that I miss, although that is of course difficult, but her presence, the warmth of her curled up in my arms, the little noises she makes in her sleep, the happiness I feel when I wake in the night and see her there beside me, as solid and real as the old four-poster itself. Gripped by loneliness and longing, it is easy to forget my fears and misgivings, and remember only the best of her; that's what absence does, after all. It truly does make the heart grow fonder...
We do not have contact beyond the nightly all's-well message, for all the time that she is gone, for fear that some of the more paranoid elements she is dealing with, both at GCHQ and from the British Way, could be watching her. I live for that nightly call, those few seconds where we can connect, even though our words are scripted and few. In that moment, it is as if she is here beside me, her low voice thrilling in my ear, the subtext of her words an unspoken promise: I'm here, I'm alright, I will return. And then she is gone again, and I am left to wait, anxiously anticipating the next contact. I even miss Mother, who has called to tell me she will be staying on with her sister for a couple of weeks longer to take in an Arts festival in Bournemouth. I bless Aunt Emily, at this news, and make a note to send her something lovelier than usual from Liberty for Christmas, for in my present state of nervous distraction, Mother would be certain to notice, and tricky questions may be asked.
I see very little of anyone else, arriving on the Grid as most staff are leaving it; Colin and I cross paths every night, as he gives me the rundown on the day's events, and very useful it is, too; occasionally Zaf will still be there, if he hasn't already headed out to rattle Sampson's cage some more, or on yet another date – he's certainly a very optimistic young man, I'll give him that – and then there's Harry.
He really does seem to live on the Grid, often not leaving before midnight, spending most of his time in his office, doing the unglamorous but necessary paperwork that keeps Section D ticking over; the endless requisitions for more staff, for materiel, for assistance from other agencies, as well as the more mundane tasks which are the bread and butter of the Civil Service; reports to write, forms to sign (including no less than six S24 forms from Zaf, I believe, in the last ten days), the endless slime trail of bureaucracy that he loathes, and yet conscientiously completes after his real day's work is done, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie flung onto a chair. Sometimes, such as tonight, he comes into the tech suite, bearing mugs of tea and a plate of sandwiches coerced from the cafeteria after hours, and sits with me for a while as I work, shaking his head in grudging admiration as I run back-end system analyses and server diagnostics, while keeping an eye on the live feed coming in from the observation van parked outside Sampson's latest rally venue. Five's face recognition programme is active on another machine, looking for matches in the crowd which is listening appreciatively to the politician's seductive, but mad-as-a-hatter ideas; the whole hall is wired for sight and sound, thanks to Colin's fine work earlier in the day.
"I don't know how you do it, it's all Greek to me," Harry says, watching my fingers fly across the keyboard. I glance across at where he is seated, feet up on the desk, nursing his whisky, and wonder why he has not left; it is after eleven, and I know his driver will be wanting to get home to his new bride. An uncomfortable thought occurs: surely he's not waiting until Ruth has called in, before he leaves? Hard on the heels of that disquieting idea comes another, even more unsettling: maybe Harry is simply lonely, and looking for a spot of company before going home to his empty house. Oh, I can understand that…how I can understand it! Aloud, I reply, "Actually, it is. All Greek, I mean, or rather, Latin. Computare, to determine by mechanical means, you know…I often think how the ancient mathematicians would stare, to see what we're capable of today."
Harry's smile reaches all the way to his eyes, as he replies, "How on earth did we end up with you here, Malcolm, in this grey world of grey doings? Sometimes I think you've never really left the ivory towers of Cambridge behind…" I chuckle to myself; Harry's an old Oxonian, but I don't hold it against him. "You know why I'm here. Someone has to do all this," I reply, gesturing at the tech suite, at the machines blinking and flashing and beeping quietly around us, screens glowing in the dim light. Harry shakes his head. "That's not what I meant. I meant, why did you choose us? You could have done anything, gone into business for yourself, become an emeritus professor, or simply done nothing at all, and lived the life most of us only dream of; a private life, a life of leisure, or devoted yourself to learning, like a gentleman of the Enlightenment. Instead, you applied to Five, and while I'm very glad that you did, I have to admit I've never quite understood why."
I wonder how many tumblers Harry has sunk tonight, prior to the one in his hand; it's very unusual for him to ask such a direct personal question. I consider my answer while reviewing the results of the face recognition software, which has thrown up several matches: a rogue's gallery of undesirables, most of whom have long been under our watchful eye. Old skin-heads and anarchists from Thatcherite times, a handful of neo-fascists; I make note of them all to let Adam know who he is getting into bed with, so to speak, and then respond to Harry's question. "I think I had grand visions of becoming the next James Bond…but as it turns out, it seems that I was rather more suited to the role of Q, instead." Harry laughs, his deep voice warm and relaxed with whisky, and I join in: the idea of me in the field is indeed laughable, as I realised shortly after barely surviving the rigours of recruit training, but beyond that, it's a long time since we have talked like this, and Harry with his guard down and his head back, laughing heartily, is Harry as he should have been, before the Service got hold of him, and turned him into what he is today, formidable and fierce, and so very, very lonely.
Just then my headset beeps, and I focus my attention on the incoming call: Ruth! My heart leaps at the sound of her voice, but I keep my voice steady as I give the prescribed response to her all's well, and ring off. Harry tilts his whisky to and fro, admiring the amber depths, and enquires off-handedly, " Ruth still enjoying Cheltenham, then?", peering into the tumbler in his hand as if looking for the Loch Ness Monster. I nod once. "She's fine, and she called right on midnight." He heaves himself upright. "Is that the time? I suppose I'd better be off, then. Young Simpson will be anxious to get home, and Scarlett will be wondering what's become of me. Did you know, when I'm home too late too often, she gives me the silent treatment…I never knew that a dog could be as disapproving as any woman." With that, Harry bids me good night, and I am once more left alone on the Grid, just me and several million pounds' worth of cutting-edge technology, working through the night.
The operation concludes a day later, much to my relief, particularly as there has been a most unfortunate and regrettable incident involving one of our agents, a lovely lady who had been serving as Adam's contact in the community. Adam returns to the Grid to debrief with Harry as soon as he is able, looking bruised and battered as he comes through the pods, moving without his usual fluid grace, but stiffly, as if his back is giving him trouble. I greet him happily, pleased to see him, and he shakes my hand warmly. "Malcolm! You're a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you. And thank you, too, by the way, for everything, it meant a lot to me." I look at him quizzically, so he enlarges on this statement. "Fiona told me that you called her every night after hearing from me, to let her know I had checked in. She was so relieved to hear from you, that if I didn't know my wife was madly in love with me, I'd be worried…I'm joking, Malcolm, it's all right!" – this, as my face rapidly drains of colour and my palms turn clammy – "Cheers, is all I meant." Clapping me on the shoulder, and then wincing, he hobbles towards Harry's office, every inch the returning hero.
A short time later, I am ready to go for the night, meaning to head straight for wherever Ruth is, and bring her back home where she belongs, back to my house. I decide to look in on Harry before I head off, and as I approach his office, I notice that the door is open, and Adam's voice carries to me in the corridor leading to the inner sanctum, telling Harry about Moran abducting him, and to my utter disbelief, Ruth, flinging them unceremoniously into a white van and then turning them loose in the woods, only to hunt them like animals with a crossbow. "You should have seen her, Harry, with that bloody great branch held over her head and fire in her eyes, asking me if she should hit Moran again! She's got guts, I'll give her that…and she saved my life." I can't hear Harry's answer, as his voice is too low, but I do hear his laugh as he says, "I wish I'd been there to see that!"
I stand just outside the door, rooted to the spot in shock as I realise the danger Ruth has been in. Adam hadn't mentioned anything about this when he called in his final field report earlier today, just that he and Ruth were in the woods together with Moran, and that Moran had been incapacitated and captured. I had imagined that perhaps Moran had fled into the woods he knows so well, and that Adam, with Ruth somehow in tow, had given chase – field officers make some strange decisions in the heat of the moment – and that Moran had been brought to book by our tall, powerful, senior field officer, not our petite, gentle intelligence analyst. Adam is laughing with Harry, the strains and stresses of the last two weeks dissolving as the two men give themselves over to mirth for a moment. Hearing them is like listening to lions roar, a bold, brave sound, with an edge of happy ferocity that I have never heard in my own, rather more timid laughter. Out in the corridor, I slump against the wall, weak at the knees as I picture the scene described by Adam.
…trussed like sheep ready for the spit, they had been thrown out of the van, landing awkwardly, flat on their backs, and in the eerie silence that had ensued after the van rumbled off through the mud, they had managed to get free of their bonds before realising that Moran was stalking them, bow at the ready. Nobly, Adam had instructed Ruth to flee, arguing that Moran wanted him more than her, and she had scuttled off into the trees. Moran had confronted him, loosing a bolt that would have transfixed Adam if it had found its mark, and in the seconds it took him to reload, Adam had charged, only to trip on the uneven ground and fall. Gloating, Moran had loomed over him for the kill, until Ruth had felled him with a well-aimed blow to the back of his head with a branch nearly as long as herself, panting with the effort as she hefted it aloft again, eyes blazing with primal intent: kill or be killed, the law of the jungle…
I can see it all too well, and it terrifies me. I have long suspected that Ruth is one of the warrior band, beneath her meek and mild demeanour, and have dreaded just such an incident occurring, something that would stir up her stated desire to be a real spook, whatever she thinks that means. To me, the work that we do from the safety of the Grid, or the back of an observation van, is every bit as much spycraft as the most hair-raising field operation, and I do not quite understand why Ruth seems to have a need to insinuate herself into the rough and dangerous world beyond the walls of Thames House, nor why Harry seems to be encouraging her along this frankly alarming career path. I would do anything to keep her safe, to protect and watch over her, but Harry's cavalier attitude of late where Ruth is concerned is incomprehensible to me.
As these thoughts pass through my mind, I am consumed with one overriding need: to see her again, to hold her and breathe her in until my heart stops aching with fear for her and I can once more sleep with her safely in my arms, where she belongs. Pushing myself off the wall, I turn sharply and head for the pods without saying a word to the two men still laughing uproariously in the inner sanctum. Whisky, I suspect, might have something to do with their continued merriment. I collect my coat and leave, slipping out of the Grid as quietly as a mouse, and it is not until I gain the sanctuary of my car that it occurs to me that I don't know where Ruth is. Logic dictates that the officers who retrieved Adam and Ruth from the woods would have taken her back to Kennington, so I decide to head in that direction. Before setting off, I try to call her mobile phone, but there is no answer. I ring off before it goes through to voicemail, and turn the ignition key; better to just go, I decide. I make a small detour on the way, but half an hour later, I am pulling into Ruth's street, heart beating nervously in anticipation of our reunion. There are so many questions I would like answered, so many things I would like to know…schooling my unruly thoughts, I gather my courage and walk up to her front door, the package in my coat pocket a small, but solid, weight.
I knock twice, then ring the bell, before I see her shadowed form through the frosted glass. "Ruth? It's me," I call softly, and then comes the noise of bolts sliding back and keys turning in locks, before the door inches open, still on the chain, and she peers up at me. "Malcolm!" The door shuts as she unhitches the chain, then it swings wide as Ruth launches herself into my arms, almost knocking the breath out of me with her enthusiastic greeting. I half-carry her inside, somehow managing to toe the door shut behind us, and we walk down the hall to her cosy, if cat dander-ridden, sitting room. The cats in question are not present, and I surmise that Ruth must have put them into boarding while she was away; and then I cease to think at all, as Ruth kisses me, her hands in what's left of my hair, her body pressed urgently against mine, until I sink onto the sofa, my knees jelly for the second time tonight, and she shifts her position until she is sitting astride my lap, smiling at me from beneath her lashes as she unties the sash of her dressing gown.
As she shrugs her way out of the garment, she gasps in pain. "Are you alright, my love?" I ask, and she winces. "Had a bit of a fall earlier today, you know how clumsy I am," she replies, and I roll my eyes; does she really think I won't have heard, by now, about her misadventures in the field? Digging in my coat pocket, I pull out the small packet I stopped to pick up, and hand it to her. She gives me a puzzled look, before opening it and extracting a brown glass jar. She reads the label out loud, "Arnica ointment", before unscrewing the lid and sniffing the contents. Her face registers her surprise. "Roses?" I flush slightly, and not just because of the warmth of the room, or the tantalising proximity of her body, clad in her favourite sapphire silk pyjamas (my birthday gift to her, earlier this year).
"Well, arnica itself, while effective, is not exactly pleasant, so I asked the apothecary to add some rose attar as they were compounding the ointment. I thought you might appreciate the fragrance, and would therefore consent to use it on your bruises…" Ruth leans forward to kiss me, her breasts brushing my chest as she does so, and murmurs, "So you found out. I should have known Adam wouldn't be able to keep it to himself. I don't deserve you, truly I don't…thank you." Becoming bolder, I add, "It's best applied after a good soak in a hot bath. Perhaps you would allow me…" "It's lucky I've just had one, then," she says, sliding awkwardly off my lap, before taking my hand and leading me upstairs. I shuck my coat on the way, letting it fall onto the banister, and by the time we are in Ruth's bedroom, I have almost forgotten the way we had parted, with things left unsaid and uneasiness between us. Almost.
After a long day at work, I decide to have a quick shower before joining her, so she fetches a towel from the airing cupboard and tells me not to be long, with a look on her face that makes the blood sing in my ears. I'm not, and a few minutes later I reappear in her room, towel cinched securely around my waist. Ruth, meantime, has stretched herself at full length beneath the duvet; her pyjamas are tossed over the slipper chair in the corner, and the bedside lamp is lit, casting a soft glow. The jar of ointment stands conveniently close at hand on the dresser with its scholarly mice carved in oak, and picking it up, I kneel on the bed next to her and say, "Ready?" She turns her head to look at me, and asks, "Are you?" as I fold down the duvet, and draw a sharp breath, shocked at what I see.
The fine skin of her back and buttocks, normally the colour of fresh cream, is livid and angry, covered by a scarlet mass of contusions, with deep grazes across her shoulders where she must have landed upon her unceremonious removal from the van. Already some of the bruising is taking on an ugly blue-black tinge around the edges; no wonder Adam was moving with difficulty, the analytical part of my brain observes, as I reach out gingerly to trace the outlines of the damage. She flinches as I touch her, and I apologise, withdrawing my hand as if she is made of fire, reminded of the last time we were in bed together and she rejected my advances. Regarding me steadily over her shoulder, Ruth says, "We'll be here all night if you're going to apologise every time you touch me. I'm sore everywhere, so don't worry, you're not going to make it worse. I'll grit my teeth, or bite the bedclothes, or something, if it gets unbearable…"She gives me a lopsided grin, and I am moved nearly to tears at the sight of it. Leaning forward, I kiss her gently. "Fy nghariad dewr," I tell her tenderly – my brave love – and unscrew the lid of the ointment, anointing her from nape to buttocks with light, circular motions, careful not to apply any more pressure than is strictly necessary.
The room is warm, indeed the whole house is warm, thanks to the modifications I made months ago to the central heating, and she is soon half-asleep under my ministrations. As I work, I look at her, noting that her waist is still trim, and she is lying happily flat on her front. She is so beautiful to me, bruises and all. When I have covered every square inch of her back with ointment, and the room smells rather like my garden in June, I begin to work it in as tenderly as I can. Ruth is silent, only the involuntary twitching of her muscles beneath my fingers indicating the discomfort she is in. My hands slide over her skin, and despite my concern for her, my body is beginning to react in ways I would rather it didn't, not tonight. When the ointment on her back has been thoroughly absorbed, I move lower, and a hiss escapes her as I lightly apply some more to the gluteals. A muttered "Sorry," escapes me, but she shakes her head. "It hurts, but in a good way…if you know what I mean?" I can't imagine any kind of pain hurting in a good way; I spend my life actively trying to avoid physical pain. "It's like the relief that comes with finally scratching an itch, even if you know you shouldn't really." I nod, and concentrate on working the medication deeply into the muscles now bunching at my touch. Ruth sighs. "Just a little harder, there," she directs, and when I oblige, she groans in what I hope is pleasure, and the sound sets my already overstretched nerves tingling in recognition. Forget it, I order myself sternly, not tonight, not when she's been thrown out of a van, terrorised and injured and forced to run for her life…and certainly not until I have ascertained the truth of the situation, or if there even is a situation…
"So, what was it you wanted to talk about, the day I left for GCHQ?" Ruth asks unexpectedly, and I blink – it's as if she was reading my mind! – before stammering, "I…it's…nothing. It doesn't matter now." The blue eye that is trained on me over her shoulder narrows, taking on a laser-like quality. "Malcolm. Please. Tell me." Her voice is low, and I recognise her 'no-nonsense' tone, the one she adopts when dealing with Harry's more combative moods. Sitting back, I re-tuck the towel around my waist, and consider how to proceed through the minefield which has suddenly appeared before me, here in one of the safest places I know. "You were behaving very strangely, the last night we were together. Why were you sleeping downstairs, for a start?" She partially rolls over, propping her head on one hand, and waits. Distracted by the new and enticing view before me, I can't think properly, so I turn to sit on the edge of the bed facing away from her, and attempt to strategise. Ruth tries a different tack.
"You were surprised to see me at dinner, that night, even though you had asked me to join you…why?" I look down at the rug beneath my feet, and say, "I didn't think you'd be able to come, that's all. I know what it's like when things start to happen on the Grid, and Harry wants everything yesterday, and intel is flooding in…" And because you had sounded positively delighted to be there, late and alone with Harry bloody Pearce… "But I told you, I got through everything faster than I thought, so I came to meet you." Her voice is eminently reasonable, but there is an interrogatory edge to it; she's beginning to sound more and more like Harry, or Adam. Calm, but determined to get at the truth, no matter what; it chills me to the marrow. "I know. I suppose I just didn't expect that you would be able to get away. And then, in bed, I thought you wanted to be left alone, so I did." I feel the mattress move as Ruth changes position behind me, and then her small hand is gripping my shoulder as she asks me to look at her. She has wrapped the top sheet under her arms and around her back, at least. I couldn't continue this conversation if she was naked; I don't think I could even string a coherent sentence together, so great is my longing for her.
"I know any sort of confrontation is difficult for you, sweetheart, but I'm worried. I've been worried for the last two weeks. I don't understand what was going on that night, all I know is that I woke up in the wee hours to find you gone, and then you couldn't wait to get me out of the house…you could barely look at me that morning. If I've done something to upset you, please tell me. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a mind-reader, Malcolm." As she speaks, she has moved to hug me from behind, wrapping herself around my shoulders, and now I slip my hands around her arms, my thumb stroking the soft place on the underside of one of her delicate wrists. She snuggles closer, and my thumb slides further up her inner arm, following the line of her radius and ulna in a rhythm I find soothing, as it moves over the smooth flesh. I don't know what to say: I have vowed not to speak to her of my fears, and she seems oblivious to their existence. I'm trapped...my chest begins to feel tight, and the warm weight of Ruth around me only serves to exacerbate the feeling, so I reach up to detach her arms from around my neck, and freeze as my thumb comes into contact with a small, elongated, hard shape beneath the skin of her left arm, a few inches above the elbow. I don't think I have ever noticed it before, and for a moment my mind runs wild with possibilities: it's a bug, or an explosive device, or a very sophisticated tracker…or… She stills as she feels my thumb exploring it, and sighs as I stand up, wheezing, and go downstairs to retrieve my inhaler from my coat.
When I return, Ruth is wearing her pyjamas, sitting up in bed, waiting for me. I feel self-conscious, still wrapped in a towel, so I take my undergarments to the bathroom and put them back on, and cautiously go back to Ruth, perching opposite her on the slipper chair. She won't meet my eyes at first, as I sit watching her. "I was going to tell you, but somehow I just couldn't find the right words…we've never really spoken about it." Her voice is so quiet I have to lean forward to catch her words. I think I know what she means by 'it' – the future. Our future, to be precise. Or lack of. I don't feel up to this conversation at all, but it would seem that Ruth is determined to plough on. I look at her imploringly, and her eyes widen as a new thought occurs to her. "Oh, Malcolm. You didn't think…I mean…you thought I was…oh, no."
My red face and averted gaze confirms that she is indeed following the right line of enquiry. Ruth watches me, her own face reddening, and then she breathes out slowly. "I don't quite know what to say. What will make this easier for you?" I look straight at her then, and say, "Tell me the truth." She sits up straight, offended at the implied suggestion that she would do anything else, and snaps, "Fine. The truth is, I had a bit of a scare a few weeks ago, of the sort that single, career-minded women with cats dread, and it made me realise that my Implanon was out of date. You're meant to replace it every three years, but I hadn't had much need to keep a close eye on that particular passage of time, until we got together. So I sorted it out, the week before I came to stay with you, and that Friday, something else came to visit as well, for the first time in three months…that's why I didn't want you to touch me, I felt sore and bloated and out of sorts."
I blush to the roots of my hair as I take in what Ruth is telling me. When I think I have a grasp on the facts, I ask, "So you weren't...erm…in a delicate condition, then?" She looks at me in amazement. "What a Victorian turn of phrase you do have sometimes. No, I wasn't…but I did think there was a possibility I might have been. Hardly surprising, really, seeing as you haven't been using anything either…" I didn't think it was possible to blush any further, but another wave of heat suffuses my face at her words. This discussion is taking a turn which is making me feel quite queasy: it's true, I haven't, but that was because I knew I posed no danger of any kind to Ruth, and assumed the same of her towards me; if she had insisted on it, of course I would have complied. I have been naïve and trusting, I can see, in allowing Ruth to set the nature and tone of our physical relationship, and I realise that I may have unwittingly exposed my deepest secret by doing so.
Ruth, studying my face, suddenly puts a hand over her mouth. "Oh, you did, you really did think I was…I'm so sorry, Malcolm. Are you terribly disappointed?" I think I might go mad if I have to hear any more of this, but before I can pull myself together enough to leave, Ruth is out of bed and kneeling on the floor in front of me, her eyes huge with emotion, her hands seeking mine, which I promptly tuck into my armpits. "Don't, Ruth. You're not sorry." My voice sounds as if it is coming from a very long way off, and her face goes slack with shock as I speak. "Why would you say that? Of course I'm very relieved not to find myself in that situation, but I didn't think you would react like this…most men would be pleased to have dodged that particular bullet…but you're not like most men, are you?" Her voice reflects the confusion and pain in her eyes, and with a great effort of will, I force myself to remain calm. She doesn't understand how she is hurting me, because she doesn't know, I remind myself; she thinks I am disappointed and upset because I had believed her to be carrying my child, not someone else's, that's all she means by 'you're not like other men'. One thing in particular has the unassailable ring of truth to it: Ruth is indeed relieved, if not outright overjoyed, not to be in that particular boat. I can't say I'm surprised. I have never seen her as that type of woman; it's one of the things that attracted me to her in the first place, and one of the reasons that I haven't raised the subject of what our possible future might look like, for in my dreams, ours is a future built only for two.
"Come to bed," she pleads now, "I've missed you, these last two weeks." I look down at her, and just as I am about to concede, won over by her earnest entreaties, and driven by my own gnawing desire, I remember something else: the Tessina. What on earth was she doing with it, and how did she manage to get her hands on it in the first place? And why? Why all the subterfuge and skulduggery around obtaining it? What is she really up to? Colin's words float to the top of my memory: Ruth would be enough to do anyone's head in… and then there's the way she just disappeared, the day that Harry sent her back to GCHQ, and that note of suppressed excitement in her voice when she had called to say she was detained late at work, the night before...and what was Harry doing, anyway, wanting someone on the inside there? And why does he seem content to allow Ruth to dictate her own career path? But it is the Tessina, in the end, that gets me on my feet, back into my clothes, and down the stairs, after telling Ruth that I can't stay, not tonight, and as she watches, astounded, I depart, going out into the damp chill of the late September night, wraiths of fog already starting to form in the lower-lying parts of London. I don't know where this leaves us, only that a crack has started to form in my heart; one that could either be mended, or else tear wide open, depending on what sort of use it is put to, the next time I see Ruth.
Alone in my bed once more, I toss and turn, until I abandon the idea of sleep altogether, and have recourse to one of my favourite books instead: Great Expectations. Never has the story of Pip's hopeless love for the beautiful, but cruel, Estella resonated with me as it does now, and I finally fall asleep with Dickens' words ringing in my mind…'I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be'…
A/N: Implanon is the UK trade name for a particular brand of subdermal contraceptive implant, in common use at the time these events take place.