A/N: This chapter is a monster, but I felt that if I cut it in half, some of my readers would have hunted me down and dragged the rest of it out of me, so here it is in its entirety. Enjoy! - A
Colin is at his desk by the time I leave the alcove, and from the look of fierce concentration on his face, Ruth has already tasked him with hacking the staff databases to find matches. I had emailed him the soft copy files as soon as I finished speaking with her, but had needed a couple of minutes to compose myself before reappearing on the Grid. I feel as if I am in some hideous dream, plagued by the ghosts of Ruth's lovers, and not at all sure where I stand in regard to my status as the present incumbent. My head begins to throb; I put it down to lack of sleep, and fetch another cup of coffee on my way back to my desk.
As I set my battered old Doctor Who mug down, Colin slides my car keys across the desk to me, and says, "Section A1, near the lift doors, where you usually park. Thanks. Oh, and here are the call records for Hicks' phone – Zaf has been following up on the numbers that appear most frequently. There's a report in the share drive, but I've got to go into a briefing now." There is something new attached to my plain silver key fob; holding it up for closer inspection, I recognise it as a tiny spherical compass keyring; frowning, I look over at Colin, who shrugs and says, "You needed something to help you work out which way's up, if you know what I mean." I raise my eyes to heaven in silent protest and he says, "No bother, you're welcome," with a broad grin; Colin's sense of humour is quirky, but irrepressible. Sitting down at my array, I see an email from Harry marked Urgent, and open it with trepidation, even while hunting in the share drive for Zaf's report, and launching it on my secondary screen. I look back at my inbox:
Q
New TH keys required, AC and ZY for use of. Current keys may have been lost.
HP
'Q' is Harry's tongue-in-cheek way of referring to me in comms. Good, that's a nice straightforward task, cancelling their current swipe-cards, and issuing new security passes for Adam and Zaf. I'll give them new phones too…we can't be too careful, nowadays. The next email is from Adam, requesting help with a legend; he is going to go undercover into a subject's house, in the guise of a gas engineer. The subject's phone number has appeared several times in Hicks' calls received log, and Zaf has already done some detective work, taking a look inside her home PC, to find that she has been doing extensive web searches on Hicks. It's enough to warrant a personal visit, given the circumstances of poor Clive's death.
I am kept busy for the next hour or so, and when I am finished, I go in search of Adam and Zaf, hoping to catch them coming out of the morning briefing; I am in luck, as it happens. "For you, Adam," I say, lengthening my stride to match his, and handing him the Gastream identity pass, smiling with quiet satisfaction as he reads incredulously, "Roger Thornhill?" Ah, yes, my little joke. All those afternoons spent watching movie matinees with Mother… "Cary Grant, North by Northwest, his best role, I'd say." Adam gives me one of his 'you've got to be kidding' looks, before grinning like a schoolboy and pocketing the pass. "Now use these from now on, in case your old ones are compromised," I add, and hand both men new security swipe-cards and mobile phones. "Will you…" Adam begins, and I answer before he can finish. "Yes, I've already got the subject's phone number diverted to me if she should ring either Gastream, or the number on your business card. The Property Department has found a uniform in your size, it's on its way up. Have you everything you need?" He shakes his head in amusement. "Only my lovely wife, and that's one bit of kit you can't supply… Fi's coming with me on this op to be my eyes and ears outside Miss…Portman's house," he finishes, glancing at the dossier in his hand to check the subject's name, and then the two men are gone, and I turn back to my desk.
Shortly after, Ruth crosses my field of vision accompanied by a bright-eyed blonde woman; I recognise Deborah Langham, and wonder why they have Zaf in tow. He follows them into the meeting room with the air of one going to his execution. Colin, watching over his monitor, says, low-voiced, "It's D-Day…no wonder they've all shot off the Grid as fast as they could." I look at him in puzzlement. "D-Day – you know, Decision Day, for the current recruitment round. New analysts and field officers to bring our numbers up again… I heard Adam saying he doesn't like the look of any of the candidates for his team, so he's taken himself off rather than spend the day with Ms Briggs-Myers in there…" So they've left Ruth to carry the can. Well, if she wants to get more involved with the operational side of things, here's her big opportunity, although I very much doubt that this is what she had in mind. Aloud, I reply, "Ah well, He sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust…" Colin frowns, "Shakespeare?" "Try the Gospel according to Matthew," I say lightly, and head off to the tech suite to monitor Adam's operation.
The incursion into Miss Portman's house goes far better than we could have hoped; despite Fiona calling in a negative field report – nothing to see here, just a recent journalism graduate trying to get the attention of a tabloid reporter in hopes of winning a job – not twenty minutes after Mr Thornhill's departure from her Camden Town address, Miss Portman rings to request a repeat performance, telling me a cock-and-bull story about the gas meter making a 'weird ticking sound'. She sounds very young on the telephone, and I have to focus hard on playing my part, thrown by the girlish voice coming down the line. Did any of us ever sound so innocent and carefree? I wonder, after I have dissuaded her from seeing Mr Thornhill again. I feed this intel back to Fiona in the field, telling her that Adam made quite an impression; I can hear the laughter in her voice as she thanks me. Before they had left the Grid, Adam had donned the ugly blue gasman's uniform, complete with ID hung around his neck, and Fiona had nearly collapsed with laughter at the sight of her handsome husband thus attired; she had doubled over, gasping, "Roger Thornhill…Cary Grant…Adam!" until he had ushered her off the Grid, directing a look of resignation – see what I have to put up with? at Colin and me. I haven't heard her laugh like that since before Danny's death, and her merriment had done my heart good; I have been rather worried for her, but with that natural resilience which is the hallmark of a born field officer, she seems to be coming round at last.
A couple of hours later, I spot Ruth on the internal CCTV live feed which is patched through to one of the tech suite screens, emerging from the meeting room where she and Zaf have been sequestered with HR, and heading for the tea-room, a resigned look on her face. D-Day, indeed... she comes out of the tea-room shortly after, carrying a steaming mug, and walks towards the alcove where Hicks has been lurking all morning. She storms back out with a face like thunder, marching towards the meeting room and extricating Zaf. In the corridor, they have a brief conversation, during which she points rapidly and with annoyance towards the alcove: he's driving me mad, get him out of here, I interpret this to mean, and then Zaf nods and pats her on the shoulder reassuringly: don't worry, I'll take care of it. Zaf exits the Grid a couple of minutes later, Hicks shambling behind him; they must be headed back to the safe house. Good riddance too, I think irritably, what an obnoxious little man you are.
Just how truly obnoxious Hicks really is, we have no idea, until Zaf calls in to report that the man has bolted out of the stopped car, and disappeared. I contact Adam to pick him up, sure that he will be making a beeline for a certain, odious, red top tabloid's offices in Fleet Street; and so he is. Ruth's former lover is proving to be quite the handful, and idly I wonder just what else a former war correspondent might have taught her…something about covert photography, perhaps, or playing both sides of the game for one's own ends? No, I mustn't think like this, I chastise myself. I love her… just then, Adam calls in to say Hicks has been re-acquired, and is once more on his way to the safe house, and I breathe a sigh of relief; I wouldn't have liked to have been the one to tell Harry that Hicks had given Five the slip.
From the way Harry has been looking at Hicks on the Grid, I can tell that he isn't overly impressed with him, either – unsurprising, of course, given the man's profession, but more than that, there has been an edge of rancour in his voice when speaking of him, one that smacks of dislike and resentment. So Harry's seen it too, then, the way they are with each other, and come to the same conclusion. I wonder what he makes of Ruth's previous choice of paramour, which certainly shows her in a different light to the shy, shrinking violet she generally portrays, and which, over the last few weeks, I have become more and more convinced is just that: a part she is playing, for reasons as yet undisclosed. Would the real Ruth Evershed please stand up…even as these thoughts are going through my head, my fingers are flying across my keyboard as I process data: logging footage from security cameras, frame by blurry frame; requesting a rego check from the DVLA in Swansea; running background checks on Hicks and half a dozen of his bottom-feeding cronies; and with Colin's help, discreetly trawling GCHQ for any record that either McTaggart's or Hicks' phones have been tapped.
My phone rings: Adam. "Malcolm. Any news?" Yes, there is, as a matter of fact, I think, before replying, "We've recovered some CCTV footage from the entrance gate of a house on the road near McTaggart's. The camera angle covers the main road and we got lucky; we've got Hicks' car heading there, and 42 minutes later, his car on the way back." I hear Adam's quick intake of breath, before he asks, "Can we see who's driving it?" Sadly, no… "Not really. We're working on enhancing it. There's another car following it closely." Adam queries, "A blue Mercedes?" Ah. We're on the same wavelength, then; good. "Precisely. The one Hicks saw parked in McTaggart's drive." "Can you make out the plates?" is his next question. "Yes, but they're fakes, they've been cloned off some poor sod's Vauxhall down in Devon." And good luck finding out the how and who… Adam doesn't sound too put out at this, though, as he asks me to let him know if the CCTV enhancements work out, then rings off as abruptly as he began the call. Typical field officer, always racing off…
I spend the rest of the afternoon in the tech suite, painstakingly working on the CCTV footage, but to no avail; sometimes, raw material is just that: too raw, especially in the case of low-resolution digital imagery caught in low light conditions and from all the wrong angles. I begin with a dark, faceless figure sitting in the driver's seat, and end with a slightly lighter, still faceless, figure sitting behind the wheel. I become aware that I have been sitting hunched over my screens for hours, and when I get up to stretch my legs by way of a walk to the men's bathroom, I realise that it is early evening, and that the administration staff have all left for the night; there is hardly anyone else in sight, either. Ruth's system is powered down, so she must have gone, too. Harry is still here, though, and there's a note on my keyboard from Colin to say that he is running a system-wide diagnostic in the server room, after noticing some unusual spikes in activity this afternoon.
Putting my head in the door of Harry's office, I enquire if there is anything else he wants done this evening, and he glances up at the sound of my voice. "Malcolm. Come in. Have a seat, if you don't mind waiting for a moment." Trepidatious, I obey. He finishes typing an email, and then sits back in his plush leather chair, and folds his hands on the polished wood desktop, looking me in the eye. "What do you think of this Hicks character?" I blink; of all the things I expected Harry to say, this is not one of them. I wonder what it is that he wants to hear. "Come on, you've spent time with him, you must have formed an opinion of the man." He is getting impatient now; he has begun to drum the fingers of one hand lightly against the surface of the desk. "Um, well, I can't say that I know him…I only sat with him for a short time this morning to run through the face-breeding program with him. He did try to smoke inside, but I soon put a stop to that…other than that, I don't really have anything to say. He's a journalist, apparently he used to be quite a good one, and then he sold out." Harry's eyes glint with recognition as I say this. "So Ruth's told you that, too. She seems…quite fond of him. I can't fathom why. He's a slippery, conniving little gutter-press journo who's hell-bent on his own destruction, the way he's been carrying on."
I have nothing to add to this excoriating, but accurate, summation of Hicks' character, so I simply nod. "She positively glowed, this afternoon, extolling his professional virtues to me. D'you think they were ever…an item?" I flush to the roots of my hair, and look down at my own hands, tightly locked together in my lap. "I…erm…I really couldn't say." It's not up to me to tell Harry what Ruth told me in confidence… After an uncomfortable silence, Harry sighs, "I'm sorry, Malcolm. Sometimes I forget, you're not like the rest of us; you don't thrive on prising out people's secrets. You prefer to live and let live, don't you?" I nod, before looking up to meet Harry's eye. "Very much so." Ah, but that's not strictly true, Wynn-Jones, is it? You would quite like to find out what your lover has been up to, these last few weeks... don't think about Ruth now, not here in front of Harry…
"Could you stay on for another hour or so? I'm expecting a status update from the safe house momentarily, but where Hicks is involved, things have a way of going pear-shaped, it seems." I nod my agreement, and rise to leave. "Malcolm?" I turn back at the door. "If we could keep this conversation confidential, I'd appreciate it." Stung by the suggestion that I would do otherwise, I look steadily at him until he has the grace to blush, ever so slightly, and add, "But of course, that goes without saying… my apologies." His desk phone rings, and he turns to answer it as I slip out, keen to avoid any further discussion of this nature. His eyes had been almost unbearable to meet; so much is hidden behind them, and most of it to do with his unacknowledged feelings for Ruth. It is unnerving, to say the least, to see one's own innermost emotions reflected in the eyes of another, and I wonder what it is that he sees when he looks into mine: the idea that such love and pain should be there for all to see is as horrifying as the idea of appearing stark naked in front of my co-workers…awful!
I have only just returned to my workstation when Harry issues a red flash: the safe house has been attacked by gunmen. My heart stands still in terror – Ruth! – and then there is no time to think as Colin and I race to the tech suite and patch into the local CCTV network to get eyes on the scene. Zaf has called in a status report, alarmingly punctuated by intermittent gunshots; I reroute his call through to the polycom on the desktop and flinch as the klaxon wail of car alarms is suddenly broadcast into the room, along with his voice. Colin glares at his computer, muttering, "Come on, come on," as the live feed from the square outside the safe house begins to stream sluggishly onto our screens, hampered by the weather; it is not quite snowing, but almost. I notice a tall, slender girl just before she moves out of frame, but my attention is riveted by the flickering lights in the safe house… oh, please God, let her be all right, let all of them be all right, we've lost too many this year already… Just then, Harry strides into the suite, phone to one ear, giving orders and demanding updates, and my training takes over. Pull all the information together, analyse, advise, and provide whatever technical support is needed, calmly and quickly. It feels like an age, but in reality it must only be a couple of minutes before the situation is back under control; the gunmen have fled, Adam and Fiona arrive on the scene, and best of all, I hear Ruth's voice coming faintly over Zaf's phone, higher than usual as she indignantly upbraids Hicks about something to do with her handbag. She must be fine, then, if she can talk like that. I see the relief in Harry's eyes as he listens to her, too, and a tiny smile plays around the corners of his mouth for just a moment, until another call from Adam demands our attention: talking faster than usual, he asks us to trace a mobile signal coming from the getaway car.
It is a vaguely familiar number, and Colin spots it first: Joanna Portman. According to Adam's brisk account, Miss Portman was somehow in the street when she spotted armed men arriving at the safe house; she then broke the window of their car, setting off the alarm, and tossing her mobile into the back seat. She has not only saved lives, but she has given us the upper hand for the first time since this whole messy business began; it's quite extraordinary for a civilian. Oh, Adam, you could do worse than recruit this bright young thing, I muse, before accessing the national telecommunications network and beginning the search for Miss Portman's phone as it travels across Greater London. Colin suddenly clicks his fingers in excitement: "We've got another variable to search for too – the signal of the phone used at Clive McTaggart's place!" I punch in the details to triangulate the second carrier signal and yes, there it is. Two signals amongst the thousands moving along the same route. That's all very well, but I'm more interested in extrapolating as much information as possible from the assassin's phone, and I set to work with a will: they just tried to kill Ruth, and Zaf, and two other officers, all to get rid of Hicks, and I for one want to know why.
Ninety minutes later, I am ready to brief the team, now fully assembled in the tech suite; Harry nods at me to begin, and I set out the facts. "The car was found burned to a crisp in Bermondsey, erasing all forensic clues as to identity, but it's not a total loss. We looked for any other mobiles, following the same trajectory and crossing the cells at the same time. Unfortunately, since virtually everyone carries a mobile these days, there were several others following the same routing, but we had something else to work with; we looked for a match with signals coming from the area around McTaggart's house, at the time of the faked suicide. We found one match, and these are the numbers called from that mobile. Whoever these guys are, they aren't big talkers, but the last number they called from the car is the one they called after the attempted break-in at the safe house, a number, I believe, we are all too familiar with." I speed-dial the Defence Intelligence Staff Operations Centre to demonstrate, before terminating the call.
"As you all know, without having the recipient's call sign, we have no way of determining who they were calling." Grim looks all around the room; this is exactly what we had feared, an internally sanctioned hit on one of our own. I sit back, head pounding, as Harry takes over; for once, it would be nice for our brilliant work to be given the recognition it deserves, but that's the problem with being so proficient at our jobs: people come to expect the impossible from us as a matter of course. Colin catches my eye, then rolls his ever so slightly, and I dip an eyebrow in acknowledgement: we understand each other so well, no words are needed. Good work, mate. Thanks, and you too…
The night is not over yet; just as everyone is leaving the room, a call comes in from Miss Portman's landline, ringing the number on Roger Thornhill's business card. I listen for a minute, before gesturing at Adam to take over the call. As I hand him the receiver, muffled by my palm, I say softly, "You are not going to believe this…" Adam's eyes grow wide as the mysterious Miss Portman relays her improbable story to him: she has a twenty minute travelogue, including call signs, on her home answering machine, having 'accidentally' dialled her landline before throwing her phone into the assassins' car. The age of miracles, it would seem, is not yet over, although the same can't be said for Ruth: she looks dead on her feet, swaying with fatigue and the remnants of adrenaline. She had actually had to tackle Hicks to the floor to keep him out of the line of fire, and I wonder, not for the first time, if it wouldn't be simpler to just hand him over… Shaking my head to clear it of this thought, which is unworthy of an officer of the Service, I glance covertly at her, noting the greyish pallor of her skin and the circles under her eyes. Oh, Ruth... Just then, Harry indicates that Colin and I can leave for the night, and I am grateful, in a purely selfish way, that I am not required to pull an all-nighter on top of my very early start this morning. I go straight home, fighting to keep both eyes open as I drive, and fall headlong into bed, barely able to stay awake long enough to change out of my suit and into pyjamas, before sleep takes me like a wave crashing onto the shore.
It's just as well that I get a decent night's rest, because when I arrive at work the following morning, Harry has a task for me so Herculean in its scope that at first I think he must be joking. His eyes are sharp as he speaks, and incredulously, I realise that this is no laughing matter. In the absence of the original McTaggart manuscript and diary, he has decided to forge both documents to offer up to Juliet Shaw and her coterie of fellow paranoiacs, thereby getting Hicks off the hook, with any luck. Worse luck, more like… "You have thirty-six hours, Malcolm. I want it finished by tomorrow night," he tells me, and I run my fingers through my hair distractedly as I consider what is needed. A decent sample of McTaggart's latest handwriting should be easy enough to come by; an exact replica of his diary, which Hicks will need to verify; and then, nothing short of creative genius to write a plausible fakery of an entire book manuscript in no time flat. "Harry, this is an enormous task." He nods. "Yes, that's why I'm assigning it to you. You're the only one here who knew Clive, apart from me, so you know his style, you've got as much knowledge as he would have had about Five's operations over the last fifteen years or so, and you know where to find information about the rest; Ruth has put together a suggested outline of events to work from. And you are my longest-serving, most trusted officer… and friend. I wouldn't ask it of you, if I didn't think you were capable, Malcolm." He claps me awkwardly on the shoulder, and with those words ringing in my ears, I resign myself to the job at hand.
Harry instructs me to take over the utility space for my purposes, and once I have transferred my systems to the machine there, I settle down to input Clive's handwriting into my orthographical program, which will allow me to type in his script, and once this is done, I let my pent-up imagination loose on a work of such pure and outrageous fiction that surely no-one will ever believe it. I write like a man possessed; Harry orders the junior admin staff to bring me food and coffee every three hours, and to see that I get up and move about for a few minutes when they do, as if I was on a long-haul flight. If I wasn't working to such a ridiculous deadline, I would actually be enjoying this, as I weave in every turgid conspiracy theory I can recall, making up a few as I go along, and every now and then lacing the whole witches' brew with a dash of truth: the correct officer's name here, or the unadulterated details of an operation there - just enough to strike fear into the heart of any spook who reads it. In a way, I am grateful for the intense pace, as it keeps me from having to watch Ruth interacting with Harry, or Hicks; I'm just not able to observe that with equanimity, at present. She comes over a couple of times to see how I'm going, but truth be told, I am relieved when everyone goes home for the evening and I am left to write on into the night. Everyone, that is, but Colin.
When he realises what it is Harry has asked me to do, he swears softly under his breath and says, "He's mad, expecting you to churn out something like this, when McTaggart has been working on it for years…" "Ours not to reason why," I remind him, typing as I talk. "I suppose this is as good a time as any, then," he continues, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "Oh yes, for what?" I enquire. "To do that desktop maintenance we never seem to get round to – I've got a queue of service requests that have just been waiting for a night like this. The rest of them won't know their machines once I've gotten through that little lot." I stop writing for a moment, and look up at him, puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow," I tell him, and he makes a noise of exasperation. "You stay, I stay," he says simply, adding, "It's not right for them to pile work onto you like this, and then just swan off home. So I'll stay back too, make sure you don't fall asleep, bring more of that foul stuff that passes for coffee round here when it's needed…" I find it hard to speak, at these words; I don't know what I have done to inspire this kind of loyalty, but I find it very moving, and not a little humbling. I open my mouth to protest, but Colin has already loped off, and the conversation is at an end.
Late the next day, so is the manuscript; I print it, age all two hundred and fifty pages appropriately, finish the diary, and present them to Adam, feeling as if I have just completed a week's worth of exams. He looks through them thoroughly, and smiles. "Oh, well done, Malcolm. I think these will do nicely. Now go home and get some rest – and make sure that Colin goes too. Yes, I know he stayed back last night. He did a good job sorting out my PC, too, but I think we can muddle on without our geeks for the next twelve hours." I obey with alacrity: there's nothing like an enforced all-nighter to bring home the unpleasant truth that one is not as young as one once was, and this time, I take a cab home; I am weaving with exhaustion as I exit the pods.
I don't even make it out of my work clothes, this time; instead, I fall asleep on one of the Chesterfields, too tired to climb the stairs. I wake in the middle of the night, disoriented, and drag myself up to bed; once in the old four-poster, it seems so big and empty, that I have difficulty getting back to sleep. When I finally do drop off, I have a disturbing dream that I can't quite remember the next morning; something about Ruth running off to Kosovo with Hicks, and Harry, somewhat improbably smoking a foul-smelling cigar as he tries to stop them at the airport, while I watch helplessly from the observation van, my heart clenched tight with pain… that part, I recall perfectly.
By the time I return to the Grid, it's all over; Harry has flushed out the rats' nest of conspirators using my manuscript, backing them into a corner and saving Hicks' neck in the process. Harry is still at Whitehall, and everyone else is either occupied with Ms Langham, who is valiantly trying to finalise the recruitment for field staff, or has found themselves gainful employment elsewhere. I spot Adam going out of the pods at a jog, grinning to himself, and I wonder where he's off to in such a hurry. Home to Fiona, probably…
I'm not quite sure how I feel about my part in this operation, deliberately manufacturing a skein of half-truths and lies, but then I see Ruth's face, beaming with relief, and decide that it was worth it; had Hicks been killed, her guilt would have been crushing, and I have no wish to watch her go through that again. I have other things to discuss with her, and now, I realise, might just be the perfect time; my gut twists, sick with anticipation, but if I wait any longer, I might never get my courage up. The memory of last night's dream spurs me on; the horrible sense of dread as I had started awake, my fears once more receding into the dark... I love her, but I can't bear the uncertainty any longer. Nervously straightening my tie and shooting my cuffs, I cross the Grid towards her desk.
"Ruth." She looks up from the report she is writing up for the McTaggart operation, and once more I am transfixed by those extraordinary eyes, aquamarine in the bright light of her desk-lamp; she is happy, and there is a sparkle in them that I haven't seen for far too long. Her pupils dilate on seeing me, she smiles, and for a moment it is as if there is only the two of us in all the world, a moment of perfect understanding, and connection, dizzying in its intensity; oh, why can't we always be like this? "You wanted to speak with me, I think," she says in her low, clear voice, and I blink; after weeks of apparent evasion and avoidance, she is actually initiating this? I look around, but there is no-one else to be seen. Still, I am mindful of the security cameras, eternally recording our every movement, and besides, I long to be alone with her, to sit together somewhere snug, and quiet, and just talk. Leaning over her shoulder as if I am reading the words on her screen, I say softly into her ear, "Are you free, tonight?" She nods imperceptibly, and I continue, "I'll pick you up at eight o'clock." Another tiny nod, and then I straighten up and move away, heart pounding with anticipation.
However conflicted I might feel about Ruth's behaviour since that last night together, when I left, heartsick at her attempted deception, one thing is unequivocal: I want her, body and soul, with a fierce need that leaves me shaking in the driver's seat of my Rover, ten minutes later. Once more I am reminded of the sheer power of physical attraction, a lesson I am only just learning now; chronologically, I might be a middle-aged man, but emotionally, I so often feel like a callow youth, inexperienced and green. Most men at my age have been married or in committed relationships for decades, growing up with their partners; or have had several affairs, learning about human nature in the process. In the last few days, I have seen a whole new side to Ruth, one that makes me feel more insecure than ever; I don't understand how she could ever have been attracted to a boor like Hicks, and yet by her own admission, she had once been as intimate with him as with me. I glance at my watch; time to go, if I want to get home, shower and change, and pick up Ruth at the appointed hour.
Just before eight p.m., I am on her doorstep, freshly scrubbed, wearing civvies, as I term any clothing that is not a suit – corduroys, a Viyella checked shirt left unbuttoned at the collar, and an old hunter green pea coat, soft with wear – just as I raise my hand to knock, the door opens. "Can you be here in five minutes? Oh, that's great, Gus, thanks!" Ruth says into her phone, before flipping it shut, and rising on tiptoe to kiss me hello. What begins as a quick peck soon becomes a deeper embrace, as I pull her into my arms and kiss her in good earnest, unable to help myself; to my surprise, she responds ardently, and before I can stop her, Ruth's hands are actively tugging my shirt loose and gliding under it, tracing a trail of fire as she slides her fingertips over my quivering skin…my breathing becomes faster, shallower…and then I hear something, a noise so incongruous it takes me a moment to identify it, with my head spinning and the blood pounding in my ears.
Whistling, someone is whistling, and quite close by, too…Ruth is shaking in my arms, but not with desire – she is laughing, as she steps out of reach and leaves me to tuck my shirt back in. On the doorstep is a cabbie, by the look of him, cheerfully whistling 'Leaning on a Lamp-post', and grinning salaciously at us. "Gus!" Ruth greets him enthusiastically. Gus? My face must reveal my discomposure and confusion, because Ruth explains, "I thought we should get a cab tonight, that way you don't have to worry about driving. Gus was my first recruit for Operation Flagfall." I realise she is talking about Operation Meter, but in true Five fashion, she has given the operation's codename a codename to use in front of her agent. "Gus is the soul of discretion," she assures me, bundling into her long cream coat and pulling me along as she shuts the front door.
Once we are installed in the black cab, Gus asks, "Where to, guvnor?" and I give an address in Covent Garden. "Right-oh, I'll have you there in two shakes!" he informs us, and we are off, Gus whistling all the way. Gesturing as discreetly as possible at our driver, I mouth to Ruth, Are you sure about him? She looks at me, eyes gleaming, and says loudly, "If I was canoodling with the Prince of Wales himself in the backseat here, Gus wouldn't see or hear a thing, would you, Gus?" He looks in the rear-view mirror and replies, "Well, it wouldn't be the first time I've 'ad 'im carrying on a treat, neither, but you never 'eard it from me," and gives Ruth a theatrical wink. She squeezes my hand reassuringly. "It's all right, Malcolm. I've been using Gus for months now, and so has Harry…" her voice trails off as I remove my hand from hers upon hearing that name; I had been having such a nice time, until now, but the mention of Harry brings me back to reality with a bump. Such as the fact that we need to talk, and Gus or no Gus, tonight is not going to be easy. I understand exactly why Ruth has sent for him; she is trying to delay the inevitable moment when we are once more alone with each other. I can't help admiring her foresight; and perhaps it will be easier after a few glasses of decent wine for us to talk openly… perhaps.
Gus expertly threads the boxy vehicle through narrow streets lined with tall buildings, and I recognise that we are in the West End, not far from Trafalgar Square; like all London cabbies, Gus is using The Knowledge to bring us to our destination as quickly as possible; the extensive mental map that black cab drivers carry in their heads is better than anything Google has yet come up with, and as good as the most detailed GPS satellite imagery. A minute later, the cab pulls into the kerb, and Ruth leans forward to pay. "Nah, pet, don't worry about it. Just you keep those special jobs comin' my way!" I step out and around to open her door, and assist her to alight. The light from a street lamp falls on us, and I get my first proper look at her; her hair is loose, the ends curling enticingly around her face, and under her white winter coat, she is wearing a dress of deep red wool that wraps around her curves and falls just below her high black boots, and the simple diamond pendant I gave her at Toad Hall shines at her throat instead of her usual Bohemian-style necklace. She is stunning… I am finding it hard to breathe, and it isn't entirely to do with the near-freezing night air.
I offer her my arm, and she slides her hand into the crook of my elbow, looking around with interest. "I don't know this part of Covent Garden, where are we?" she asks. I point down the street. "Go right at the end, there, and then walk straight on, and you'll be at Covent Garden Tube. We're just outside Neal's Yard." Turning, we walk into the Yard, and Ruth squeaks in surprise as I suddenly lead her down a steep flight of stairs to a basement entrance, with a bright blue door. Opening it for her, I escort her inside and smile at her exclamation of surprise and pleasure. We have walked into a softly lit, low-ceilinged room, with perhaps a dozen tables in the middle of the space, and a few private booths, isolated by Victorian snob-screens, along the two longer walls. About half the tables are occupied, and a dapper little waiter, neat in black waistcoat and long white apron, bustles forward to take our coats. "Monsieur, Madame, this way, this way!" he invites us, his French accent still strong even after many years in England, as he leads us to a booth at the back.
Neither Ruth nor I would be comfortable at a table in the centre of the room, so I am thankful that I had requested a booth when I made the booking earlier today. It has been many years since I was last here, but as I settle in and look about, everything is as I remember; the low, oak-panelled ceiling, the whitewashed walls, the plush red leather banquette seating, the crisp linen and gleaming silver cutlery, glinting in the warm light of the old-fashioned kerosene lamps set on each table. Ruth's eyes dart here and there, taking in all the details, then back to meet mine; she shakes her head in amazement. "How did you ever find this place? It's lovely!" "Do you really want to know?" I ask warily. She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. Blushing slightly, I reply, "About ten years ago, Mother signed me up to a dining club – she thought it would do me good to get out more, and meet some different people. Well, it turned out to be not so much a dining club, as a dating service… they would pair people up at random and tell us to meet at this place or that. I only went three times, before I realised what was going on – but the last time, I was sent here, and it was wonderful." Ruth leans forward and asks curiously, "And did your dinner companion enjoy herself, too?" Reddening even further, I stare at the tablecloth and mutter, "Him…it was a him."
Her eyes widen in shock, and I look at her beseechingly. "It was utterly mortifying…there was a misunderstanding when Mother filled out the form - apparently she just ticked all the boxes…it was one of the most awkward meals of my life!" "But I thought you said it was wonderful?" she asks, quizzically, and I reply, "Yes, even though I was dying a thousand deaths, the meal was so good I forgot my embarrassment." Ruth's face is a study; sympathy battles with amusement, and I smile ruefully at the memory. Just then, the waiter returns, with a basket of walnut bread, still warm, a silver saucer with a pat of butter, studded with salt crystals, and menus. He advises us of the specials, and Ruth chooses French onion soup to start, and the turbot with scallops and sauce Veronique, while I decide on a game terrine and steak frites. We order wine by the glass – a crisp Chablis for Ruth, and an aromatic Cotes du Rhone for me; the waiter glides away after pouring water for us both, and we are alone at last.
Ruth concentrates on buttering a piece of bread, spreading it evenly right out to the edges, and I take a sip of wine, and then another, fortifying myself for the conversation which lies ahead. We are the only diners on this side of the room, and there are only a few other couples in the restaurant tonight; I would have preferred complete privacy, but it will have to do. She sets her butter knife on the side of her plate, and looks directly at me. "Neutral ground," she observes, and at my nonplussed expression, takes a bite of her bread, before gesturing with it around us at the elegant setting. Colouring, I begin to protest, but she silences me with a shake of her head, settling back in the booth and taking a draught of wine.
"Please, Malcolm, we both know why we're here; apparently, we need to talk. So, tell me, why did you run away that night?" I nearly choke on my own piece of bread at this, and have to take a long drink of water before I can answer her. "I suppose I couldn't bear the thought of you lying to me, about being sorry that you weren't…you know." I choose my words carefully; if I let slip that I cannot sire children, then she will know that if I thought her to be pregnant, I would also have believed her to have been unfaithful, and any chance of rapprochement will vanish like a beautiful dream.
She nods once, and then butters another piece of bread, replying with her eyes fixed on her plate. "Yes, I don't know why I said that. You seemed so distraught; what else was I supposed to think? I just acted on the spur of the moment, and I can see now that I was wrong, and I'm sorry if I upset you. But if you want the truth, I did mean what I said that night, about being very relieved I wasn't in that situation." I am taken aback at this readily offered apology, with some added truth as a bonus, and pause to consider my next words. Tread carefully now, Wynn-Jones… I reach across the table, and take her hand; her eyes meet mine, as I say, "I'm sorry too. I should have talked to you, instead of stalking off like that. I just couldn't think what to say, after feeling so certain that you must be…afterwards, I realised that I didn't even know if you would have been pleased or not. In all the time that we've been together, we've never really spoken about our relationship, we just fell into it headlong, so I'm just going to come out with it: Ruth, where do you see us in a year's time?"
Ruth sighs, withdrawing her hand from mine and glancing around us at the other tables occupied by happy couples, before returning her gaze to me, her blue eyes blazing. "That's hardly fair, Malcolm. You're the one who's initiating this discussion." She's right, I realise in dismay; now there's no way out but through, it seems. Speaking in a low voice, my eyes holding hers, I say softly, "Ruth, you know that I'm in love with you. I want you, more than anything else in the world, but the long term future is something I've been afraid to bring up." She nods, her eyes still on my face, as I add, "I don't know what you want, what you're hoping for from life; you never talk about your aspirations, or dreams..." Frowning slightly, she replies, "Is this still about the Implanon, or something else entirely?"
I don't quite know how to answer that, so I say nothing; she picks up her wineglass and drains off half the contents in one gulp, before continuing, "What do you want from me, nice neat black and white answers? Put a penny in the slot and pull a handle for the right response? Malcolm, we live in the greyest of worlds, where anything can happen in an instant. Tom, Zoe, Danny…they all thought they knew where they'd be in a year's time, and then look what happened. This job's taught me to stop thinking like that; I try to live in the moment, because who knows what may come to pass, tomorrow, or next week?" Her voice is low, but she speaks quickly, in clipped tones; she is upset. She stops to drink the rest of her wine, eyeing me the whole time. I make a conciliatory noise – she's right – and she says emphatically, "I haven't really given much thought to where we might be in a year's time, I'm afraid, but I can tell you one thing for certain: I don't want children. Not now, or ever. I never have, so if you're looking for someone to settle down with and… and raise a family, then I'm very sorry, but I'm not the woman you're looking for."
As she speaks, her gaze wavers between me and the tablecloth, but I hear the ring of truth in her words. Unnervingly, I find myself having to resist the temptation to laugh out loud, at the sheer absurdity of the situation: a man who can't father children, in love with a woman who doesn't want them, but apparently believes that I do; and then there was the agony I went through, believing that she was pregnant by another man…it's like something out of a French bedroom farce, or one of the more ribald comic operas, except that it's not funny. It's heartbreaking.
Right on cue, the waiter appears with our starters, and for a few minutes we busy ourselves with our food; Ruth seems to be enjoying her soup, but I can't muster up much enthusiasm for the delicious terrine in front of me, as I try to think of the right response to Ruth's statement. There are so many other things I want to ask her, but until we settle this matter, our relationship will be at a standstill, or worse. I have never heard her sound so definite about anything before. Her soup finished, Ruth is waiting, watching me warily; I am surprised to see fear and anxiety lurking in her eyes, and I realise that she has taken a huge risk in declaring herself like this. Ah, Ruth, my Ruth…
Taking a deep breath, I begin to speak, choosing my words carefully. "My love, we appear to be talking at cross purposes. Have I ever said anything about wanting to…settle down and raise a family? We haven't even admitted we're together to the people we spend most of our time with, for heaven's sake, but for the record, while I very much want to be with you, the idea of having a family is the furthest thing from my mind. I'm nearer fifty than forty, for one thing, I like my nice, quiet, orderly existence, and having spent most of my adult life alone, I didn't see the point in wanting something I couldn't have, so I didn't devote a lot of time to thinking about it. I just got on with my life. I had nearly resigned myself to being alone forever, when I met you; and, well, here we are." There, I've said it, or as near as possible, without actually giving the game away entirely…
At these words, Ruth's face brightens, and she sits back, straightening her shoulders; her whole posture is one of relief. "You really don't mind, then? I haven't scared you off?" I shake my head, and this time it is Ruth who takes my hand in both of hers; first, she traces the veins on its back with a gossamer touch, and then she turns it over and presses a kiss at the point where my pulse beats closest to the surface, just at the join of the wrist. Her breath is warm, and the look she gives me through her lashes is full of promise; my heart skips a couple of beats, and the now-familiar, dizzying sensation of arousal threatens to overwhelm me.
"Ruth," I breathe her name as she lifts my palm to her cheek, and her hair tickles my skin. I try once more to marshal my thoughts. "You haven't scared me off…quite the opposite, in fact. I had been worried that one day you might want..." She laughs, a glorious sound. "Well, most of the men I've been in relationships with seemed to end up wanting that, after a while; they would develop this strange compulsion to replicate their DNA, and nothing else would do. Gary didn't, but he was the only one. I had to break up with Jamie because of it…he was the stockbroker, you know, the big swinging dick…" I blush, ostensibly at the indelicate turn of phrase, but in reality because her booted foot is twining itself insistently around my right leg, hidden beneath the tablecloth.
Smiling, she says, "It's such a relief to know that you're not going to turn clucky on me. Most people just don't understand, so they try to talk me out of my misguided beliefs… I don't know what's so wrong with not wanting kids and being upfront about it. Better that, than to have them and then wish you hadn't, afterwards." I can only nod, lost for words as her foot wends its way higher, and overcome with relief at the way things are going, far better than I could have hoped. At this juncture, our main courses arrive, and I embark on my steak with considerably more enthusiasm that I had regarded the terrine. I signal for two more glasses of wine, and the waiter pours them with a flourish, before bowing and leaving us to our meal. Ruth cuts off a bit of fish and forks it onto my plate. "Try this; it's sublime!" she exclaims, and in return I offer her some of my steak. She peers at it and shakes her head; "It's hardly cooked, Malcolm, how can you bear to eat that?" Closing my eyes in pleasure as I chew and swallow, I reply, "It's bleu, and it's perfect, I'll have you know." She wrinkles her nose in distaste and returns to her turbot, dissecting it neatly. I try the fish; it is indeed very good, but not a patch on the steak, to my mind.
"So, what do you want out of life, then?" I ask Ruth, after a decent interval for eating has passed; I seem to have regained my appetite, and polish off my steak frites, and then mop up the remaining peppercorn sauce with a piece of bread. She places her knife and fork neatly together, and smiles, eyes pellucid in the lamplight. "Me? I'd love to travel, to see Europe and then the rest of the world, to use some of the languages I've studied for pleasure instead of to decode yet another terrorist communiqué, to sit all day in a café in Paris, or looking at the sun move across the Pantheon in Rome…I want to visit New York and walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and go to San Francisco and ride in a cable car…I want to live, Malcolm, I want to read everything I can get my hands on and see everything that's beautiful and good in the world, instead of death and danger and destruction all the time. And…I want to do it all with someone I love. I never thought I'd say this, but I think I've finally met the man of my dreams…" Her gaze holds mine steadily, but even so, a cold hand seems to close around my heart at those last words. She didn't say 'I've met you, and you're the man of my dreams…' The twin demons of doubt and insecurity rear their ugly heads, and before I can stop myself, I say, "Lucky beggar, then", bitterly, and Ruth's eyes flare wide as the meaning of my words becomes clear.
She stares at me in pained disbelief, and then sighs. "Not this, again. Malcolm, what do I have to do to convince you that I want to be with you? Why is it so hard for you to accept?" Why, indeed…I could start with the look in Harry's eyes this morning…or the way that Ruth keeps track of his movements around the Grid like a fieldmouse watches a hawk…the horrible shock I got when I saw her pull him into her house, not four nights ago, coupled with the absolute certainty that they were sleeping together…and then her virtual disappearance for the last four weeks; not a phone call or even an SMS in all that time…even Adam and Fiona find ways to communicate with each other when one or both is in the field, old married couple though they are…and then there's the whole ugly mass of my insecurities and fears, let alone the professional suspicions that her covert use of the Tessina and indeed, the strangeness of that night at Toad Hall have aroused. If only I knew what she was really up to, and why… I will not, cannot, mention Harry's name. Not tonight…
"Malcolm?"Ruth's tone is gently interrogatory. I refocus on her face, and then I become aware of the waiter beside me, enquiring if Monsieur et Madame would like dessert, as he clears our empty plates. "Ah, um, not for me, thank you, just coffee, please. Ruth?" She smiles at the man and in her excellent French asks what the chef's recommendations are, before choosing the preserved cherry clafoutis, and a Calvados to round off the meal. She adds, "With two spoons," and he bows, "D'accord!" before leaving us once more. Ruth's attention turns back to me, her expression serious. "You were a long way off, just then. What were you thinking about?" I can't tell her… "You, mostly. Have I told you that you look beautiful, tonight?" She bats the compliment aside, leaning forward to fix me with her gaze, inky blue and intense. "There's something you're holding back, something you're afraid to tell me. What is it?"
I need to steer us onto a safer course, away from the treacherous rocks and shoals looming perilously close, and for once the waiter's arrival is timely, setting the piping hot dish between us and ceremoniously laying a spoon on either side, before placing a jug of cream next to it. He returns with a silver coffee service and a delicate demitasse cup of Limoges china, and a brandy balloon for Ruth. "I still can't quite believe that you would want me, I suppose. Me, of all people. Geeky, gawkish Malcolm, who still lives with his mother. And so, when you go off the Grid for a few weeks, and I can't contact you, I begin to imagine the worst; I can't help it. That you've met somebody else, or that you're bored with me; you could have anyone you wanted, Ruth. And meeting Hicks, that was something of an eye-opener, too. He just seemed so…"
I hesitate, not wanting to insult her ex-lover, and she finishes the sentence for me, "Crude? Rude? Vulgar? Yes, he's all those things, but it doesn't mean he wasn't a good person, once. He was kind to me when I was low, and he wasn't always so self-centred. It's the tabloids that made him that way, all dog-eat-dog and full of cant about getting the story out there at any cost… to make a pretty profit for his masters, is more like it. But in the end I walked away from the relationship, because I wasn't willing to pay the price. Malcolm, you see me as no-one has ever seen me, you know me better than anyone, and yet you love me regardless… I know I should have contacted you, these past few weeks, but to be honest, I wasn't sure that you would want me to, after you just left like that. I didn't know how I had upset you, and I thought you might want to be left alone. I suppose I've become a lot more independent since Gary too, more self-reliant; and like the rest of us, my work consumes me, ninety-nine percent of the time. But it doesn't mean that I didn't want to call you, or see you…but I didn't quite know how to begin; it all seemed so awkward, and I thought you were very angry with me. I'm still just Ruth the girly swot, at heart…" she trails off as our hands meet on the tablecloth and our fingers intertwine intimately. Her perfume is faint now, but I can still catch a trace, and as always it reminds me of our first kiss, that exquisite moment when she brushed her lips against my cheek, and I dared to hope that one day we might be so much more than just friends and colleagues. Gather your rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying…Well, quite.
"Because," I murmur, voice lower than usual, and she looks at me questioningly. I clear my throat and explain, "I love you because of all those things, not regardless. Just to clarify." At that, Ruth leans across the empty clafoutis dish to kiss me; her lips taste of Calvados and cherries, and suddenly my mouth is dry, a great wave of heat rushes through me, and I realise two, no, three things: we are the last diners in L'Auberge; it is very late; I want Ruth with an urgency that is informing every fibre of my being, and Harry, the Tessina and Toad Hall be damned. She tightens her fingers in mine, and whispers, "It seems I have some…clarifications… of my own to make… take me home, Malcolm. Please, take me home…"
And so I do, and she does, to our repeated and very mutual satisfaction.
A/N: Malcolm is referring to Matthew 5:45 (KJV) in his conversation with Colin, and much later, to Robert Herrick's poem, To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time. If it seems oddly familiar, it was referenced in the film, Dead Poets' Society.