A/N: There's a bit of time-shifting and hopping to and fro in this chapter - hopefully it's not too confusing! As always, thank you to the readers and reviewers, new and old, who are following this story.
One week later…
The big steel gates glide open, and hesitantly I nudge the Rover forward. As the wheels crunch over gravel, I glance in the rear-view mirror to see the gates swinging shut behind me, and I shudder involuntarily. What on earth am I doing here? I wonder, as the car creeps towards a large building of unremarkable ugliness, surrounded by manicured lawns and neatly-kept flower beds which do nothing to disguise the high perimeter fence, or the CCTV cameras spaced along it at regular intervals. I still can't quite believe I'm here; this is not a place for me. I pull over at the top of the long drive, just before the final approach to the house, and endeavour to compose myself. Come on, Wynn-Jones, it won't do to arrive in a state. Resting my head against the back of the seat, I close my eyes, recalling the events that have brought me here today, and my throat tightens, for I have lost everything I held most dear…my professional pride, my self-respect, and my love.
Once more, I hear my heart breaking in the silence that had surrounded me after Ruth had left me alone; it was such a little sound, like a crystal cracking, yet it had fractured the very matrix of my soul. I had cried out as the familiar tightness encircled my ribs and my breath came short and hard, making my head pound. I had reached for my inhaler, but when I pushed the little canister down, nothing had happened. It was empty, and with horror I had realised that I must have used the last dose before entering Pegasus. My lungs had worked desperately as I clung to the doorframe, wheezing hoarsely for help with the last wisps of air left in my chest, as black spots filled my vision, and in some remote but still functioning part of my brain, I had recognised that I was about to faint, here in this most remote part of the Grid. And then, I had fallen down, down, down, into darkness…
A gruff noise comes from the doorway of the alcove, and we glance round to see Harry standing there, regarding us, and the hole, with a sort of incredulous impatience. "So this is what you were up to," he says to Colin, "Better get a maintenance report lodged ASAP, we can't have a bloody great hole in the Grid." To me, he says evenly, "My office, if you've got a moment?" and I scramble up from the floor, dusting myself off in embarrassment. "Of course," I reply, and follow him with alacrity. When I arrive, he instructs me to close the sliding door, and sit down. "I just wanted to thank you," Harry begins, and I raise my eyebrows in puzzlement; for what? I wonder, as my eye falls involuntarily on the open files still spread across his desk. "For the sterling work you did, researching RAD," he clarifies, "it enabled me to apply pressure where it would be most effective, and look at the result. Excellent, really excellent." He begins to tidy up the files, while I look at him in astonishment. "Erm, well, I mean…it was nothing, nothing out of the ordinary…but thank you, Harry, coming from you, that means a lot." And it does; he rarely goes out of his way to praise me, not because he's a fundamentally unappreciative boss, but rather because I've been doing what I do for so long that I think sometimes he forgets to acknowledge it. He nods, and I recognise that I am being dismissed, so I stand up to leave.
"Here, take these back to Ruth, would you," he asks, handing me a sheaf of folders; the top one has confidential HR markings on it, and I give it back to him, for it is a personnel file, rather than one to return to Registry. As I do, a sheet of paper flutters free; he scoops it up quickly, but not before I have seen something I was never meant to see. Ruth's most recent psychiatric assessment, from which the initials R,A, and D leap out at me as if written in letters a foot high. That's all I read: but it is enough. Naïvely, I had assumed it was Miss Wells who was the suffererer, but now I know the hideous truth; it's Ruth. Ruth who may never be able to fully commit to a relationship, Ruth who uses a hundred different tricks to retain the upper hand and keep me off-balance, coming close, then pulling back, running from my loyalty and constancy of heart like a fox fleeing the hounds. Ruth who was sent away to a school she hated, traumatised beyond endurance by the simultaneous loss of her father and her mother's boundless grief…what had she said to me, that morning I woke to find her making bread, all those months ago? Oh, yes: 'It was the worst year of my life…I dread being abandoned again…somehow, it changed me forever.' Now, I think I know what she meant.
Adam's hand, reaching past me and cutting the wires, while I look on helplessly, paralysed with indecision and fear…the solution as dangerous as the problem…
"I'm sorry too," her voice full of regret, her beautiful eyes locked on mine...
It had been Colin who had found me, slumped in the doorway and gasping like a cod out of water, unable to speak, Colin who had run for my spare inhaler, Colin who had helped me up when I was too weak to stand. He had come looking for me, thinking that I had seemed rather down for someone who had just saved so many lives. Thank God he had, or I don't know what would have happened. He had sat patiently with me until my breathing calmed, and when I had recovered enough to hear it, had told me that Angela had just shot Adam, and almost shot Harry, before jumping to her death; Ruth had gone to wait with Harry at the hospital. Of course she's there, saying all the right things to Adam's family, playing the compassionate, caring colleague, and no doubt secretly thrilled to be at Harry's side in a time of crisis, I had thought bitterly at the time, but had only said, "I see," in a small, flat voice, my disjointed dreams still swirling through my mind, filling me with anxiety. Colin had watched me silently, waiting for me to go on; and when I hadn't, he had said what I couldn't bring myself to admit, stating rather than asking, "It's over, isn't it." I had closed my eyes, worn out beyond speech, and nodded. "I'm sorry, mate. I really am," he had told me, sincerity evident in his voice, even though he doesn't much care for Ruth.
Ruth…I blot my forehead with my handkerchief, for today is unseasonably hot for May, and decide that I would rather meet whatever fate lies in wait for me here, where the broken-down and burnt-out officers of the security services are sent like so many malfunctioning gadgets in need of repair, than drown yet again in my memories of her. Even though I have chosen to end the relationship, I have hardly escaped unscathed; I miss her terribly, and even more, I miss us, with a deep, aching sense of loss that permeates my entire being. Naïvely, perhaps, I had thought that I would escape the worst of the emotional fallout if I was the one who made the decision; now I know how very wrong I was. I'm broken, in every sense of the word, wracked with remorse and guilt, unable to separate my feelings about ending things with Ruth from my failure at Pegasus, and the whole shot through with shame and humiliation.
Slowly, I turn the key in the ignition, the Rover's engine purrs into life, and reluctantly, I motor the last few hundred feet to the imposing front door; standing on the wide front step, I contemplate whether I should knock, or ring the bell, or perhaps just wait for someone to spot me on the video surveillance system that is undoubtedly monitoring my every move. I am still plucking up my courage to wield the lion's head knocker, when the door swings open silently and a woman of about my own age with clear grey eyes greets me. "Mr Wynn-Jones, do come in. I'm Diana Jewell, head of psychology. Pleased to meet you," she says in a pleasant voice, as she offers her hand for me to shake, and ushers me inside. Obediently, I step into the foyer, the door closes behind me, and it's official: I am at Tring. Dear God, how has it come to this? Nervously, I twitch at my tie and wish I hadn't chosen to wear my best suit, which is far too warm for this weather; I am perspiring freely inside the tightly-woven wool fabric.
As I follow Diane down the long passage that runs from the front door to the back of the building, I see that the place is designed to have the feel of a country house hotel, with dark wood panelling, bucolic paintings on the walls and comfortable furniture scattered about a large, light-filled library. There are people, too: people whose hands shake uncontrollably from their regimens of anti-psychotic medications, people who won't meet my eye when I pass them in the hall, people who shrink against the wall at the sight of a stranger. Diane speaks to them all kindly as she leads the way back to what must be the clinical suites, which look like police interview rooms: small, simply furnished, and each one equipped with a state of the art digital voice recorder. I begin to feel apprehensive as Diane opens the door to one of the rooms and indicates that I'm to wait in it; she tells me she will be back in a minute, and disappears, leaving me alone.
Nervously, I sit in one of the two chairs, choosing the one that faces the door, and look about me, after taking a preventative dose of my asthma medication. The room is painted a pale blue, and apart from the chairs, a small table, and the recording equipment, it contains nothing, other than an ominous, economy-sized box of tissues. I run my hands over the underside of the chair I am sitting in, and then the table, checking for bugs out of habit, or so I tell myself, starting as the door opens and Diane enters, with a plate of sandwiches sitting atop a clipboard folder in one hand, and two mugs in the other. "Here we are, Mr Wynn-Jones. I thought you might like something to eat after your drive, and I'm longing for a cup of tea… things tend to go better, I find, when everyone's been fed and watered." I hadn't thought I was hungry, but the sandwiches look tempting – ham, cheese and tomato on granary bread – and the scent of strong tea makes my nostrils flare in anticipation. "Thank you, that's very kind, and please, it's Malcolm," I reply, taking a round of sandwiches and accepting one of the mugs gratefully, as Diane takes the seat opposite mine and opens her folder. I stop with a sandwich half-way to my mouth as I realise she has my entire personnel file at her fingertips. Diane's eyes meet mine steadily as she watches my reaction, and she smiles reassuringly. "Please don't worry, Malcolm. Everything here is done in strictest confidence; whatever you tell me will stay in this room." My eyes slide sideways to the voice recorder, and she nods, "Yes, the session is recorded, but only I have access to it. It's important to document things properly; I'm sure you understand." Oh, I understand, all right…but outwardly, I just nod meekly.
We make small talk over our tea; I learn that Diane has been here for several years, and when I enquire after Sam Buxton, the junior officer who went to pieces when Danny was killed, she gives me a genuine smile. "You know I can't discuss other patients, but I will say that she's no longer here." I smile back, "Of course. It's just that I was the first aid officer on the scene, so I'm glad to hear that she's recovered." Diane eyes me silently, and it occurs to me that my assumption regarding Sam may not be correct. An uncomfortable little pause follows, during which we finish our tea, and then Diane says "All right, Malcolm. Shall we get on, then?" as she switches on the recorder. Setting my mug back down carefully, I take a deep breath, before laughing uneasily, "God, I never thought it would come to this." Not in fifteen years of service have I done something this shameful…
Diane, all business now, asks in a neutral tone of voice, "What do you mean by that?" What, indeed…let the mind-games begin. Patiently, I reply, "I mean this: you, me, psychology, microphones. Tring. This is where they send the brave people. The agents who've been tortured in far-flung places. The officers who've suffered long-term stress fallout after years in the field. This is not a place for me." She frowns slightly, "Where is your place, then, Malcolm?" With a self-deprecating smile, I say, "Oh, you know. The back-office boy. The quiet, egg-headed geek in the background, bugging hotel rooms, filling in the Telegraph crossword and sitting around in surveillance vans," I tell her, and Diane chuckles at the picture I have painted of my life on the Grid. Encouraged, I continue, "I piece together discarded shreddings, I translate snippets of ancient Aramaic, I make obscure links between the wordings of terrorist demands and extracts of the Iliad. But this…this I don't do." She probes gently, "But you chose to come here? Because of something you did." Something I didn't do, actually; something that has haunted me ever since…Aloud I say, "Yes, but I'm beginning to regret it now." A sympathetic look crosses her face. "Tell me what happened, Malcolm." Now we're coming to it, Wynn-Jones…well, you wanted to unburden your soul, didn't you?
Striving to appear calm, although my hands have begun to tremble, I begin, "I was in Pegasus - that's the royal protection bunker." Diane nods, "Yes, I know what Pegasus is." I blink in surprise. "Really? I thought only a handful of people were aware of its existence." There is a small pause, and then she says, "I'm part of that handful. You'd be amazed how much I hear about, down here." Evidently, I would…I wonder what else she knows about, until she clears her throat, reminding me that she's waiting. I gather my wandering thoughts and force myself to focus on that awful moment in the bunker. Adam's breathing all I can hear, the seconds flicking away on the bomb's timer all I can see… "Okay. I was in Pegasus and trying to defuse a bomb. Miss Wells – Angela – our renegade ex-MI5 officer – had coated the wires with plastic explosive, and then replaced the casings. It must have taken her months to do. The entire building was rigged up to explode." I cringe at the memory as Diane interjects, "Why didn't you call the bomb squad?" I stare at her incredulously before explaining, "No time. The counter was down to the last fifty seconds by the time we discovered it. We had to do something there and then."
"We?" she enquires curiously. "Yes, Adam was there too." A wry smile appears on Diane's face at this: "Yes, I know Adam." Of course, after Fiona died he was sent here too… "Well, I'm not his greatest fan. He can be sloppy and slapdash, but I've got a new respect for him after what he did for me that day." I look down at my hands, neatly folded in my lap in an effort to disguise the trembling, and think, I can't do this. I can't face my cowardice again…
"Go on. Tell me." Diane's voice is kind, and everything about her says, trust me, from her low-key appearance – she is wearing a long, loose shirt in a muted blue print over linen slacks – to her clear-eyed gaze. I can't tell whether her concern is genuine, or if she is simply very, very good at her job, but I suddenly find myself wanting to tell her everything. "It was impossible to know for certain which wire to cut; so I froze. I don't know why. I just went completely still and quiet. I could hear Adam's breathing behind me – increasingly ragged. And then he just took the tool out of my hand and cut all the wires in one go. There were 2.16 seconds left on the clock." Diane frowns slightly, "Wasn't that incredibly dangerous of him?" Yes, it was, so much so that I feel ill just thinking about it… "Yes, it was suicidally risky. But it worked. And, as he said, less dangerous than waiting for the counter to hit zero." But only just, by the most infinitesimal of margins…"Why do you think you froze?" she asks, a classic psychologist's open-ended question. Why, indeed. That's the $64,000 question, the one that's been keeping me up at night for the last week…
"I suppose it had been a pretty horrendous day. I'd known Angela for years. Respected her, liked her as a friend. And then she went and almost blew us all up because of some mad Princess Diana conspiracy theory." It's as good a reason as any, and better than most, I add silently. Diane, all business, draws me out a bit more. "So, it was stress-related then?" I shift uneasily in my seat. "Yes, I suppose it was. I'm good behind the scenes, very good, even. I don't panic when I have other people's lives in my hands. I give officers clear instructions in their headphones. I've even talked people through dismantling a bomb." That's right, Wynn-Jones, blow your own trumpet while you've still got the breath to do so…I really wish I'd had another puff of my inhaler before we began.
She presses on, "But this time it was different?" I consider exactly why it was different for a long time before responding. It is the first time I have thought rationally about the why, rather than the what, of my aberrant behaviour in the bunker, and gradually it dawns on me. "Yes, because this time it was me on the front line. That was the difference. I get very close to operations; I'm in the surveillance van just outside, or I'm giving technical support down a secure line. But I've never been this close before." It seems therapy does work. I've just had a breakthrough: I'm an even bigger coward than I had initially thought. And I think I might be sick…it feels as if everything is rising up, ready to be spewed forth like Jonah from within the whale… I swallow hard once, then twice, as Diane murmurs reassuringly, "I think we can forgive you for that, Malcolm." You might, but I can't. And you haven't heard everything, yet… Gulping back nausea, I say in a voice that is no longer steady, "But that…that wasn't the worst thing. The worst thing was the way in which Adam covered for me. He phoned in a field report and told them that I'd defused the bomb. They gave me a hero's welcome when I walked back onto the Grid." And oh, how I had hated every false second of it…
"Colleagues cover for each other all the time, Malcolm; that's what keeps you together in this job." Diane's voice is reason personified, but I can't accept the sort of rationalisation that is so often heard in the corridors of Thames House. That's not how my father raised me; that's not who I am. Swallowing hard, I counter with, "Maybe. I prefer to get things out in the open." Where I'm an easy target for anyone who wants to take a shot…"Is that why you told Harry?" I suppose so; Harry bloody Pearce would have winkled out the truth, anyway; it's what he does.
One week earlier…
My watch reads five past six, and I wonder if Harry is back from the hospital yet: there is something I have to tell him, even though the idea of it terrifies me as I go in search of him. He is, although the rest of the Grid is deserted; not even Ruth has stayed back tonight, it seems, for which I am unspeakably grateful. Harry, though, is working through his overflowing in-tray, and when I clear my throat as I stand at the entrance to his office, he barely glances at me. "Ah, the hero of the hour…come in, Malcolm." His pen flies across the bottom of half a dozen forms, signing off on heaven only knows what. As I take a seat opposite him, it occurs to me that we are rivals no more; like a vanquished knight, I have left the lists, and the lady, for whomsoever is brave enough to claim her. How much has changed, in so short a time; I have difficulty in believing that it was only last night that Miss Wells had us all at her mercy, or that just this morning I came within 2.16 seconds of death, if not for Adam… "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a mind-reader, you know; to what do I owe the pleasure?" Harry enquires, finally laying his pen down and looking at me properly. His eyes are hooded, but the lines radiating out from them are deeper than usual, and the tightness around his jaw speaks volumes about the weight of those responsibilities that are his and his alone to bear. "I, er, I heard about Miss Wells, and you, and Adam…how is he?" Harry reaches back for the whisky decanter and another glass, topping up his own tumbler with a generous measure before gesturing towards me. "Oh, no, I really shouldn't," I reply, thinking of the precarious state of my asthma at present.
Harry grunts, and pours me one anyway. We clink glasses, and after he has downed most of his, and I have taken a sip of mine, wincing as the strong liquor burns its way down my gullet, he replies, "Adam's in a critical condition, as is to be expected after taking a bullet through the shoulder and one lung, but his medicos are the best in the business and he's a tough old nut." I nod, and before I can ask, he adds, "I'm fine. Attempt number twenty-nine on my life, I'm pleased to report, was a resounding failure. Angela's aim, it would seem, is not what it once was." He finishes his drink, and immediately pours another. "What about Wes?" I ask next, wondering what will happen to the little boy while Adam's in hospital. "Oh, Ruth called his grandparents; she's very worried about this happening so soon after…" He doesn't finish the sentence; he doesn't have to.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, each sunk in our own thoughts, before Harry nods towards me, "I hear you did sterling work at Pegasus…well done, Malcolm, well done. That's the sort of thing I expect from my longest-serving officer." Sterling work…sterling work…I've heard him say that to me, and recently, too…but when? I take another sip of whisky for courage, my heart lurching as the neat alcohol hits my bloodstream, and bite the bullet. "Ah, yes. Actually, that's what I meant to talk to you about…Harry, Adam's report was wrong. I…I didn't stop the bomb." He frowns, and my heart begins to race in fear. "But Adam said…" I go on quickly, before I lose my nerve altogether, "No, I froze, and Adam took the cutters right out of my hand and snipped the wires himself. Harry, I panicked, and we nearly lost everyone…" I can't bring myself to say lost the Royal Family; the very thought feels like treason. Although I am trembling inside, I meet Harry's eyes steadily, his amber irises like a hawk's, giving nothing away.
After what seems an eternity, he blinks, and the hypnotic gaze is broken, to my relief. "Adam was covering for you, then." I can only nod as I stare at the surface of his desk, too ashamed to speak. "Well, it's what we do in this job, I suppose," Harry acknowledges philosophically, "it's not the first time, and God knows it won't be the last, although after the stunt Angela pulled, I'm beginning to wonder if we should rethink it. All right, Malcolm. We'll just leave it as is. No one else needs to know." I take a deep breath, and once more raise my eyes to his. "You'll have heard that I've been indisposed for most of the day," I begin, and he inclines his head once – Ruth probably told him, at the hospital – "Well, I want to take some leave, and, and, go down to Tring for a chat with Diane Jewell." That does surprise him: I see it in the widening of his pupils, before he regains control."What's brought this on? Did you get a taste of what it's like to have your life pass before your eyes?" he asks, pouring another finger of whisky into his glass. "Yes, I suppose so, but I want to, as well. What happened today frightened me badly, and I don't want it to happen ever again. I have people's lives in my hands when they're on ops, Harry, and I don't believe that I'm fit for service at present." He favours me with a long, assessing look, before opening the top drawer of his desk, and digging around in it until he finds what he's looking for: a pale grey business card, which he hands to me. "Ah. You'll need her number, then. Give her my regards, when you see her; she's a good sort."
My eyes flick from the card to his face, and back again, but there's no hidden meaning that I can discern. "Thank you, very much. I'll talk to Colin, let him know he'll be acting for me, if that's okay?" Harry's attention has begun to wander back to the files on his desk. "Fine, fine. We'll manage without you for a bit, I'm sure. Thanks for stopping by, Malcolm." As he dismisses me, as the mobile phone on his desk rings, and he turns away swiftly to answer it; I slink from his presence, grateful to escape further scrutiny from those searching eyes, even as I hear him saying, a smile evident in his voice, "Yes? Ah, Ruth. No, no, I'm not busy…" I had gone home that night and gotten very drunk indeed, before slumping, still dressed, onto one of the Chesterfields in the drawing room. I had gazed blearily at the dancers moving mockingly in contented couples across my exquisite Adam ceiling, thinking of all the times Ruth and I have been together beneath that very roof, while the tears had flowed unchecked and my heart had squeezed so tight that if it had chosen that moment to stop, I would have welcomed it as a blessed relief, even if to wish for it is the worst sort of sin.
One week later…
With an effort, I drag my awareness back to the here and now, and Diane's eyes, resting patiently on me. "Yes. After I told Ruth first. He was very good about it, too." Or better than I had expected, anyway. Diane laughs, "And so he should have been. That man has done far worse himself." Is there no-one in Section D that she doesn't know? I wonder, even as I say defensively, "Call me a silly old fool, but there are certain inalienable truths I like to hold on to. I believe in accountability. I believe in taking responsibility for your own actions, for your own mistakes. Most of the time I'm happiest sitting quietly in the corner. But if the time comes to stand up and be counted, I'm not going to shirk it."
"You're a good man, Malcolm Wynn-Jones." She says it so quietly, I'm not sure that I've heard her correctly, at first. "How can a coward be a good man?" I ask, my voice thick with emotion; I'm not sure if it is due to the swell of memories trying to obtrude themselves into my consciousness, or just simple disbelief at Diane's words. Looking me directly in the eye, she explains, "Bravery manifests itself in many different ways. It is not the absence of fear – some of the bravest people are also the most scared. Bravery is the courage to face up to things. There's moral bravery as well as physical bravery."
My heart thuds heavily against my ribs as I whisper, "Bravery is a thing I dread, Diane." Dread and fear and would gladly run a thousand miles from; how I wish I could escape this room, this conversation, this whole place… but she is speaking again, her voice calm and confident. "And that's why you do the job you do so well. You're not an adrenaline junkie looking for adventure; you're a highly-trained professional supporting your fellow officers." She is wrapping up the session, gathering our mugs, getting ready to head off to her next appointment with the broken and burnt out, who were once the best and brightest in the Service.
I try again, hoping that she will understand this time. "You might think you're looking at a mature man in his fifth age of life, in fair round belly with good capon lin'd. You might think that, Diane. But at heart, I'm still that little boy who's scared of the monsters under his bed, and sleeps with the light on." And who is once again sleeping all alone, while the monsters surround him in the dark…monsters of loss and loneliness, far worse than anything my childish imagination had ever conjured up. To my horror, a tear, then another, falls onto the table as I am overwhelmed with the reality I have created: an empty life that stretches before me like a prison sentence without hope of pardon or parole. My shoulders shake as I fight for control, but I make not a sound as I cover my face with my hands, instinctively hiding my fragile emotional state from this nice lady with the kind eyes and the clinician's clipboard. Pragmatically, Diane pushes the box of tissues towards me, and waits.
Several minutes pass before I am able to look at her again, and when I do, there is only patience and compassion in her eyes. Softly, she tells me, "You've stood up and been counted, Malcolm. You can sit back down with your crosswords now. The others need you, you know. More than you'll ever realise." She reaches across the table to touch me lightly on the arm, a gesture intended to convey comfort and understanding, but which breaks me instead; there is so little compassion in the world, that to encounter it in a stranger is more than l can stand; to my very great shame, I begin to weep, unable to contain the emotional turmoil that has been building up for the last week any longer. She must think me such a fool…
There is a tiny click as the digital voice recorder is switched off, and I don't even know if Diane is still there, until she clears her throat. "Malcolm, is there something else you'd like to talk about?" Knuckling my eyes dry, I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. "I…I…no, that is…I, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…" Limpid grey eyes meet mine, and in their depths I see only kindness and concern. "Please, don't worry about it; it's just a sign that your psyche is still working the way it's meant to. I wish I could say the same for everyone who comes here."
"Can we go somewhere else to talk?" I ask, feeling an urgent need to get out of this claustrophobic little room, and Diane nods. "Of course; would you like to see the grounds? They're quite nice at this time of the year," she suggests, as she gathers up her folder with the tea things, and leads the way out of the room. What have I just done? I wonder, as I follow her out, talk about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire… and yet, somewhere deep within in my soul, there is the tiniest spark of something remarkably akin to hope beginning to flicker into life. I want answers, and I hope that Diane can provide them. On impulse, I take off my jacket, loosen my tie, and even, daringly, roll up my shirt-sleeves, as we head out into the garden. I could do with getting a bit of sun on my too-pale skin…
For the first few minutes, we simply stroll around the flower-beds, enjoying the sunshine, as Diane points out different features: the vegetable patch that many of the residents enjoy working in; the huge weeping willow that shades a small, shallow pond full of multi-coloured koi, with a low wall nearby where people can sit and watch the fat fish as they move slowly amongst the lily-pads; the formal garden full of old-fashioned roses, fully into their Spring growth now, new shoots of reddish-green in startling contrast to the gnarled grey of the rootstock, and I think of my own gardens, which I have neglected sadly over the last year. Well, now I have all the time in the world to attend to them... As if sensing my shift in mood, Diane turns towards the far end of the garden, where there is a stand of birch and beech trees, now in bright green leaf, with a scattering of bluebells still visible in the long grass. "Wild bluebells, how lovely!" I exclaim, absurdly pleased to see that even in a place like Tring, nature cannot be denied. Diane smiles in response, and indicates a wooden bench, curving around the trunk of the largest beech. "Shall we?" she says, suiting action to words, and I remember why we are here as I sit down, a comfortable distance from the psychologist.
"A lot of people find it easier to talk outdoors, I find," she prompts, as I fix my gaze on the mossy ground beneath my feet, and sigh heavily. "I don't know quite where to start," I begin, and Diane says encouragingly, "Just jump in, Malcolm. Don't worry too much about getting things in order, we'll sort it out as we go." Turning to face her, I ask, "What do you know about reactive attachment disorder?" She blinks, surprised, and I clarify, "I am…was…in a relationship; it ended very recently, and I've since had cause to…to…wonder…if the other person might not have had it, or something like it…and if they did, whether it may have affected things between us." Diane breathes out slowly. "Well, that's a facer, I must say. I take it the other person is…" "Of course she's a woman!" I interject hotly, and she shakes her head. "No, that's not what I meant; is the other person is a colleague, or a civilian?" "Oh, a colleague," I hasten to assure her, "and I'm sorry that I snapped at you. It's just that a lot of people seem to assume that I'm…well, you know. And I'm not." Diane shrugs, "It's perfectly all right. Now, what makes you think that she has RAD?"
I don't tell her everything, of course, but under the sacred seal of therapist-patient confidentiality, I tell her enough for her to get an idea of the way things were between Ruth and I, always with the shadow of another man in the background, and uncertainties on both sides playing havoc, feeding my insecurities and fuelling my fears. I certainly don't mention my ongoing suspicions about the Tessina, or what might have taken place behind my back at Toad Hall, almost a year ago. I recount specific episodes: Ruth's terrible guilt over Danny's death; the games she had played when she believed I thought her to be pregnant, my doomed proposal and her pragmatic refusal; the way that she had made the first moves after the scratch Requiem, then retreated, only to return after her fright with Andrew Forrestal, and the night we had spent together afterwards. I touch on the physical relationship between us, how much it had meant to me, and how she had insisted on keeping our relationship a secret; how there are so many half-truths in the web Ruth has been weaving, that I no longer know what's real. Finally, I tell her about what had happened the night before I had found myself in Pegasus: how Harry had asked me to research the disorder, and I had done so gladly, believing that I was finding a way to neutralise the threat that was Miss Wells, and then the chance conversation that had revealed things I wish I had never known…
One week earlier…
She had approached me in the carpark as I was leaving, stepping hesitantly out of the shadows near the lifts and joining me as I walked, exhausted and despondent, towards my Rover. "Jo. Did you need something?" I had asked, before seeing the seriousness of her expression as she came alongside me. She had waited until we were sitting in the relative privacy of my car, with the engine idling to provide some low-level background noise. "Malcolm, I've thought a lot about whether to say anything at all; but I feel that you should know." She had taken a deep breath to compose herself, before looking at me solemnly. "I overheard something that Ruth told Angela, last night." I had opened my mouth to protest – oh, no, this is none of my business – but Jo had rushed on with, "She'd just negotiated for my release, but when I got out of the room, I thought I'd better stay close, because I was worried for her…that crazy Angela bitch could have done anything…"she had shuddered involuntarily at the memory of her ordeal, and I had tried again to deflect her from saying something we will both regret. "May I give you a lift home?" I had offered, but she had simply shaken her head before continuing, "Malcolm, Ruth said that she had run away with her stepbrother when she was eighteen, and they spent a week in Blackpool…it sounded as if they were lovers. That's when she went to pieces, Angela, I mean."
I hadn't known what to say to this; it dovetailed in so neatly with the strange, half-waking dream I had experienced after fainting earlier in the day, that all I could do was to stare at her as my brain processed this new information. If this is true, then Ruth is damaged far beyond healing with mere love; Ruth whose fascination with, and for, Harry, must be bound up inextricably with her past. Like her stepbrother, her boss should be strictly off limits…oh, my God. Jo had long gone, by the time I had stopped shaking enough to drive home. I had then spent an utterly miserable week moping around the house by myself, and wondering if anything about the past year with Ruth had been real at all. Had she ever truly cared for me, or had it all been an act?
I have never drunk so much in my entire life, nor been so thoroughly unhappy.
Oh, Ruth…
One week later…
"Malcolm?" Diane's voice recalls me to the present; to the dappled green light beneath the beech; to a wooden bench set amidst the last bluebells of Spring, and to the peaceful stillness of an English garden in the afternoon sun. "You were a very long way away, then," she observes, and waits, turning her face towards the garden. I take a few moments, unobserved, to compose myself, before replying, "This has all been very difficult for me; I had loved her for so long, you see…" Diane finishes my thought. "That was what made it so easy, I suppose, and so dreadful now." I meet her eyes, an unspoken question between us, and Diane sighs, "You know I can't diagnose something as complex as RAD without seeing her and conducting a full assessment. Here's what I've been pondering, though: what if the idea of her having an endogenous psychological disorder is more important than whether she actually does? I don't mean that you want her to have one, of course, but rather that the idea of it is more bearable than the alternative, which is that her actions have no discernible basis in logic?"
I open and close my mouth, speechless; but if I'm being honest, I suspect that there is a kernel of truth in what she says. Finally, I mumble something about having taken up too much of her time, and how I should be getting on the road shortly, and she takes the hint. "It's been good to see you, Malcolm. Based on our official session, I'm going to approve your return to work, but if ever you should need to chat about anything else…" Standing up, I nod, "Thank you, Diane, I'll know where to find you." She walks me to my car, parked on the semi-circular carriage sweep, and offers me a cool, firm handshake and a warm smile as I take my leave. "One other thing: if I know Harry, he'll find a way to turn that information to his own advantage, if he hasn't already. Do take care, Malcolm; I meant it when I said the others needed you more than you know." Well, perhaps…but I feel queasy at what Harry might do next, where Ruth is concerned. I still can't believe I played right into his hands...
I glance in the rear-vision mirror as I drive off slowly; Diane raises one hand in farewell, and then turns back towards Tring House, ancestral seat of the Earls of Dorset since time immemorial, or at least until the current Earl had sold it to the Crown, under the crippling burden of the death duties levelled when his father had passed away. Her Majesty, it seems, knows a property bargain when she sees one…
The big steel gates roll back, and I ease the car forward; I debate with myself whether to turn left, or right, before swinging the wheel sharp left, and the sign reading 'Bournemouth 15.'
I think I'll see if Mother is ready to come home; I can't stand the emptiness any longer.
The Rover glides towards the coast.
A/N: the dialogue that takes place in the interview room between Malcolm and Diane is taken from the official transcript in the Personnel Files published by Kudos/BBC; everything else is my own.