A/N: Thanks to my small but valiant band of reviewers, and apologies for the lateness of this update. It's been one of those weeks… actually, it's turning out to be one of those years!

Jo is already at the bar as I step into the pub, one of a slew of distressingly modern drinking establishments, all polished chrome and sleek glass, and offering nothing but micro-brews and flavoured vodka, that have recently cropped up around the country like mushrooms after rain. They suit the young, slick crowd, of which I am decidedly not one; I prefer somewhere with a bit more history, and a lot less noise, but Jo is smiling encouragement at me as I pick my way through the raucous groups of City suits that infest places like this. "What'll you have, Malcolm? My shout!" And she'll have to, I think wryly, to make herself heard over the infernal din that passes for music these days… "Whatever you're having is fine, thank you very much," I tell her as I come abreast, and she looks at me with one eyebrow quirked up, before giving the order to the barman. Shortly after, two tall Martini glasses arrive in front of Jo, each containing a ruby-hued liquid that reminds me of cough syrup. Oh, what have I let myself in for? Hesitantly, I pick one up. "Erm, what are they?" I ask, and Jo declares happily, "Cosmopolitans!" as she clinks her glass against mine, before raising it to her lips. Just as I have plucked up the courage to follow suit, she reaches over and deftly takes the glass out of my hand; I look at her in confusion.

"Did you really think I was going to make you drink Cosmo's? These are mine, and this is yours!" Jo grins, sliding a snifter of cognac towards me. Well, this is more like it, I decide, and raise my drink in her direction. "Your very good health, Jo," I toast her, and she beams at me from across her cocktail, "Here's cheers!" The fine spirit catches at the back of my throat, before burning its way down into my belly, even as the aromatic fumes rise to my brain; I begin to feel pleasantly warmed from the inside out, and the world takes on a slightly rosy glow around the edges. I know that I shouldn't be drinking spirits on an empty stomach, but for once in my timid little life of playing by the rules, I decide to toss caution to the wind; it is too noisy in the pub for speech, but I finally manage to catch the barman's eye and indicate that I'd like another. Jo watches me with amusement, and then downs her second sickly pink drink in one long swallow, even as she performs that little wave, the fingers of one hand moving as if playing scales on an invisible keyboard, that women use to signal that they'd like the attention of the service staff, or the person they've just spotted entering the room, or… or for anything, really. The barman comes back with alacrity, and Jo enters into an intense discussion with him; the man shakes his head, and Jo gives him a long blue look; the man raises his palms to shoulder height before dropping them – the universal male signal for I give up trying to talk sense to this illogical female - and retreats towards a swinging door at one end of the bar, before reappearing, now nodding his head, and holding up the fingers of both hands – ten minutes!

Jo treats him to one of her brightest smiles, and the barman looks as if he has just stared into the sun. I notice his glance flicking towards me; it is an assessing sort of look, a 'who are you and where do you fit into this picture?' look. I beam benignly at him; he blinks and looks away. Jo rests a hand lightly on my forearm, and I turn to her. "Let's go and sit somewhere a bit less noisy," she suggests, and I slide off the shiny metal stool, mildly surprised to find that my feet aren't quite where I thought they were, pick up our drinks, and follow Jo as she weaves through the crowd and towards a red velvet curtain at the back. She pushes it aside and gestures to me to step through, and I find myself in a dimly lit space with dark wood banquettes along one wall and a few small tables and chairs arranged in the middle of the room. Jo steps in after me and grins, "The restaurant closed an hour ago, but I can be pretty persuasive when I want," as she lopes towards the nearest banquette, drops onto it, toes her trainers off, and swings her long legs up onto the deep burgundy upholstery with a sigh of deep satisfaction. "Make yourself at home, then," she invites, and I sit down opposite her in the conventional manner; a companionable silence falls between us, and shortly after, the barman pushes his way into the room, bearing aloft two plates, each laden with a thick steak and a pile of golden chips. He sets them down in front of us and from the pocket of his apron, produces first a bottle of HP sauce, and then another of ketchup. Jo wrinkles her nose and says, "Have you got any aioli? I fancy some with my chips…" The young man departs and returns in almost the same instant, and slides a small pot towards her. "Anyfing else?" he wants to know, and she shakes her head with a sunny smile. "No, thanks, I think we've got everything. Malcolm?" I nod, already picking up my cutlery: I can't recall the last time I had a square meal, and the rich smell of char-grilled meat and hot chips overpowers my senses.

The young man disappears, and Jo and I tuck in, as hungry as hunters. My steak is perfect; medium rare and juicy, and the chips are delicious when dipped in the creamy, garlicky sauce that Jo has placed on the table between us. I have never tried this combination before, and through a mouthful of steak Jo mumbles, "Amsterdam… I had a study week there with my college, and everyone was eating hot chips with mayonnaise… it's so much nicer than HP or Heinz, don't you think?" I do, but refrain from saying so while I am eating. I do, however, lay my utensils down to ask her, "How did you know how I like my steak?" She shrugs, "I just guessed. Blue was too out there, rare didn't seem right, but medium was too… too common, and anything more is just a waste… so, medium rare." I chuckle at her explanation, even while I have to admire her intuitive logic. I should feel uncomfortable, sitting here alone with a girl half my age, but I don't; it's Jo, and she has a lovely way of accepting her colleagues just as they are, with no agendas or expectations, which is a refreshing change in our trade. When our plates are empty, Jo sits back, curls her legs beneath her, and regards me thoughtfully across the table. "Malcolm? You know how you said the other day that I could talk to you about anything?" I nod, feeling at one with the world after two cognacs and a good meal in congenial company. "Well, I've thought about this a lot, but I keep coming back to the same conclusion: I have to tell you something." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as I wait for her to go on. Nervously, she adds, "It's about Ruth."

My cosy sense of well-being vanishes at these words, and it is with dread that I raise an enquiring eyebrow. "Yes?" I ask cautiously. Jo turns around to face me fully, leaning across the table. "You remember when we were on obbo, and I was saying about Harry being furious because someone was telling Adam about the op?" I nod, holding my breath… Oh Ruth, what have you done? "I was sitting opposite her at the conference table, and when Harry was talking, she turned a funny colour and wouldn't meet anyone's eyes afterward… she's very fond of Adam, you know, and she's been so concerned about him after Fiona… I think Harry knew it was her, but still. She shouldn't have done it, told Adam, I mean. It's not like her, to run those sorts of risks… I know I've only been here a few months, but I'm worried about her, Malcolm. She seems to be preoccupied, not quite all here…" Jo trails off, her expression uncertain as I maintain an uncomfortable silence. In truth, I don't know what to say; there are few things worse than hearing your own suspicions voiced by someone else, and my heart feels as heavy as lead at these words. "Malcolm, you know I'm not a gossip, I hate that sort of thing. I just thought you ought to know."

Finally, I find my voice. "Why? Jo, why are you telling me this?" She looks at me, her blue eyes reflecting her apprehension. "Because you and Ruth are…close. I thought you might be worried about her too, and because I don't want to go to Harry about this." I blink, moved by the sympathetic undertone in her voice, and blink again at the hot prickly feeling behind my eyes. My throat is tight as I reply, "I appreciate your concern, Jo, really I do. Ruth and I are…are…" and before I know what's happening, I can't get another word out; exhaustion, stress, misery and fear suddenly overwhelm me, and I bury my face in my hands as my shoulders shake and I fight for control. Jo must come and sit beside me, for I feel her hand resting gently on my back, offering comfort and reassurance as I struggle to seal my roiling emotions behind the firewall once more. "It's OK, Malcolm. I won't tell. You've been under so much pressure with this op, and Harry hasn't been very fair to you, either, what with the Faraday cage. I knew you'd do it, though, I knew you'd work it out in time." I gain self-mastery once more, and essay a weak half-smile at the kind young woman next to me. "Thank you, but it's really not that bad…I'm just tired, and a bit worried. About my mother, actually." Jo assumes a cross-legged position on our bench, and looks at me with interest. "I'm a good listener, if you want to talk about it. I know about mothers. Mine's not been well for a while now."

I nod; this had come up in Jo's vetting. Her mother is in remission from breast cancer, I believe, and Jo is a devoted daughter, visiting her several times a week. I'm tempted to confide in her; and when she nudges me encouragingly, I so very nearly do, until my lifetime habit of keeping myself to myself, reasserts itself. "Oh, Jo. Thank you very much for such a kind offer, but I think you've got enough on your plate, and it's getting very late… time for me to go home, I think." She gives my arm an affectionate little squeeze, and unfolds herself from the bench. "Yeah, I'm just about ready to crash, myself. It's been a huge week!" We walk out of the pub, and towards the surveillance van, still parked opposite. "Don't worry, I got the keys from Zaf," Jo says, holding them up, and once again she elects to drive. This time, we travel in silence, too tired to chat, and it is not until we are back in the garage, and about to go our separate ways, that she says, "Malcolm? I meant what I said. Any time you want to talk, I'm here." I pause as I open the driver's door of the Rover, and thank her again with all the sincerity I can muster. Frowning, I add, "How were you intending to get home?" Jo looks back at me and shrugs, "I've missed the last bus, and I don't fancy the Tube, this time of night, so I was going to walk. It's not that far…"

Jo lives near Notting Hill Gate, I recollect, as I shake my head. "No, you're not. I'll run you home." Her whole face lights up. "Really?" I slide into the driver's seat and reach across to unlock the passenger door. "Really. This is what friends do for each other, isn't it? Help each other out?" Her answering smile, as she gets in, is blinding. "Nice car," she says appreciatively, settling into the red leather upholstery, and as I start the engine, I flash back to the first night I gave Ruth a lift home…"It's beautiful, Malcolm, a really fine old motor. They don't make them this way any more, do they? It's a bit like yourself, really…do you know how rare it is to meet a true gentleman these days?" Oh, Ruth. Did you ever mean any of it, or was that just the start of a very long game? I pull out onto Horseferry Road, and set course for Jo's little flat; she is soon dozing as I make my way through the quiet streets, and I find her address by myself, unwilling to wake her until we arrive. Once she has thanked me and gone sleepily inside, I turn for Hampstead, and home, mulling over Jo's words in my mind as I drive… She turned a funny colour and wouldn't meet anyone's eyes afterward… she's very fond of Adam, you know, and she's been so concerned about him after Fiona… I think Harry knew it was her, but still. She shouldn't have done it, told Adam, I mean. It's not like her, to run those sorts of risks… I know I've only been here a few months, but I'm worried about her, Malcolm. She seems to be preoccupied, not quite all here… If she has been contravening direct orders to leak bits of information to Adam, that would certainly explain her pale, guilty look as she followed Harry out of the briefing room. I don't understand why she would run such a risk, though, especially not after having been caught once, passing information to GCHQ. Adam's a nice enough chap, and a talented section chief, but Ruth's loyalties in this regard seem skewed, somehow, and for the millionth time, I wonder just what goes on inside that brilliant brain of hers. It's a thought I am still pondering as I go to bed, alone again. Oh, Ruth…

I don't return to the Grid for three days; Harry has rostered me off in belated recognition of the work I did in cracking the Faraday cage, and for the first twenty-four hours, I sleep the clock round. On the second day, I go for a long ramble on the Heath, enjoying some rare February sunshine, and as I walk along the little paths that Keats and Fanny Brawne once strolled together, I try not to think of Ruth at all, or the little USB of security swipe records, tucked safely into my suit jacket and now hanging upstairs, or of what she might or might not be playing at. Instead, I wonder what Mother is up to in Bournemouth; and impulsively, I decide to pay Aunt Emily a visit. It's been too long since I last saw the sea…

The trip down next day is uneventful, and it doesn't seem very long before I am turning into the driveway of Aunt Emily's villa in Boscombe. My aunt meets me at the front door, pleased to see me. "Malcolm! Oh, what a nice surprise; come in, come in. Your mother's gone into town, I'm afraid. Would you like some tea?" I would, and it isn't long before we are settled at the kitchen table, the homely brown Denby teapot between us, and a batch of scones rising in the oven. "How are you, dear?" she asks, regarding me over the rim of her teacup. "Fair to middling," I reply, and she nods. "I know you can't tell me about your work, but how's Rachel?" Before I can stop myself, I shrug, and my aunt's expression sharpens. "What's wrong, love?" I look into her wise brown eyes, and wish desperately that I could tell her; but I can't. I can't bring myself to admit that the relationship I have yearned for, longed for, wished for, may in fact be nothing more than the most elaborate of pretexts. My heart still wants to believe that Ruth and I share something special; but my coldly logical machine mind recognises the inevitable. I have known it from the moment that I identified the ringtone on her phone as Harry's Game; one day, sooner or later, he will win. Harry bloody Pearce will win, because he always wins in the end. It's as inevitable as 1's and 0's in binary computer coding. On, and off: the final reduction of all that sophistication and artificial intelligence comes down to turning tiny transistors on, and off…

What's wrong? Love…

And the greatest of these is love…oh, why can't I just flick a switch and turn it all off?

My aunt's warm gaze rests on my face patiently, and with a little start, I realise that I haven't actually replied to her question, so lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts have I become. "Rachel is…very busy, at the moment. Very engaged in her work." Aunt Emily gives me a long look, reaching across the table to take my hand in her small, warm, dry one. "So, not engaged to you, then. I'm sorry, Malcolm, she seemed such a lovely girl." I stare at her in shock, and she squeezes my hand affectionately. "I had an inkling, when you brought her here last year. You were head over heels…just transformed. I hadn't seen you looking so happy since before your father died…" She gets up, then, in response to the ding! of the kitchen timer, to check on the scones. They are done to pale golden perfection, and she brings them to the table with a pot of her own raspberry jam and a small dish of clotted cream. My stomach rumbles in anticipation, despite the emotional turmoil I am experiencing, but there is something very reassuring about going through the ritual of splitting a warm scone in half, before spooning on jam and cream…I hesitate about reaching for the cream, before recalling that Dr Chapman had said I could afford to eat a bit more. I demolish two scones in rapid succession, before speaking again. "I should have known you'd guess. I wanted to ask her, very much, but she pre-empted me by saying she wasn't marriage material, whatever that might mean."

Aunt Emily replies derisively, "It means she's got rocks in her head, dear. What a lot of nonsense these girls go on with nowadays! More tea?" Feeling oddly comforted by her brisk attitude, I accept another cup, and brace myself to address the main reason for my impromptu visit. "Now, tell me. How's Mother?" I slide a bottle of Valium across the table as I speak, and my aunt slips it neatly into the pocket of her apron, before replying, "If she were here for any length of time at all, she'd be insufferable, but as it is, she's merely inscrutable. She comes and goes, always in that mink coat, and spends the rest of the time on the upstairs telephone; she's quite as bad as any teenager. She's had her hair set twice since she's been here, and she arrives home with armfuls of carrier bags. She doesn't tell me anything, but this arrived in the post this morning" – she gets up to fetch a heavy, cream-laid envelope from the sideboard – "and if you hadn't come down today, I would have called you." I look at the envelope, now propped against the teapot, and read the address, rendered in an elegant black copperplate font, frowning in bemusement:

Lady Angela Anglesey

c/o 12 Percy Road

Boscombe

BOURNEMOUTH

BH5 1JF

"I don't understand. Who is this addressed to?" I raise my eyes to meet my aunt's, and she sighs. "To your mother, I'm afraid." I look at the envelope again, and itch to steam it open. Gingerly, I pick it up with a napkin and feel carefully for an indication of the contents; I detect a certain stiffness which suggests it is a card, and then my sensitive fingertips relay the information that the card is deckle-edged. An invitation of some sort, then. I turn the envelope over, but the only thing on the reverse side is a thick gold seal embossed with an intricate monogram that I don't recognise. I place the envelope back against the teapot, and Aunt Emily says gently, "I really don't think she's been taking her medications, dear. Not all of them, anyway." I rub my hands over my face, and peer again at the envelope with a hollow feeling in my stomach. "I still don't understand. Why is my mother swanning about Bournemouth, passing herself off as a member of the aristocracy? And where has this invitation come from?" And that's just for starters: I have a hundred other questions…

"Oh, why don't you just open it and find out? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Sticking your nose into your poor mother's private life like a good little spy?" I jump in my seat, turning at the sound of my mother's voice, petulant and sharp, as she stands in the doorway, fur coat sliding from one shoulder and both hands on her hips. In the hall behind her are a number of glossy-looking shopping bags; she must have come in while I was studying the envelope. "M…Mother! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," I begin, nervously, and Aunt Emily says calmly, "Oh, do stop carrying on, Milly, and have a nice cup of tea and a scone. Malcolm's come down for the day to see us, isn't that nice?" My mother glares at me, but consents to join us at the kitchen table, after swishing across the tiles in a long apricot coloured dress of some sort of silky material, totally unlike her usual chintz-inspired daywear from Laura Ashley.

As soon as she is seated, Mother returns to the attack, voice becoming shriller. "I suppose I'm not allowed to have a life of my own, is that it? Well, let me tell you something, Malcolm, I'm happy for the first time in years and I'm not going to let you take that away from me. You've no right, none at all, none at all!" Her voice has begun to rise, and with admirable aplomb, Aunt Emily manages to shake two Valiums into the teacup she is carrying towards her sister, before adding an extra spoonful of sugar at table, and stirring it well. "Here you are," she says, setting the cup down. My mother sips her tea, little finger crooked elegantly, and sniffs in my direction, "I don't see what the harm is. Why shouldn't I enjoy myself? Don't I deserve a little pleasure?" Choosing my footing carefully, I counter, "Yes, but why the false name? Who is this Angela Anglesey?" "Lady Angela Anglesey," she corrects me, frowning, and I sigh in frustration. "All right then, Lady Anglesey. I still don't understand what's going on." "Well, you wouldn't, would you?" she replies, illogically, and I see that the tranquiliser is taking effect. "You were always such a daddy's boy…never a thought for me. Never a thought for what it was like for me in that poky parsonage and with everyone demanding your father's attention, day in, day out. I never wanted to marry a vicar, you know, I thought I was marrying a baronet. And instead I got your father, timid as a mouse and with his head forever in a book somewhere, and the pair of you as alike as two peas in a pod…I imagined that I'd be hosting tea parties at the manor house, not meetings of the WI in the parish hall."

My mother speaks with such vitriol that it literally takes my breath away. I had known, growing up, that she had worn the title of vicar's wife like an ill-fitting shoe, but I have never heard her speak like this, and it occurs to me to wonder what other substances she might have been consuming today. "Amelia! That's enough, I've never heard such a pack of self-pitying lies. David thought the world of you, and no mother could ask for a better son than Malcolm. He should be sainted for putting up with all your nonsense." Aunt Emily speaks with a quiet ferocity, but my mother is having none of it. "Oh, yes, he's such a good son. Out to all hours, home whenever he feels like it, leaves me there alone for days on end, goes off gallivanting with who knows who and then comes home expecting his meals cooked…well, what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, too," she hisses, and my jaw drops open in astonishment. "I can't help the hours I work, it's the job; Mother, I thought you understood that."

I can hear the hurt in my voice, like a little boy accused of something he didn't do, and Mother rounds on me, slurring her words. "Don't worry about me, I've found someone else, you know. Someone who wants to spend time with me. Someone who doesn't disappear for days at a time. Someone who's worth ten of you; a real mover and shaker, a success in life like you'll never be." This is too much, and tears prickle hotly behind my eyes. Mother has always been proud of me, of my career (or what she knows of it), and of the financial position I have achieved. Hasn't she? Before I can reply to this cruel diatribe, Aunt Emily acts: to my utter astonishment, she slaps my mother sharply across the face. It is the first time I have ever seen her do anything so violent. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, talking like that. I'm absolutely mortified to be your sister, and I'm sick of the sight of you, all dolled up like something out of that Billy Wilder film… Malcolm, which one was it?" "Sunset Boulevard," I whisper miserably, watching my mother as she slowly raises her hand to her cheek, now flaming red, and opens her mouth to scream. Fortunately, the Valium seems to have infiltrated her bloodstream thoroughly, and the best she can manage is an outraged gurgle, before her whole body goes slack, and the empty teacup crashes to the floor. I just manage to catch her before she slides out of her chair, and hefting her with an effort, I carry her through to the parlour, with Aunt Emily's help, and lay her on the sofa. We leave her there, covered with a colourful crocheted rug, and snoring like a baby hippo in apricot satin, before retreating to the kitchen.

"I was afraid of this," my aunt confides as we sweep up the shattered teacup. "She's begun making things up again." I stand up with the dustpan, feeling shattered myself, and carefully wrap the contents in newspaper before disposing of them. My aunt collects a pair of snifters and a bottle of brandy, and pours us each a drink, before re-locking the elegant oak drinks cabinet. "I shouldn't, really, I've got to drive back soon," I protest, but she says, "Take it," with a grim intensity that tells me there's more bad news to come. I sink back onto the kitchen chair, and look at her with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Aunt Emily begins, "Do you remember what I told you about how your mother and father got engaged?"

I nod; this seems safe enough ground. "Yes, Father had come back from Cambridge for Christmas, and their romance was rekindled; he realised how lonely he had been, and so they got engaged." My aunt nods. "That's right, only there was something I didn't tell you, because I didn't think it would ever matter; but now, I think you ought to know. After your father went up to Cambridge for the first time, that autumn, Milly was beside herself; she had grown used to his shy attentions, and I think she truly did miss him, but she was very young, and very silly. She spent a lot of time moping in her room, reading retellings of legendary romances, penny dreadfuls, really, and then one day a new constable arrived at the police station to work with our Da. He was very handsome, tall and blonde where your father was slight and dark, and, well, one thing and another happened, and somehow your mother got it into her head that she was like Lady Guinevere, and this young chap was her Lancelot…the two of them were violently attracted to each other, but Da wouldn't hear of it. Said it wasn't proper, that she had set her cap at young Mr Wynn-Jones, and the whole village knew it, and besides, no daughter of his was going to marry a junior policeman." After a long pause, in which she drains her glass, Aunt Emily resumes her tale.

"Your mother retreated further inside a world of her own making; in her mind, your father was her good King Arthur, but while he was away, she saw herself as keeping company with Lancelot, just as Guinevere had done. I knew things had gone too far when she began to speak of running away with this other chap, and I was so worried that I told Da. You don't remember my father, Malcolm, but he was a very hard man, upright and correct, and without mercy for wrongdoers. He sent the young constable packing back to Cardiff, and he locked my mother in her room until she came to her senses. It was dreadful; she wept for days, tried to climb out of the window, turned her nose up at food…and when she finally did emerge, she refused to answer to anything but Guinevere for weeks. It was only when your father came back for Christmas that she began to seem more like herself. As if she had finally remembered who she was; the prettiest girl in the village, aiming to marry into the oldest family in the county. In her haste and eagerness, she forgot that your father was destined for the church, not the manor house, and by then it was all too late. She had already accepted him, and my Da was determined to see to it that she kept her word, so that was that. She never saw the young constable again."

I dip my forefinger in the few drops of liquid remaining in my glass, and draw patterns – spirals and Celtic chevrons – on the scrubbed oak surface of the kitchen table, the twin of the one in my own kitchen. Spirals are such soothing things to draw… "Thank you for telling me. Erm… when you said that they were…violently attracted…" I glance across at her, then, feeling the much-hated redness spreading upwards across my face, and her eyes fill with compassion. "I'm so sorry, Malcolm. Your father wasn't her first." She reaches over to cup my face in her hands, then, and says with peculiar intensity, "But you are your father's son, as I live and breathe. You are the spitting image of David Wynn-Jones, with your mother's colouring thrown in for good measure." I nod, taking a long breath to ease the tension in my ribcage, and slowly exhale, rolling my shoulders back at the same time, seeking release from the knots that have begun to congregate in my trapezius muscles.

"So, do you think that this Lady Angela is just the next iteration of Guinevere? A fantasy character for Mother to escape into, whenever she's bored with her life? A role she plays when she's with…whoever it is she's spending time with?" Aunt Emily looks thoughtful, and then sad. "I think we should seek professional advice. If she slips into a mental state like that again, at her age, and with her heart condition, it could be very dangerous. She's cut off all contact with the people she usually associates with here; she won't go to the bridge club, and she refuses to come to church, if she's at home on a Sunday morning at all. Why don't you leave her here with me, and I'll see about getting her assessed at the San. Don't look so worried, there's hope for her yet!" I gaze at her wistfully; she makes it all sound so easy, but I can't burden her like this. At the same time, I am seriously alarmed at what I have heard, and I know I can't have Mother posing as a titled lady and seeing some wealthy unknown; the security risk is simply too great.

"Thank you, but I think I should take her back to London with me. I'll take some time off to bring her to her specialists, get this situation under control… I've months and months of annual leave stored up." My aunt snorts, "She won't leave Bournemouth until this thing with her latest Lancelot plays out, of that you can be sure; and you have better things to do than run around Harley Street with her. Please, let me take care of this; your work means too much to too many people, even if Milly doesn't understand it. Besides, I owe it to her," she concludes softly, "If I hadn't said anything to Da, then perhaps it would have all blown over; she's never really forgiven me for it, you know." Ah yes, the relentlessly clear vision of hindsight…the basis for more if-onlys and what-ifs than the rest of human understanding put together…

I make a half-hearted attempt at a chuckle, which comes out sounding more like a sob. "I think we both know I wouldn't be here, if that had been the case. She would have gone off with her Lancelot, given half an opportunity, and who's to say that she wouldn't have been happier with him in the end?" My aunt gives me one of those quizzical once-overs that only pass between close family members, and rolls her eyes. "Your mother would NOT have been happy as a junior bobby's wife, and from what I can remember of him, that was about as far as he was likely to go. He was as thick as two bricks, handsome though he may well have been. She might moan about it, but she secretly loved terrorising the parishioners… and she loved your father, in her own way, just as she loves you. Your mother's never really had to grow up; in her heart, she's still a spoilt, impulsive little girl who believes in fairytales."

I look at the clock, and groan; it will soon be time to head back, and I want to take a walk on the beach before I go, and let the sea breeze blow the cobwebs out of my soul. I make arrangements with my aunt, and write her a substantial cheque to cover Mother's likely medical expenses at the San, a well-known 'private hospital' in Boscombe. Finally, I do the most dishonourable thing I have ever done in my life: I open my mother's mail, using a very hot palette knife to lift the wax-sealed flap, and tweezers to extract the gold-edged card.

The pleasure of Lady Angela Anglesey's company

Is cordially requested on the twenty-first of March, 2006

At seven o'clock p.m. for seven-thirty p.m.

RSVP by the fourteenth of March, 2006

I read the engraved copperplate writing twice, and turn the card over, looking for the name of the event, or the hosts, or an address, but there is none. I take photos of it all, before re-inserting the invitation and sealing the envelope once more. I can puzzle about it later, I decide, but for now, I want nothing more than to feel the crunch of pebbles and sand beneath my feet, hear the mewing of gulls and the ebb and flow of water on the shore, and smell the salt tang of sharp, cold air. I look in on Mother, still unconscious and snoring loudly, and then, still feeling guilty at leaving her, I bid Aunt Emily goodbye; she gives me a long hug, holding me tight, and whispers "Bendith Duw arnat" as she lets me go. "And on you," I return in Welsh, giving her a final kiss on the cheek before sliding into the Rover; she waves cheerily until I am out of sight.

A few minutes later, I am standing on the beach once more; it is late in the afternoon, and the sun has begun to sink behind the town, taking what little warmth was in the air with it; a damp little mist has begun to settle along the shore, and the sea is a flat metallic disc curving out to the horizon. At one end of the beach, a woman walks her three springer spaniels in direct contravention of council regulations, the dogs bounding joyfully in and out of the water, but the beach is otherwise empty. I set off determinedly in the opposite direction, towards the pier, and away from the beach huts that Ruth and I had raced towards so happily a few short months ago. Atlantic gulls pick through the seaweed strewn along the sand, and as dusk deepens, lights wink on all along the promenade.

Staying close to the shoreline, I enjoy the peaceful sound of water lapping just a few inches away, and take in deep, calming breaths of sea air, shivering slightly as the coldness reaches my lungs. My mind, though, is racing, full of a thousand different thoughts and images, but returning constantly to Aunt Emily's story about my mother; uneasily, I return again and again to the ancient Arthurian legend, recognising elements of the classic love triangle in my own, albeit much less exciting life. Arthur, the good king, destined for greatness; Guinevere, the beautiful queen torn between desire and duty; and Lancelot, the noble knight overwhelmed by passion for his best friend's wife. It does not end well; these tales never do…they're really morality plays for the ages, I muse, but before I can think any further along these depressing lines, I spot a figure stumping along the beach toward me, coming out of the rising mists beneath the pier, and my heart stands still. An old, bent figure, leaning on a walking stick, but still moving robustly, dressed in an outmoded, full-cut suit and overcoat, with a grey fedora hat and a handsome watch chain looped across his waistcoat. Surely he can't be here, all the way down in Bournemouth?

I take a few more steps along the beach, and the old man hails me. "Ah, hello, young fella, taking the night air before the blackout begins?" It is, I think incredulously, it is the churchwarden from St Margaret's. "Good evening, sir," I greet him, a smile spreading across my face, "Fancy meeting you here!" The old man peers at me, his brown eyes still keen in his lined face, and he gives a little start of recognition. "Well, and 'ow have you been? 'Aven't seen you in church lately, but I know 'ow it is. The war, you know. No one can ever be sure of where they'll be, come Sunday, or any other day of the week, for that matter." We shake hands as he speaks, and yet again I am surprised at the warmth and strength of his grip, and at the sense of peace that radiates from his entire being, even standing on a deserted beach on a winter's evening. "What brings you out of London?" I ask, fascinated; he appears to think he is back in the Second World War again. The old man points out to sea. "I grew up 'ere, though I've been in London a long while now. My brother stayed; he was the captain of the local lifeboat…o'course, he went to Dunkirk, when the call went out. He made twelve trips, never mind the danger, an' brought back a boatload of soldiers each time… on the thirteenth trip, he never returned. I came to pay my respects, and remember him as he was; he were a grand lad." He looks out at the horizon, where the evening star has now appeared; it looks bigger, somehow, and brighter than I have ever seen it, even as a boy in Wales. I reach out and rest a hand lightly on the old man's shoulder, moved by his simple dignity, and he smiles. "Thank you, lad. Thank you."

We stand together for a few moments, looking out to sea, each of us lost in our own thoughts, until he moves beneath my hand, and says, "I reckon you're in more strife than my brother ever was. A penny for 'em?" "Oh, you wouldn't want to hear about my problems," I stall, even though the idea of talking to this lovely old man again is a very tempting one. "Try me," he invites again, and this time I answer, "Do you know the story of King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, and Lancelot?" He nods, still looking out to sea, and says, "Reckon it's one of the oldest stories in the book; power, love, an' deceit. The wreck of a kingdom for a woman, and what's worse, the loss of a true friendship." I sigh heavily. "Yes, that's the one." The old gentleman looks about him then, until he spots a place to sit on the pilings under the pier. "We'd better settle in, then. I've a feeling this will be a long story…" And so it is, even with my best efforts to keep it concise.

Once I have finished, the old man leans back against the rugged wood of the piling, and closes his eyes for a long while, so long that I fear he has fallen asleep, but I wait patiently, breathing in the scent of the ocean, and counting the stars. I have never seen them so bright, and it is with a strange feeling that I realise that the whole coastline is dark; there must have been a power outage, I reason, and that's why I can't see any lights, and why the stars, without the usual light pollution from the nearby towns, seem so much bigger and brighter, even though it is a moonless night. I can hear something, though: the faraway, dreamy strains of Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade, being played live, by the sound of it. Probably a concert in the bandstand, although I wonder at their timing; the audience must be a hardy one indeed, to be sitting out at this time of year.

Finally he opens his eyes, and it seems to me that the temperature under the pier increases a couple of degrees; I'm no longer shivering in my old green Barbour jacket. "It's the old story, all right. There's no easy answers for you, lad, but I will say that a good friendship's a rare thing, and a good woman, rarer still, an' many's the mates I've served with who've fallen out over some girl or other, only to fall right back in when they've been in the thick of it together, and the girl long gone." I frown, "So…what are you saying, exactly?" He chuckles, slowly straightening up from his perch on the piling; I turn back to the sea. "Ah, lad, if I could give you the answer to that question, I'd be someone else entirely. Now, we'd best be getting off this beach, or else we'll be fair game for Jerry, if he 'appens to fancy a day at the seaside." He's a very old man, I remind myself, obscurely disappointed by his response, and turn around to offer him a hand up; but he is nowhere to be seen. Unable to believe the evidence of my own eyes, I turn a slow three hundred and sixty degrees, surveying the beach in every direction; but he is gone, and where he has been sitting against the pier, something has been scratched into the sand with the ferrule of a walking stick. I can barely make it out, so I feel through my pockets for my small, powerful LED torch. Crouching down, I sweep the beam over the writing: 1 Cor 12-13. It seems that he had the answer all along… and so did I, for I know these verses by heart, as one of my father's favourite sermon texts. My poor, battered heart; I had forgotten that I once used to store up wisdom and knowledge in it, instead of secrets and pain…

Straightening up, I peer into the fog that is now rolling in, but I can't see him; he has vanished, yet again, and this time seemingly into thin air. I turn for a final look out at the ocean, and just for a second, I seem to hear the low thrumming of Rolls Royce Merlin engines, the signature sound of Spitfires in flight…and I can't be sure, along the beach, that the heavy fog isn't concealing rolls of barbed wire to repel would-be invaders. As I turn towards the town, shaking my head at my childish fancies, and step out of the shadow of the pier, the coastal lights reappear, rippling out from Bournemouth: power must have been restored. I walk back up the beach and along to the Rover. As I turn the engine over and give it some choke, willing it to warm up, I grope in the glovebox for my old, red, pocket-sized New Testament, and finally locate it beneath spare bits of kit from work, and the original Rover owner's manual. Working by torchlight, I quickly thumb through it to First Corinthians, and read the beautiful old words again, for reassurance: For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity. Charity, or love, as people would say today. The Rover's engine note changes, and I push in the choke, flick on the headlamps and heater, and drive slowly out of the carpark, keeping an eye out for the old gentleman, even though I know I will not see him again tonight.

As I make my way back to London, that last verse revolves ceaselessly in my mind, and gradually, it occurs to me that I have experienced each of these graces very recently:

Jo, with her complete faith that I would finally bring down the Faraday cage; Aunt Emily, hoping that she will be able to help my mother, and finally repay a debt; and as for love, I have only to look to my friends. Colin, who is like my brother; Jo, kind and wise beyond her years; and then there is Ruth, who has taught me so much about myself, about life, and about seizing the moment; how can I not love her, even if I am no longer willing to play an unwitting part in an ancient tragedy?

[Merlin speaks] Now, is there any that ye love more than another?

Yea, said King Arthur, I love Guenever the king's daughter…this damosel is the most

valiant and fairest lady that I know living, or yet that ever I could find.

Sir, said Merlin, as of her beauty and fairness she

is one of the fairest alive, but, an ye loved her not so well as

ye do, I should find you a damosel of beauty and of goodness that

should like you and please you, an your heart were not set; but

there as a man's heart is set, he will be loath to return.

That is truth, said King Arthur.

A/N: the quote at the end of this chapter is from Le Morte d'Arthur, Book I, Chapter III, by Sir Thomas Malory. Malcolm has most of that by heart, too.