A/N: With this first update for 2014, I'd like to wish everyone a Happy New Year! Malcolm, Ruth, Harry, Colin, and the rest of Section D is back for more of Hook, line and sinker, and there's lots of story to come, so please do settle in and enjoy - Airgead
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that the moment a man decides to have it out with his lover, said lover may suddenly become as scarce as snow in summer. Or so it seems, over the next four weeks. Whenever I'm on the Grid, Ruth is not: she's gone to a week-long cryptographers' in-service at GCHQ, or she's out and about working on Operation Meter, her pet project to recruit London cabbies as agents, an idea I consider to be both foolhardy and hugely risky, but one that Harry seems oddly enthusiastic about; or she's just nowhere to be found, for days on end. I can't very well ask her whereabouts, for it would be strange to show too much interest in someone who is to all intents and purposes, only a colleague: how much easier things would be, I often find myself thinking wistfully, if we were just like any other couple who also happen to work together…like Adam and Fiona, or even Zoe and Danny; no-one would have turned a hair if Danny had enquired as to Zoe's whereabouts. They were friends and flatmates: Ruth and I are so much more, and yet she insists on this elaborate fabrication...it's almost as if she is maintaining a legend, one which has long since lost its allure for me.
Outside of work, Ruth is proving to be equally elusive; her mobile phone goes straight to voicemail, and her home phone rings out as if the answerphone is not connected. I don't want to go uninvited to her house, while things are still uneasy between us. If she is working, then she must be working around the clock, but my instincts tell me that she is doing that most Ruth thing of all, and slipping out of reach like a trout twisting free from the angler's net, as soon as things become too much. Ruth moves between the hard cold truth of reality, and an ephemeral, intellectual world of her own making, I am beginning to realise, and I am not entirely sure in which continuum our relationship exists.
Even understanding her as I do, I am still deeply hurt, and not a little worried, by her determined evasion. All I want to do is talk with her, after all; what is she so afraid of? Still, there is no-one like a spook for avoiding unwanted contact, and Ruth is better than most field officers when it comes to flying under the radar, or dropping off it altogether. So much for trying to take charge of things, and be assertive: now, I will just have to be patient. My request has evidently upset her. Unthinkingly, I used the exact turn of phrase that Sarah taught me to dread, and I lose count of the times I wish it unsaid, and for everything to be just as it was, before that last night together at Hampstead. Son, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride… my father's voice echoes in my memory often, over these weeks.
Colin, unsurprisingly, is unimpressed. "She's treated you appallingly, mate," he tells me over lunch at The Cricketers' one day, after he has watched me glance umpteen times at her empty workstation and then at the pods. I cut into my steak, and wrinkle my nose in distaste – overdone – before laying my knife and fork down, uninterested in food. Colin, on the other hand, has wolfed down a plate of pasta alfredo, and is now making his way through a large serving of plaice, peas, and chips. He really does have hollow legs, I think wryly, and reluctantly fork up some of the lumpy mash which accompanies the steak. I cannot bring myself to try the broccoli, which is khaki-coloured and looks as limp as boiled Army socks.
Washing his last bite down with a mouthful of beer, Colin continues, "Appallingly. Where's she been, the last few weeks, and why is Harry so laid back about her being away from the Grid? And what do you mean, you can't get in contact with her? Aren't you both meant to be in a relationship? With each other?" I draw fractals with my fork... so soothing, creating order out of chaos…in the rapidly congealing peppercorn sauce on my plate, and when I look at Colin, my face is hot. "She must have her reasons. Ruth doesn't like being cornered… I said something I ought to have had more sense than to say…I just wasn't thinking." Colin raises an eyebrow which somehow manages to be both cynical and enquiring, so I explain. He shakes his head, before turning his attention to the sweets list. "Apple crumble, I think, with custard and ice-cream… are you actually going to eat something today, or are you going to moon over that cold steak a bit longer? They do a nice sticky toffee pud here… go on, have a sweet."
I acquiesce, and when our plates are cleared, and the sweets ordered, he returns to the main theme. "Look, you know what I think. The question is, what are you going to do about it?" I straighten my spoon and fork, aligning them precisely two inches from the table edge. "There's nothing I can do, at present, except wait. She's either out in the field on Operation Meter, and reporting directly to Harry, or else he's got her doing something that he doesn't care to share… I can't very well quiz him about it, so my hands are tied." Our desserts arrive, and I surprise myself by feeling quite hungry at the rich aroma of hot toffee sauce poured over date sponge, topped with double cream and far more decadent than I would usually choose, but for once I decide to cast sensible dietary guidelines to the wind, and tuck in enthusiastically. Colin deluges his slab of apple crumble, plus ice-cream, with warm custard from the little jug the waiter has set down next to his plate, and wields his spoon with gusto. "We should have had nanotech trackers incorporated into everyone's clothing by now…it looked so good in the tests!" is his next comment, as he changes the subject.
I wince; the reason we have not proceeded is due to an issue with the spontaneous combustion of some of the test units; highly undesirable, for devices embedded in flammable textiles, and I say so. Colin finishes his apple crumble, and waves his spoon at me in protest. "I'm still working on it, these things take time…how long did it take Bill Gates to get Windows right?" I snort in derision, nearly choking on my pudding: as far as I'm concerned, it's still not right, and whenever a new update is released, I have my work cut out, rewriting it to mesh seamlessly with our systems. My systems, I suppose I should say. Colin grins, acknowledging my ironic mirth; we have spent many an hour coding for Windows, and he knows my views on the subject almost as well as I do. I would rather we write all our own programs, but the powers that be had vetoed this suggestion when I first made it a decade earlier, so Windows it is. The mention of nanotechnology reminds me of the Tessina, and I ask Colin where he is up to on that particular project. He nods, eyeing off the remainder of the pudding on my plate; warily, I turn the food towards myself, and continue to eat. "I'm going to fit a carrying-strap to the camera, with nanotransmitters woven into the strap itself. The next time it takes an unauthorised trip out of the cage, we'll know. The transmitters are activated by movement, and I've set up a dedicated terminal in the server room to track it." I call for the bill, and smile at my friend and colleague, pleased with this creative solution. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what happens next, then."
At that, Colin looks me straight in the eye, becoming serious. "Malcolm, don't wait too long. For Ruth, I mean. The longer you leave it, the harder it's going to be to talk to her. You're unhappy now, but I don't want to see you become miserable. The next time you see her, just say what you have to. It's better to get it over with, than to be forever waiting for the right moment. Time's a luxury we don't often have, in this job." My throat grows tight with emotion at the concern in his voice; to cover my embarrassment, I seize upon the bill which has just been set down, making my way quickly up to the bar to settle it before he can protest. Joining me, he tries to hand me some money, but I'm having none of it. "Please, Colin. I'm paying, and that's that." He shakes his head, but puts his wallet away, amused. "You're just as stubborn as she is, you know that? Even Harry thinks she's a mule, I've heard him saying it under his breath sometimes, after they've had a robust exchange of views." I open my mouth to defend her, but Colin holds up a hand, stopping me. "Just talk to her, would you? Do it for me, if for no other reason. I don't know how much more I can take…" At the look on my face, he claps me on the shoulder and says, "Ah, come on mate, I'm just joking. We'd better get back." Stepping onto the Grid, I see her desk is still empty; but for the first time this week, my heart doesn't plummet at the sight. Yes, I can wait…but not for much longer.
As it happens, I have my first sighting of Ruth the very next morning, but hardly under ideal circumstances: I have just interrupted one of her robust exchanges with Harry, this time about semantics, apparently, to bring him some distressing news. Unsure of how to break it to him, I simply pick up the TV remote lying near his right elbow, and tune the monitor to Sky News, saying, "You need to see this," stepping back as the newsreader announces the death of Clive McTaggart, Harry's former boss and friend of long standing. I knew Clive too; he had been Section Chief when I first started, all those years ago, and I had found him to be a kind man, full of integrity, yet with the sort of operational shrewdness that had seen him successfully managing the country's internal security in an era which had included a very active IRA and the long, slow death throes of Communism in Eastern Europe.
I am saddened by the news, but I have not seen or spoken to Clive in over a decade; Harry, on the other hand, is still in semi-regular contact, as far as I am aware. Clive has been ill with cancer for some time, and the news piece is concluding with the interim verdict of suicide, and at these words I see Harry's back and shoulders stiffen in anger. He doesn't believe it either, then. Nor had I, when I picked it up on the internal news streaming service, which the security services receive from all UK-based stations, five minutes before going out live; and a very handy thing it is, too, at times, to be able to kill a story just before it hits the airwaves, and thus becomes reality to the great British public. Adam, Fiona and Zaf are also in the room, and their attention turns to the screen, away from the vast pile of applications they have finally convened to sift through, in search of new staff for the Grid.
I glance at Ruth, seated at Harry's left side; her eyes dart towards him sympathetically, and then back at the screen. She does not look at me, but I didn't really expect her to, not with Harry sitting right there. Nevertheless, my heart starts to thump against my ribs at the sight of her, and the faint scent of her perfume, like a garden after rain, reaches my nostrils and sends my blood racing; I have missed her so much, and I want her so badly, that I can hardly think straight. My hands are trembling, so I tuck them into my pockets, afraid that someone will notice. It is almost a month since we were last together in the Biblical sense, and it would seem that my body has been keeping count of each lonely night… with a considerable effort, I force my attention back to what Harry is saying.
"Right. Get me a transcript of that news item, and anything else the media has to say about Clive, and have it in my office in ten minutes." Harry looks at me, sharp-eyed. "Malcolm? Are you quite well?" I blink; so he was addressing me, just then. "Oh, yes. Sorry. I'll do it immediately," I apologise, and leave the room as Zaf asks blithely, "So, who's Clive McTaggart, and why the hell should we care if he's offed himself?" I catch Harry's sudden intake of breath at this injudicious remark as I walk away, and then I am back on the main floor of the Grid, where I can just barely hear the cutting tone of Harry's voice in reply. A few minutes later, I have compiled everything I can find on Clive's death, and placed it neatly on Harry's desk.
The others come trooping out of the meeting room looking subdued, Zaf a couple of shades paler than usual; Harry makes a beeline for his office, and Ruth, after sitting down at her desk and fiddling about with some papers for a couple of minutes, gets up. "Ruth," I say her name out loud for the first time in weeks, hoping my voice sounds steady. She flicks a glance my way. "Leave him alone for a bit. He'll want to digest this particular bit of news in private…" She stares at me, and I flinch; it's like a stranger is looking through her icy blue eyes. "Thank you for your opinion, Malcolm," she replies coolly, and walks straight towards his office. I gaze after her, stunned at her dismissive tone of voice, bordering on rudeness, until Colin clears his throat indignantly, and an email pops up in my inbox.
That was bang out of order.
Well, it was a bit…curt, wasn't it?
Snooty cow. Who does she think she is?
Please. You know I don't like name-calling.
Sorry, only not really. Let her stick her head in the lion's mouth, then, and see how she likes it. He won't thank her for going in there, all hearts and flowers…
Anxiously, I turn back to my array and just for something to do, begin to run a diagnostic on the Grid's firewall. No penetration, although there have been more than fifty attempts today so far; I make a note of the IP addresses of the would-be hackers, and forward them to Colin to follow up, all the while wondering what is taking place in the gloom of Harry's office…
The rest of the day passes oddly, even by the Grid's standards. Ruth soon marches back to her desk, chagrined, and refuses to speak to either myself or Colin; shortly afterwards, Harry calls for his driver and heads out. Adam and Fiona, exchanging glances of the sort that pass between people who have been together for a long time, begin tapping their various contacts in the intelligence community for more information on Clive, neither of them having worked with him, and Zaf… Zaf is like a scolded puppy, eager to make good on his earlier gaffe. First he approaches Ruth to ask if there is anything he can help with; for once, she doesn't greet him with a smile. Instead, she snaps irritably, "Go and ask Adam, I'm busy." Cautiously, I peer over my monitor to see Zaf's look of pained puzzlement at this summary dismissal.
As Harry crosses the Grid towards the pods, on his way out, Zaf trots after him, presumably to ask the same question, and gets bitten for his trouble. "Are you, or are you not, an MI5 intelligence officer, a paragon of cunning and resourcefulness?" Harry enquires sarcastically. When Zaf nods, Harry simply glares at him. "Then why are you asking me for instructions? Show some initiative!" And then he walks into the pods, and any further mutterings and imprecations on the shortcomings of today's breed of security officers are cut off, as the bullet-proof glass doors whir shut. Ruth gets up and heads diagonally across the Grid, towards the ladies' bathroom, and in her absence, I see my chance; feeling sorry for the young man, floundering in waters that are well over his head, I call him over.
"If you're looking for something to do, I could really use some help here," I begin, and his face lights up. Normally, working with the geeks would be the last thing on his to-do list, but this morning's interactions with the others have left him looking rattled, and in need of a friendly face. Harry does not suffer fools gladly, even when the foolishness is not really their fault, and I doubt Zaf was even born when Harry first knew Clive. "Sure, Malcolm, that's cool… what do you need me to do?" Sighing inwardly at his use of the word 'cool', I instruct him in the running of an internet meta-search for anything to do with Clive. "Go deep," I tell him. "We're looking for needles of data in a digital haystack, but they're there, all the same. It's not like Googling something, you know. We have access to so much more information than that, so use it." He frowns, "Did Harry tell you to do this? It sounds like a lot of work." I give him a half-smile in reply.
"Harry doesn't have to. I've worked with him a long time, and I've learnt to anticipate what he's likely to ask of me. He doesn't believe Clive killed himself, and so I know I should be looking for other answers… as Agent Mulder would say, the truth is out there." Zaf laughs then. "Hey, I didn't think you'd be into The X Files, that's coo... I mean, great! I used to watch it when I was in school…" I hold up a restraining hand. "We can discuss popular culture later, but for now…" "Yeah, yeah, sorry. I'm onto it." And he is, too. I have a window open onto his system, just so I can keep a discreet eye on what he is doing, but from the strings of search results that begin to stream onto his screen, it seems that Zaf is doing his best to keep his nose clean with at least some of Section D. Evidently, Colin thinks so too.
Nicely handled, Mr Keating, you'll have him standing on his desk to look at the world from a different point of view next.
I chuckle to myself at the film reference – Colin had dragged me to a screening at a Peter Weir film festival a couple of years ago, unable to believe I hadn't seen it when it was first released, and to his satisfaction, I had enjoyed it immensely – and write back, Well, someone had to give him a bit of encouragement. Harry must have decimated him, earlier.
True. What's gotten into Ruth, anyway? She practically bit my head off in the tea room when I asked her to pass the sugar-bowl. And she's never been cross with Zaf before, poor kid looked like a puppy that's just been kicked.
I really couldn't say. I've only just seen her for the first time in four and a half weeks, and I haven't had an opportunity to speak privately with her.
You know how I said not to wait around any longer, and just to say what you have to, the next time you see her?
Yes. Why?
Change of plan: don't say anything today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. Wait till she's in a better mood, I reckon.
Thank you for your concern; now shall we see what Richard and Judy have to say, as well?
Hey, I'm only trying to look out for you. And since when did you know about Richard and Judy?
I know you are, and thank you. Mother watches them, from time to time, and then she tells me all about them, although I wish she wouldn't.
Ah. I thought you might have taken to doing a daily check of the morning chat shows, as well as the news-stream. Speaking of which, I'd better crack on.
Please. Exactly how much time do you think I have in the mornings, to wade through all that mind-numbing dross? Yes, we should get back to it.
I turn back to scrolling through terabytes of data, looking for clues to help us make sense of the murder of a thoroughly decent and upright man, who spent his life honourably serving his Queen and country. By early evening, neither Ruth nor Harry has returned to the Grid, Zaf has taken off, grinning, following a flurry of text messages, and Fiona and Adam have long since left to follow up with a couple of their most promising contacts. Colin logs off, and asks me what my plans for the evening are, with Mother still away and Ruth who knows where, doing I don't know what.
"Oh, I think I'll work for a bit longer, and then head home. Nothing too exciting. Maybe pick up a ready-meal on the way…" Colin frowns, "Why don't you leave now, and we can go to the pub for supper, get a proper feed into you?" I thank him for the offer, but I am really not very hungry, and at the back of my mind, a saying of my father's has been niggling all day long, awaiting my full attention:
Tender-handed stroke a nettle, and it stings you for your pains; but grasp it like a man of mettle, and it soft as silk remains.
I have been patient and tender-handed with Ruth, and it has brought me nothing but pain; now, I can see, I will have to grasp the nettle, and see if that will not bring about the rapprochement that I long for. To that end, I have resolved to go to her house tonight, and talk things through.
I work for a few more hours, until my stomach begins to remind me that, like it or not, humans are meant to eat on a regular basis, so I pop down to the staff cafeteria, open late for the benefit of the night staff, and get a portion of something that purports to be shepherd's pie, but about which I am highly dubious. Still, it is hot, and filling, and thus fortified, I decide to drive over to Ruth's. It is late, but not too late; and besides, what could be more natural than a lover wanting to see his beloved, after a long absence? At this time of night, I cross the city in less than half an hour, and pull into a parking space a few houses down, as is my habit. I get out just in time to see Harry walking up the front path; clearly, he is expected, for Ruth opens the door before he can knock, and pulls him inside eagerly, before looking into the street warily, and shutting the door quickly.
It would seem that I am not expected tonight, is my last coherent thought before my knees buckle, my diaphragm slams into my lungs like a swiftly closed book, and I hear the fearful whistling, wheezing sound of an all-out asthma attack issuing from my burning chest. I collapse back into the car, head spinning, desperately heaving for air, and grope frantically in the glove-box for my spare inhaler. Seizing it gratefully, I bring it to my lips and gasp and heave until the medication filters into my wretchedly useless airways, noting with a sort of detached interest that my fingertips have started to turn blue; this was a bad one, the sort that only a serious shock can produce. Slumping in the driver's seat, I close my eyes, fighting back tears, as much from the weakness caused by the asthma attack as from distress. Harry bloody Pearce. And Ruth, oh, my Ruth. Of course.
It all makes sense, now. The change in Ruth, over these last few weeks, culminating in her virtual disappearance, as soon as difficulties arose between us. Harry's leniency where she is concerned, indulging her harebrained taxi driver scheme and her sudden pattern of absences from the Grid; if it were anyone else, he would have long since read them the riot act. And speaking of acts, my mind whispers, how about Ruth's act, when she was trying to convince me that she was sorry she was not carrying my child, following her confession that she had 'had a scare' in which she had thought there was a chance she might have been pregnant; that's something that could only be possible if she were sleeping with someone else, because God knows, she'll never have to worry about that with me…and the hell of it is, I hadn't yet summoned up the courage to tell her about that particular… deficiency... so she can't have known that it wasn't mine; she was telling me exactly what she thought I needed to hear – just like Sarah, all those years ago – but to what purpose, if she is sleeping with Harry? What does she want with me, what kind of horrible game is she playing? Where does the Ball, and the Tessina, and that bizarre dance with Oliver Mace fit in, and then everything that happened after? (her breath, hot in my ear, her thighs gripping me urgently, the cool wood of the door at my back the only link to reality in a shifting world of warm flesh, wrapping around me like the tentacles of the Hydra…) Oh, why does it hurt so much, this stabbing sensation in my chest, this crushing weight pressing inwards, even after the medication has worked its magic, as must be the case if I am still breathing and still conscious? All these thoughts tumble pell-mell through my oxygen-deprived brain, until I can stand it no longer.
I have to get out of here, I have to leave, but when I reach for the ignition, my hands are shaking so much I can't get the key into the slot, and it occurs to me that I am in no fit state to drive. So I do the only thing I can think of: I call Colin, shakily apologising for the lateness of the hour, explaining that I have had a serious asthma attack. If he is suspicious when I disclose my location, he gives no indication, and five minutes later, he texts me from a cab: he's on his way. I close my eyes again, and will myself to forget what I have just witnessed, but the image is seared into my brain, and I feel as if I will never be able to see anything else again: it as if I have gazed into the sun until its brightness has burnt onto my retinas. Ruth, eagerly pulling Harry into her house, and then that furtive little look into the street; she must be as guilty as sin. In an attempt to regain some semblance of equilibrium, I concentrate on breathing, slow and deep, and it is the only thing that keeps me going until Colin arrives, strangely unfamiliar in a well-worn Arsenal jersey, jeans and trainers.
He knocks on the quarter-glass that I have opened for a bit of fresh air, looking at me worriedly, and I stagger out of the drivers' side and into the passenger seat without a word. He takes in my bad colour and the sheen of perspiration beading my forehead despite the coldness of the November night, and asks, in his cut-to-the-chase way, "It was major, this time, wasn't it? So what set it off, or is it obvious?" He gestures towards Ruth's house, now in semi-darkness. I open one eye, pleading with him wordlessly, and he starts the engine, after ratcheting the seat back a couple of notches to accommodate his longer legs. "OK, OK. I'll just drive, and if you feel like it, you can talk." He eases out from the kerb, and points the Rover's elegant nose towards home.
We proceed in silence until we reach my driveway, and once past the gates, Colin says "Malcolm," in a tone of voice that means business, the tone of voice of one who has been dragged out of bed to rescue a friend who has foolhardily ignored one's perfectly sensible advice about handling nettles (i.e., DON'T), and gotten thoroughly stung as a result. I keep both eyes shut tight, but it is no good. He pulls into the garage and shuts off the engine, dimming the headlamps. "I know you're awake, and I'm not lugging you inside, so c'mon, what happened?" I can't face telling him the ugly truth inside the house where I have recently been so happy with her, and so I begin to speak to the semi-darkness of the garage instead, my gaze fixed on the wall in front of me as I relive the terrible moment of betrayal.
"Harry arrived at her house, just as I was getting out of the car…she was waiting for him, Colin, she practically pulled him inside, and then…and then she checked the street as if she was afraid that they had been seen." He turns to look at me. "Is that all?" I can't quite believe my ears. "What more do you want? He arrived late at night, at her house, for an assignation…"My voice cracks, and I stop, unable to go on. Colin exhales, a long, slow, Lord-give-me-patience sound, and says, "But you don't know why Harry was there. He's her boss, she's his senior analyst…what we've got here is a cat in a box." Startled, I glance at him, and he elucidates, "Schrodinger's cat, remember? It could be one or the other, dead or alive, but you won't know which it is until you open the box."
I blink in sheer astonishment: no other possibility had even occurred to me, and yet here is Colin, by his own admission no fan of Ruth's, proposing another, eminently reasonable solution. "But…" But what? my logical brain interposes. Colin's right, I don't have all the information, so I can't draw empirical conclusions. Colin swings the driver's side door open, and I shake my head. "Please, take the car home. I'll pick it up from work tomorrow. I can get a cab into Thames House." He looks at me in amazement. "Are you sure? It'll be sitting out on the street all night…in Brixton…" I shrug as I get out. "Well, it's insured…and it's the least I can do, after dragging you out so late at night…thank you, Colin. You're such a good friend to me." He ducks his head in reply, watching until I have opened the internal access door and disarmed the alarm system, and I give him a tiny wave as he pulls out of the garage. Thank God for Colin, and his good sense, but even fortified by the realisation that I don't know exactly what Harry was doing at Ruth's house tonight, I spend a sleepless night imagining the worst. Finally, I give up and call for a cab, deciding to head into work early and find something useful to engage my overactive brain with.
The streets are still dark as the cab nears Thames House, but once inside and on the Grid, that sense of timelessness which imbues places which never completely shut down soothes me; it's like an international airport in the middle of the night, quieter, but still processing arrivals and departures, or like being on a ship, where someone is always awake and on watch. My nerves are frayed, both from last night's shock and from sleep deprivation, and at five-thirty a.m. I am the only person here, for which I am grateful, as I make a cup of abominable instant coffee and search the cupboards for something to eat. Nothing; between Zaf and Adam, the half-finished packets of biscuits which used to infest the tea room are now a thing of the past. I am unaccountably hungry, and it will be another hour at least before the staff canteen is open.
In desperation, I pull my overcoat back on and let myself out the back entrance of Thames House, heading over the river via the Golden Jubilee footbridge, and turning left, towards the Airstream café where Ruth likes to buy breakfast. Fortunately, they have just opened, and a few minutes later I am in possession of a gloriously hot and fragrant bacon and egg roll. I eat it perched on the stone parapet that runs along the riverbank, with my back propped against one of the intricately wrought dolphins twined around the black cast iron lamp-posts, looking upriver to St Paul's, barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom. There are certain advantages to being six feet tall, one of which is the ability to easily swing up onto a four-foot-six wall…I just don't choose to exercise it all that often, and I feel like a schoolboy who has gone out of bounds. If a patrolling police officer were to see me, I would most certainly be told to get down, but at the moment I can't find it within myself to care.
At this time of the day, I am struck by how much the city still looks like the London of which Dickens wrote, or one of Turner's later paintings, from this vantage point, with all the tall, modern, shiny steel and glass buildings of Canary Wharf shrouded by the fog rising from the Thames, and just a couple of barges moving along the river. It's very peaceful, and I allow the utterly familiar sounds of the waking metropolis to flow over me, with a deep sense of gratitude that at least some things remain constant, even at a time when nothing in my life seems certain. From further down the river, I hear the fog-muffled voice of Big Ben, chiming the quarter-hour; hopping off the parapet, I begin to walk back briskly to warm up after sitting on the stonework, as the damp cold has begun to seep into my bones even through the thick weave of my navy cashmere coat.
When I step onto the Grid again, it is humming with people, to my surprise; Harry is in, by the lights in his office, and I can just make out the silhouettes of Adam and Zaf leaning against the glass walls. I tense up when I see that Ruth's monitor is also on, and then I stop, stock still, and sniff suspiciously. Smoke? Cigarette smoke?! No one on the Grid smokes, to my knowledge, and yet my nose, overly sensitive to asthma triggers, is telling me that someone is, or just has been. I spot Ruth's scarf and coat, slung carelessly across the back of her chair – odd, she usually goes to the cloakroom first – and leaning slightly towards them, I realise they are the source of the offensive odour. But Ruth doesn't…
I hear footsteps coming towards me, and turn around to see Ruth with a man. A rather dishevelled, scruffy-looking man, with a shifty expression in his eyes, and accompanied by a miasma of stale cigarette smoke; what makes me really feel ill, however, is the body language between them. Ruth's, even more circumspect than usual, and his, overflowing into her personal space: if I am not very much mistaken, what I am seeing is the physical shorthand that exists between old lovers, one of whom does not care to have that fact made known to her colleagues. When the man opens his mouth, my suspicions are confirmed beyond the shadow of a doubt. "Hey, Roofie, who's this, then? One of your egghead chums?" He accompanies this polite remark with a jocular slap on her behind, and she frowns and steps away from him, blushing. "Malcolm, this is Gary Hicks, the journalist. He happened to be at Clive's house when…when he was killed. He saw the men responsible, and we need to identify them. This is a top priority. Orders from Harry." Over her shoulder, I see Hicks moving restlessly from one foot to the other, hands digging through his pockets. "Ruth, it's not even six a.m. and we haven't had a briefing; what's going on?" She looks directly at me, her eyes begging me not to ask questions, but I've had enough of being kept in the dark. Folding my arms and leaning against the edge of the desk, I wait.
Before Ruth can speak, though, Hicks jumps in. "See 'ere, Mal, Clive McTaggart asked me to come out to 'is because he was spilling 'is guts about the Service; I thought there might 'ave been a juicy story in it, but when I got there 'e was in the garden wiv a plastic bag over 'is 'ead and two goons standin' over 'im. They saw me, I scarpered, only just managed to give 'em the slip, and then I went over to Roofie's, cos I knew she worked for Five. She sent for her boss, and I told 'im the whole story, then two more of your lot showed up, and we all went off to a safe 'ouse for the night, and 'ere I am now, large as life, twice as ugly, and ready to look at computer-generated mugs wiv you. I'm dyin' for a smoke, too, so can we get on wiv it?"
Ruth nods, rolling her eyes, when I look at her for confirmation, and great waves of relief wash over me as Hicks' words - she sent for her boss, and I told 'im the whole story – sink in. So that's why Harry was there last night, and why Ruth looked so worried as she let him in. I am so overcome with thankfulness at this news, that I almost forget to reply. "Erm, right, I see. I've actually recently moved that program onto a laptop, so if you'd like to come with me,Mr Hicks? I'm Malcolm Wynn-Jones, by the way." I stress my Christian name; Mal, indeed. I think not! Ruth gives me a shrug and a half-smile – awfully sorry, old chap – as I shepherd Hicks away. Yes, thank you very much, says my answering look, as I take a discreet preventative puff of my inhaler, more cautious than usual after last night's episode. The cat, it seems, is very much alive, and I flush hot with embarrassment as I think of what Colin will say.
In the little alcove which formerly housed Colin's and my workstations, before HR re-purposed it (what an awful word!) into a 'utility space', whatever that means, I quickly boot up the laptop, and sit down on the hard black sofa next to Hicks, my nostrils pinching involuntarily at the heavy reek of smoke emanating from him, despite the cooler temperature of this space. Hicks notices my revulsion, and growls, "Yeah, I'm not too thrilled to be 'ere either, mate, so can we just get on wiv it?" He leans forward impatiently, peering at the screen; praying for patience, I explain that some parameters need to be established first in order for the program to work successfully, and ask for a detailed description of the first man. Hicks is less than cooperative, and seems to be so distracted by something or other that it takes a lot of cross-examination before we can finally begin.
The software produces its first batch of faces, and Hicks looks at them with a jaded eye. "Nah, none of them." I try again, and again. "Maybe that one…but he looked different. His face was a different size…something about the mouth, or maybe the eyes…" Hicks pats through his pockets absently, and pulls out cigarettes and lighter. "Different, how?" I enquire acerbically. "I only saw the guy for a second, I wasn't dating 'im, for God's sake!" I discreetly roll my eyes in annoyance, and then, to my horror, I see him put a cigarette into his mouth, preparatory to lighting up. Has this revolting little worm not heard of smoke-free workplaces, or the Occupational Health and Safety Act? I wonder, even as I deftly twitch the offending article away and break it in half as I do. "Sorry," I say insincerely, and urge him to return his attention to the screen.
Half an hour later, we have possible matches for both assassins, and Hicks, twitching as if he has St Vitus' dance, is led away to the roof by one of the security staff. "Stinking, nasty, dirty habit," I mutter under my breath as he goes. "I couldn't agree more," comes Ruth's voice from the other entrance, making me jump, "Any luck?" I hand her two printouts, and she scrutinises them closely. "Right, I'll need to run these through the security and Defence staff databases, see if there are any matches, but without raising anyone's attention…" Her voice rises enquiringly at the end, and with a sigh I answer, "See Colin, once he's in. He might be able to help with that. Ruth, I don't mean to pry, but…" She forestalls me, with "Gary and me, do you mean?" Blushing, I nod. "He was rather too familiar with you to be just a casual acquaintance, and I wondered…"
She sits down next to me (oh, how my aching heart pounds at her approach!) and stares at the floor, presumably gathering her thoughts; for me, it feels as if it were only yesterday that she was sleeping contentedly in my embrace, and at the same time as if she is worlds away…how is that possible? After a minute or so, Ruth turns her eyes towards mine; a friendly look, nothing more, but even so, it sets my pulse racing and makes me feel lightheaded; she is finally here, next to me, after weeks apart, and all I can think is, I have missed you so much…
"We met at university. He was a couple of years ahead of me, on a scholarship, but already a star of the student newspaper…he had so much integrity, back then, so much passion – he wanted to make a difference. When he graduated he went out to Kosovo, worked freelance there, and wrote pieces that would break your heart. We met up again when he came back, and, well, I had just started at GCHQ, I was lonely, and he was much more interesting than the people I was working with." Her eyes take on a defiant expression as she continues.
"So yes, we were together, in every sense of the word, for a while, if that's what you're asking. And then he got posted back to Kosovo, and neither of us wanted the strain of a long-distance relationship; besides, monogamy was never really his style…we've always kept in touch, though. He's a bit of a rough diamond, I suppose." My face must show my distaste for the man, because she leans close to whisper in my ear, "You ought to be grateful to him…he taught me all sorts of things, some of which you rather enjoy, if memory serves…" And with that, she gathers up the face-breeding printouts and leaves me to my blushes, walking off with a slight swing to her step that mesmerises me until she is out of sight. It is not quite 7 a.m., and already I feel enervated. What other revelations is this day going to bring?