it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away…
My overtired brain struggles to take in everything that Colin is excitedly telling me: Ruth, apparently, has told Miss Wells something so shocking that she has broken down, and is now sitting handcuffed to a chair on the Grid, weeping. "I don't know exactly what she told her; Jo overheard it, but she won't say. Anyway, Harry wants you to retrieve her bag and check it for explosives." Blearily, I rub my eyes and ask the first thing that comes into my head: "Why me?" Colin shrugs, "Because you're the chemistry geek, and you've had more experience handling things that go boom than me." I get up slowly, feeling every one of my forty-eight years, and a few more besides. "All right, where is it?" Colin replies, "In the alcove, I think. I'm going down to the server room to get ready for the system restore; you know what happened last time we had a lockdown exercise." I groan, as much from the knots I am trying to work out of my shoulders, as from the memory of the brutal reboot that crashed half our servers. "A good plan," I say approvingly, and half-walk, half-hobble out of the tech suite. My left leg has not yet woken up, and the sensation of pins and needles is most unpleasant indeed, so much so that I stop just inside the entrance to the corridor that leads to the alcove, to try and rub the numbness away.
I am concentrating on working my thumbs deep into my quadriceps muscle to encourage better circulation, when I become aware that I am not alone: at the far end of the passage, Harry and Ruth are having an intense conversation. Their voices are muted and flattened so as not to carry, but their body language is unmistakable. I briefly consider coughing, but in truth I'm too sickened by the sight to do anything other than to watch helplessly as she ducks past him coquettishly, only for him to arrest her, pinning her against the wall as he responds passionately to whatever she has just said. Her eyes, huge and dark in the dim light, flicker between meeting his, and looking longingly at his lips as he speaks. Oh, she wants him to kiss her… This realisation comes hard on the heels of another: she's not trying to get away from him any more, in fact she's arching her back towards him, pushing her breasts closer, and he's only standing about six inches from her, leaning in avidly. I've never seen him this physically close to anyone he wasn't sleeping with. The air is electric with their sexual energy, hers rising to match his as he moves even closer and whispers in her ear; I can't move, or breathe, or think. I am overwhelmed with a disorienting sense of déjà vu, and then it occurs to me: I'm back in my nightmare, trapped in the spider's web at Toad Hall, watching them dance together, moving as one.
When they finally wrench their eyes away from each other, and go in opposite directions, I feel as ashamed and dirty as if I had just witnessed them copulating, even though nothing has actually occurred. I draw back into the darkness as Harry passes; if he is aware that someone is there, he gives no sign, and I wait for a few more seconds before stepping shakily into the corridor towards the alcove, fearing to find Ruth there. I can't face her, not after what I've just seen; there was something about the way they parted which spoke of unfinished business, of a beginning, rather than an ending. There is not one iota of doubt in my mind now; if they aren't lovers yet, they very shortly will be. Blessedly, when I reach the alcove, it is empty, and Miss Wells' expensively ugly Italian leather handbag lies forgotten amidst the dust and rubble of Colin's excavations like a disposable carrier bag. Forcing myself to focus only on the task at hand despite the thoughts and emotions ricocheting around my mind, I pick it up with the greatest of care, and gingerly lower it onto the workbench. Concentrate 34 can be unstable, especially if it's old, as this could well be… A bit like me, I add, with a flash of grim humour, before closing my eyes to marshal whatever feeble reserves of professional detachment might still be present after the night, and the sight, I have just endured. Dear God, I pray silently, help me not to inadvertently blow us all to smithereens…oh Lord, help. When my fingers stop trembling, I delicately open the handbag, and taking the little Leatherman multi-tool I always carry, I hold my breath, slit the lining an inch or so with surgical precision, and feed in a small, flexible, LED light. Cautiously, I peer inside, and there it is, five squares of green, putty-like substance, each one more than enough to blow a house the size of my own to kingdom come, but no detonating mechanism in sight. She was bluffing. All along, she was bluffing. My knees give way unexpectedly, and I lean against the bench for support, gulping for air as I struggle with the great swell of conflicting emotions rising within. "So, still here, then."
I look up: Colin stands in the doorway, peering at me through the gloom. "All right?" he asks, and I nod, unable to speak past the hard lump in my throat. His eyes shift warily to the bag, and I collect myself with an immense effort; now is not the time, nor the place, to go to pieces. "The explosives are there, all right, but she didn't have them wired up." He exhales in relief; spotting the Sevegola on the floor, he retrieves it, saying, "Harry wants to see everyone immediately; we have to decide what to do with the mad bit...Angela," he corrects himself, seeing my steely-eyed look." Of course, after the storm comes the reckoning; I wonder if Harry is going to let her go, as he did Tom Quinn. I pick up the bag, aware that it must stay in my custody until I can remove the explosives, and use the short walk to get myself back under control, so as to appear like the seasoned senior officer I am in front of the others. When She was bluffing had run through my mind, I hadn't known if the thought applied more to Miss Wells, or to Ruth. Taking a deep breath, I walk onto the Grid.
As Colin had described, Miss Wells is sitting alone and handcuffed; Jo, her eyes huge with exhaustion, is huddled next to Zaf, sipping from a mug she is holding with both hands, and regarding Miss Wells as a mongoose regards a king cobra. Adam looks not the least bit worse for wear after a night without sleep, and it crosses my mind that he has probably spent many nights awake, one way or another, since losing Fiona. Ruth looks shocking, the shadows under her eyes like bruises, and she is staring fixedly at the floor; and in spite of everything, my foolish heart lurches beneath my ribs at the sight, and I wish I could take her in my arms and tell her that everything is going to be all right. Only it's not, ever again. I cannot forget the sight of her and Harry, only inches apart, the banked-up fire of their desire for once burning bright, consuming all the oxygen in the vicinity; no wonder I'd been unable to breathe. The atmosphere here is no less charged, but in a different way. This is a far more familiar scenario, this post-operational taking stock and deciding on next steps, and something occurs to me: for Miss Wells, this was an op; she has somehow lost her grasp on reality, and to her the whole thing had been just another night in the field. She seems so small, so frail, as she sits there, manacled to the furniture, with tear-tracks staining her cheeks. Oh, how the mighty have fallen…poor thing. Harry comes towards me briskly, his eyes hooded, his expression questioning.
Holding Miss Wells' oversized bag in front of me like a shield to ward him off, I answer succinctly, "There is plastic explosive." Helpfully, Colin adds, "But no mechanism," holding up the Sevegola as proof of its harmlessness. Jo winces reflexively, and I set the bag down on the nearest desk; it happens to be Ruth's. Adam approaches Harry, his stance suggesting that he's about to pitch something to his boss, but is uncertain about how it will go over. Unusual, that, I note, Adam and Harry are generally simpatico on most things where operational matters are concerned… and seconds later, I know why. Adam is proposing that we treat Miss Wells as a victim in the field, citing the unwritten code that underpins many of the decisions made about officers who go so far off piste, they leave the snow altogether. It's the right thing to do, according to spook tradition; and Harry is nothing if not a traditionalist. We do it partly because there is no-one else they can turn to for help; partly because without such a decision, the officer would lose their pension, and very likely their freedom; partly in recognition of their service, and the lives they have saved, and lastly, because at times like these, we all hear the small, still voice that whispers, And there but for the grace of God go I…
In the end, everyone but Jo agrees: Miss Wells will be considered a victim in the field. Harry is stern with his former officer, keen to re-establish that he is in charge again; but when Zaf releases her, Jo can stay silent no longer. "No! This is wrong, you can't just let her go!" she insists indignantly, and Adam tries to explain to the junior officer, "If one of us goes to pieces during an op in the field, we get them out of trouble, but never tell." Jo is having none of it, though. "Yeah, but this wasn't an op!" she snaps, and while I generally leave Adam to manage his own staff, I can't help but speak up, hearing the anger and confusion in her voice. "To her, it was," I tell Jo gently, and she stares at me with enormous eyes that speak volumes about her ordeal. She's still so new at this, so young…was Adam right to have recruited her, after all? I try smiling, but Jo looks away, hurt, perhaps, that I hadn't taken her side. Ah, Jo. If only you had known Miss Wells as I've known her, and seen all the lives she'd saved in her time, you would realise why we're doing this, I add silently, willing her to understand. We owe her this much…and perhaps very much more.
Decision made, Harry lays it on thick with Miss Wells, while she responds with remorse and contrition. "There are conditions," he tells her implacably, "Silence. You leave the country. We never see you again. If we do, we throw you to the wolves." Miss Wells acquiesces to them all, as meek and humble now as a penitent before the Pope. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Colin watching her as she grovels before Harry; his look is a hard one, and I realise that he, too, does not completely agree with letting her go, but whether this is due to residual feelings for Jo, or his own opinion, I cannot say. Miss Wells, chastened and subdued, stands up to go, and it falls to me to give her yet more bad news. "Without your handbag, I'm afraid," I say, seeing her move automatically towards it, and she looks directly at me for the first time since producing the Sevegola. In her face is pain and loss, and deep embarrassment that it all could have come to this, and although I know she could have killed us all – there's more ways than one to set off plastic explosives, after all – I can't help but remember the beautiful, brave officer I had once looked up to and admired. Let her leave with what little dignity she has left, for we will never see her again. And so I meet her eyes the only way I know how: honestly, but with a certain reserve, too, in acknowledgment of her earlier, apparently murderous intent. She gives me the tiniest of nods, in recognition, I think, of the regard and esteem I have held her in for so long, and then she is gone.
Harry tells Zaf to get a messenger down to Control to lift the lockdown; it is twenty-five past seven, and most of us have been on the Grid for over twenty-four hours. The relief that ripples around the room as Miss Wells exits the pods is palpable. People stare after her until she is out of sight, and then shake themselves as if awaking from a bad dream. Jo watches the longest, and I remind myself that to keep a close eye on her for the next few days; post-traumatic stress can manifest in some odd ways. Colin has already turned and headed back to the alcove, where I join him in contemplating his night's work. "How to explain a hole in the wall to internal services?" I muse aloud, and Colin, face perfectly straight, answers "Mice," which strikes me as the funniest thing I've ever heard. "M…m…mi…mice!" I finally manage to get out, and the next thing I know, I'm howling with laughter while Colin regards me disapprovingly. His eyes seem owl-like behind his spectacles, reminding me of one of my physics tutors at Cambridge, an unpopular man whom the freshers had nicknamed 'The Newt,' not in honour of his encyclopaedic knowledge of Newtonian laws, but rather because his lenses appeared to make his eyes bulge like that unfortunate amphibian's.
Remembering this only makes me laugh all the harder; Colin's face registers puzzlement, and then concern, as I continue to rock with mirth, and finally he begins to smile, and then to chuckle, and then to join me in merriment, for laughter is one of the most infectious of all reactions, and a vital safety-valve when emotions have been under such duress for so long. The two of us laugh so hard, we get stitches, and have to sit, panting, with our backs against the wall, on either side of the hole, pointing at it and gasping out, "Mice!" before going off into guffaws again. I feel about a tonne lighter and ten years younger by the time we begin to get hold of ourselves. Laughter truly is the best medicine…and Colin truly is the best friend I could ever want or hope for. Shortly, I recall that I am meant to be collecting files to return to Registry; Zaf had a large number of them, and still chuckling with amusement, I go to pick them up, before taking them back to Ruth to sign in. I have just dropped them off, when the pods whir open and Juliet appears, looking smug as always, and resplendent in a bilious shade of green. I spot Miss Wells' handbag lying on the edge of Ruth's desk, and snatch it up, hurrying it out of sight before Juliet notices. It would be just like her to…as I hasten away, I hear Ruth say urgently, "There's a document missing…"
By the time I return, the Grid is crackling with an almost unprecedented level of tension; Miss Wells has stolen a top-secret report on the new security measures at Buckingham Palace, and Harry has gone into full crisis management mode, ordering the Royal Family to Pegasus, the bunker originally built for their protection during the Second World War beneath St James' Park. Miss Wells, it seems, has played us all, twisting and turning to obfuscate her true operational aim. I always knew she was brilliant, but this…this is diabolical, and for the first time I wonder if she is really working alone. The tech suite monitors are soon full of images of SO19 and SAS officers combing through and around the Palace; there is nothing, not even a stifled Corgi, to indicate she is anywhere on the grounds. I recall her saying once that the simplest solutions were usually the best; it had been one of the reasons why she had agreed to have the microdot canister installed in her tooth for the INLA operation. Simple, elegant, and effective; that was how Miss Wells liked to do things. This feels too convoluted, too elaborate… Adam asks unexpectedly, "Did Princess Diana ever go to Pegasus?" and when Ruth replies in the affirmative, and confirms that her step-brother had been assigned to the Princess at the time, a frisson of real fear runs through us all. She's still out for revenge, then… "What are you thinking?" Harry enquires of his section chief, and I get the distinct impression that for once, he doesn't want to know. Adam looks at him and says quietly, "He could have told her about Pegasus." While the rest of us are still digesting the implications of this last statement, Adam is already running for the pods… I close my eyes for a moment, and pray. It seems to be the only thing left to do.
Not quite, as it turns out. Almost before I know what's happening, I'm being bundled into a car and driven at great speed towards St James' Park, on orders from Adam. He meets me at the subterranean entrance to an arched tunnel, and I race after him through the long corridors, with alarms bleating disconcertingly and people rushing in the opposite direction. He shouts something at me over his shoulder, and my legs nearly turn to water as I catch the word 'bomb'. When he stops abruptly, I collide into him; he catches me with both hands on my shoulders, and swiftly turns me to face the thing I have dreaded my whole life. My moment of truth, my turn to step up and be counted has arrived, and all I want to do is to run away, as fast as my quaking limbs will carry me. My stomach lurches violently, and for a horrendous moment, I think I am actually going to be physically sick, right in front of Adam and Sir Somebody Something, the impeccably turned out and supercilious-looking Head of the Queen's Household, one of the infamous men in grey.
It's a simple enough looking bomb, built along the same lines as hundreds of others manufactured by the IRA and INLA during the Troubles, which is no doubt where and when Miss Wells learned her craft. There's a timer, now rapidly counting down the final minute, and three wires running into the device; black, red, and green-and-yellow. And therein lies the problem: three is one more than I would normally expect to find. Sir Something says he will call the Bomb Squad, and I wish with all my heart that he would; I'm seriously out of my depth here. Adam shakes his head, "No time," and I gulp, wishing I could take another puff of Ventolin; I had taken a preventative dose on the trip over here, but there is no time, as the numbers on the clock count down my remaining heartbeats and I gaze blankly at the device in my hand, a portable 'sniffer' for detecting chemical residues. There's no trace of explosives, but something else is tugging at my brain, made stupidly slow by terror, lack of sleep and emotional turmoil. The wires, the wires are wrong, somehow…three is always the worst number…one on its own is fine, and two is perfect, but three…something was always going to go wrong, with three wires. Two, and one...Harry, Ruth, and me, all wired together and primed to explode…unless I can defuse it, somehow find the solution to the puzzle…
I drop the sniffer, and reach into my jacket for the wire cutters, aware that time is running out, pouring away like blood and water and life itself as the seconds flash past before my eyes and I again see Ruth and Harry in the corridor earlier, sparks flying between them… I'm surprised they hadn't set off the Concentrate 34 themselves… oh yes, that's right, I have to concentrate… concentrate… three wires… three chances, or none… The cutters hover over first one wire, then the other, but none of them feels right, and suddenly, with the strange clarity that comes in the seconds before death, I know what she's done. The biggest deception of them all…and the simplest. Oh, Ruth…and as for Miss Angela Wells, I take my hat off to you; for absolute bloody-minded determination, you have no equal. Almost.
"Oh no. She's coated the wires themselves, and replaced all the casings…it must have taken her months. The entire building's rigged to explode." To my surprise, I manage to say this with considerably more calm than I'm feeling: what I want to do is to drop everything and run away from this hideous bunker, away from Five, and most of all, away from Harry bloody Pearce and the woman who's been in love with him from the day she first arrived on the Grid, late for the morning briefing and trailing highly classified files behind her, apologising in a voice made high by nervousness. Again, I hear Colin's voice, "You're remarkably dumb when it comes to women…everyone has a type they fall for…yours is pathological liars who suck you in by noticing you at all…" He had only been telling the truth, but still, hearing it so bluntly from my best friend had cut me to the quick. Sarah. Miss Wells. Ruth…women for whom I had fallen, hook, line, and sinker, in other words, and who played me like an expert angler plays a fish, for sport, or gain, or…come on, Wynn-Jones, think… the wires, which one to cut? My chest aches with a dull pain that radiates outwards…I'm completely frozen, unable to move, and yet my heart pounds as if it's about to burst. Perhaps it will, and save me the trouble of being alive when the clock hits zero hour.
The numbers hit twenty, then twelve seconds; next to me, Adam's breath is coming faster, as if he is preparing to flee; I hope he can run like hell. "Malcolm," he prompts impatiently, as if I were his son Wes, being un-cooperative about a simple request like brushing his teeth before bed. In less than ten seconds, I'll never have to worry about brushing my teeth, or going to bed, ever again...I'm sorry, Adam, I'm so, so sorry…you don't deserve this. Wes doesn't deserve it…I hesitate over the wires for another heartbeat or so, utterly useless… just like the other night, in bed with Ruth, when… and then Adam decides to act: taking the cutters right out of my hand, he swiftly snips all three wires in front of my disbelieving eyes.
The clock stops at 2:16 seconds, and so does my heart, before the shock of what he's just done and the sheer relief I feel at still being alive floods my system with adrenaline, kicking it back into something approximating a normal sinus rhythm, albeit much faster than its usual eighty beats per minute. "I had no idea which wire to cut," I say, wonderingly, my brain racing to catch up with what's just happened, and with what could have happened. Adam, nonchalantly sucking a finger where a stray spark had landed, replies in such a reasonable tone of voice that I can only stare at him, struck dumb with amazement. "Well, it was obviously one of them, so why not all of them?" Still full of adrenaline, I find my voice, shouting, "Do you have any IDEA how dangerous that was?!" Adam regards me calmly, and observes, "Not as dangerous as standing here and waiting for the clock to hit zero." And with those words, all my anger drains away: he's right. I nearly got us, and all the occupants of Pegasus, killed, with my inability to do something as simple as snipping the right wire at the right time. I should be stripped of my rank, and drummed out of the Service; what I did, or rather didn't do, today, is unforgivable. Humbled, I murmur, "Yes, I know. I froze; I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…" Adam looks away, saying nothing for a moment, and I realise he is listening to his earpiece; "Yes, that's the all-clear," he says to a disembodied voice I can barely hear, before turning back to me. "Well, I don't think there's any more for you to do here, Malcolm. I'll arrange a car to take you back to Thames House, if you're ready to go?" I gaze at him imploringly, for there's nothing I want less than having to face them all with the acrid stench of my failure fresh upon me, but Adam misreads my silence for compliance, or perhaps relief, and speaking into his earpiece, he calls for a driver.
I emerge from Pegasus, blinking at the bright sunlight of another lovely day; and whether it is an after-effect of the adrenaline, or not having eaten since the ham-and-cheese toastie with Jo, in what feels like another lifetime, or a physical manifestation of my disgust with myself and my cowardice, and how nearly it led to a disaster beyond imagination, or the emotional churnings that have gripped my gut since waking up to find Ruth gone, or perhaps simply stress and sleep deprivation, wave upon wave of violent nausea rushes through me, and tottering urgently towards the first tree I see in the manicured sweep of St James' Park, I am thoroughly and ignominiously sick. I am sick until there is nothing left but the bitter taste of bile, until my legs refuse to hold me up any more, and I crumple and slide down the reassuringly solid trunk, stomach still heaving. I sit there for a bit, hugging my knees, my head resting atop my forearms as I wait for the waves of weakness and dizziness to subside. Dear God, I haven't been sick like this in years, and never on an op…
Eventually, I stagger to my feet and manage to make my way into the street; an irate pool driver berates me all the way back to Thames House for being late for my pick-up. I feel as wrung-out as a limp rag. Time and time again I replay the moment where Adam took the cutters out of my nerveless hand, and snipped the wires in one decisive movement, saving us all. I'm a disgrace to the Service, a liability to my colleagues, and an utter failure. I couldn't even work out a field officer's wiring schematic; it was hardly rocket science, but I froze like the pathetic, lily-livered, weak-kneed, coward I am. I must take responsibility for what I've done; I'll have to resign. Oh, God, what will I tell Mother? She'll be so disappointed in me…but not half as disappointed as I am with myself. All those years, all that training…when it really mattered, I let everyone down. I'm a disgrace to the Service…
My thoughts circling like hungry sharks, I make my way back to the Grid, resolved to write my resignation and clear my desk; it's the only honourable thing to do, when one has so nearly brought disaster down on the heads of one's colleagues, one's Service, or indeed, one's country. Perhaps it's time to go, at that…the pod whirs open, and I set foot onto the Grid for what is likely to be the last time.
Jo is the first to see me; "Malcolm!" she cries excitedly, standing up and beginning to clap, while I stare at her in a state of mild discombobulation, and wonder if this is some sort of cruel joke. If so, they're all in on it, for everyone on the Grid is joining her in applause. Obviously, they haven't yet heard from Adam…if they had, they'd be tarring and feathering me instead. Ruth and Zaf come towards me, smiling, and I instinctively tense up as she approaches. Zaf shakes my hand enthusiastically, saying, "Nice work, Malcolm. Adam told us how you cut the wires, stopped the device with seconds to spare." What? On my other side, Ruth, as pleased as a cat seeing cream, purrs, "Terrific, Malcolm," while my brain finally makes sense of what Zaf has just said. "He said that?" I murmur, mortified, and Ruth reaches out, touching me affectionately on the arm, in the middle of the Grid and in full view of our co-workers… how I have longed for this moment, dreamt of it, wished for it, and now…now it leaves me cold. "When he phoned in his field report, he was full of praise," she explains, and the penny drops. Oh, no… But I say only, "I see," in a small, distant voice, clasping my hands defensively as I consider the ramifications of what Adam has done. I notice that everyone's attention has returned to whatever they were doing before I arrived, and I quietly slip away to the furthest corner of the Grid, a tiny, disused meeting room at the far end of the corridor where I had seen Harry and Ruth talking so intently…was that really only a few hours ago?
Slumping into a chair, I yelp in pained surprise, and remove the wire cutters from my trouser-pocket, where I had stuffed them unthinkingly after Adam had handed them back. Holding them, I admire the robust simplicity of their design: this is a tool that does only one thing, and does it perfectly, as long as it's in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing. And that someone is no longer me. What Adam did could have gotten us killed, but my continued inaction certainly would have. I can still hear him saying, "Malcolm," in a mildly impatient tone…another man would have shouted at me in panic, or shoved me out of the way… not Adam, though, and I find myself re-evaluating my whole opinion of the man. Sloppy and slapdash he might be, but he is also fiercely loyal, by turn surprisingly compassionate and shockingly ruthless, and today…today he is both my hero, and a thorn in my side. With his well-meant cover story, he has put me in an impossible situation, for my conscience simply will not allow me to live with such a lie. My moral compass, first calibrated to my father's strict values, is so central to my sense of self-worth that I cannot bear the idea of compromising it completely by letting Adam's story stand. I must tell them, before I leave; but the thought of their faces when they hear the truth… I stare at the cutters in my hand, my heart heavy with guilt and shame. I'm so tired of lies; I'm surrounded with them daily, in this job, and have even helped to manufacture them, but until now I hadn't fully comprehended how corrosive they are to the soul, destroying one's integrity until all that's left are secrets and half-truths.
"Malcolm?" I start slightly, as Ruth says my name with every evidence of concern: the warm tone, the slight upwards inflection of enquiry, the very timbre of her voice all suggest that she is worried about me. I glance towards her, poised on the threshold of the little room, and a great weariness fills every cell of my being. I can't do this any more…I can't. Her eyes are kind, her posture relaxed, and I marvel at the perfect artifice of her performance, even as I tell her the truth. "Adam's report was wrong. I panicked. He covered for me. I can't let him do that." Her eyes widen slightly, but in them I see nothing more than acceptance of this version of events. "Yes, you can," she tells me, smiling reassuringly, and I realise that she hasn't the smallest inkling of the internal struggle I am experiencing; how can she, when for her the truth is a flexible concept at best? Taking a deep breath, desperate to make her understand, I reply softly, "No. You see, bravery is something I dread." That's why I can't let Adam cover for me…it would only compound my cowardice. Ruth shrugs, "I really don't see why it matters; the bomb was defused, the Royal Family's safe, nobody died…why not take the credit, for once?" I look at the wire cutters in my hand, and I know what I must do. The biggest deception of all is also the simplest…love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things…everything except being lied to over and over again; everything except knowing that my love is in love with another man.
"I can't," I repeat softly, and then a little louder, "I can't, Ruth. I'm sorry, but I just can't do this any more." Stepping into the room, she slides the door shut, her eyes never leaving mine. "What are you talking about, Malcolm?" And then I snip the wires that have bound us together for over a year. "Us. I can't do it. " She stares at me for what seems like forever, before saying calmly, "You don't mean that; it's just the adrenaline withdrawal making you feel a bit queer." Adrenaline withdrawal? Where the hell did that come from? At least she has the grace to look slightly shamefaced as I gaze at her incredulously. "I'm perfectly serious, Ruth. This can't go on; I can't keep pretending that you're not in love with Harry" – she opens her mouth to protest and I silence her with a gesture – "nor he with you; and God knows, I've tried."
At that, she blushes fiercely, and with the detachment of exhaustion, I think how much it resembles the flush that suffuses her skin just before she reaches climax, and how much I will miss seeing that pretty phenomenon, and everything else that goes with the earth-shattering experience that is making love with Ruth…she might call it something altogether different, but to me it was always the physical expression of my love for her. "I've told you time and time again, there's nothing between him and me…he's my boss, that's all!" she retorts indignantly. I shake my head, and the tightly bunched muscles in my neck and back scream in protest at the movement. "Ruth, I saw you together in the corridor, earlier; he looked as if he wanted to take you there and then." And in spite of all her lady-doth-protests, in spite of all the head-tossings and arm-crossings that follow, I catch the tiniest glint in her eye, the unmistakable preening of a woman who knows she is desired by the man of her dreams. There's a horrible, hot prickling sensation behind my eyes, and I can hardly draw breath, much less speak; finally I act, desperate to remove myself from her presence before my self-possession disintegrates entirely, and I suffer even greater humiliation on this, the worst day of my life. She watches in silence as I make my way towards the door, careful to avoid passing too close to her; if I could, like Odysseus approaching the Sirens, I would fill my ears with wax.
"Malcolm," she says softly, just as I am about to escape the wreck of my fondest hopes and dreams, "Please just tell me the truth: do you still love me?" I don't dare to look at her, but I won't lie; and the truth is, I do, even though I know the situation is hopeless. I think I will always love her, in one way or another, but at this moment, I cannot bear to be in the same room as her. With an infinitesimal nod, I open the door; and suddenly, she's beside me, and her small, square hands are tugging at my arm, turning me towards her for a final, soul-wrenching kiss, as fat tears slide from the corners of my eyes and roll slowly down my cheeks. "I'm sorry too," she whispers, and then she is gone.
Oh, Ruth…
A/N: The opening lines of poetry are from ' it may not always be so; and i say', by e e cummings. Malcolm is thinking of 1 Corinthians 13:7 when he talks about what love will, and won't, endure. My heartfelt thanks must go to everyone who sent such lovely messages and reviews for the last chapter; I was very moved.