6:30pm, Monday 8 August 2006
Major Sandy McLeod, RCVS, DSM, is a towering Scot with shrewd blue eyes and a neatly clipped salt-and-pepper moustache. "Harry. Gone over to the other side, then?" he enquires jocularly, eyeing our cat carriers; next, he glances at me curiously, and Harry says, "My colleague, Malcolm Wynn-Jones." We shake hands, and he jerks his head towards a bright white consulting room. "Bring them through." Despite his intimidating size, the Major speaks with a soft Highland burr; as we set the carriers on the examination table, the cats finally stop crying, and Gidget presses herself up against the metal grille of the door in an attempt to get closer to the source of that enticing sound. Quizzically, the Major looks from one carrier to the other, then up at Harry. "So, have you traded in wee Scarlet for a couple of moggies?" Harry shakes his head. "No, I've still got her. These belong to…to an old friend who's gone travelling. I said I'd look after them." Swift understanding flashes across the veterinary surgeon's face, and I realise he knows who, and what, Harry really is. I wonder how far back they go; Sandhurst, probably. "Would you mind scanning them for microchips? Malcolm, here, thinks they've got more than the usual quota."
The blue eyes narrow at these words, and the veterinary surgeon reaches for a device that looks not unlike a tricorder from Star Trek. "Right, I'll look at the little one first," McLeod instructs me, and carefully I unlatch the door; Gidget peers out suspiciously, before pinning her ears back and attempting to make a dash for it. I seize her gently by the scruff, and instinctively she crouches down, tail twitching from side to side as the vet runs his scanner over her shoulders; it beeps immediately, and beeps again as he moves it towards her hindquarters. "Well, there are definitely two chips. Between the shoulder blades is the usual site for a standard ID chip, and it reads as such, but there's another one here" – he indicates a spot in Gidget's left flank – "as a matter of fact, you can feel it just under the skin." Gidget growls in protest, and he continues, "I'd have to put her under, but I think I could retrieve it for you. Nice wee animal, this. What's her name?" Harry looks blankly at me, and I step in. "This is Gidget. The tortoiseshell male is Fidget, and I fear he's going to be rather more of a handful." We put Gidget back in her carrier, and repeat the procedure with Fidget: as I predict, he is desperately unhappy at being handled in such a fashion, and it takes both Harry and I to hold him still as McLeod scans him. "Same story, I'm afraid. Standard-issue ID chip between the shoulders, and God knows what in his left thigh. I suppose you want them both done now?" Harry nods in reply, and McLeod says, "Right, I'll just give Maggie a call to let her know I'll be late home," as he steps out of the examination room.
While I am relieved my hunch has proved correct, I can't – or, more accurately, don't want to – imagine what could have possessed Ruth to put her pets, her "own heart's darlings", as I have often heard her call them, through such a procedure. Harry's thoughts must be running along similar lines, for after a moment he exhales hard and mutters, "It's like I never knew her at all. So, what do you think we're going to find on those chips?" Straightening up from my scrutiny of Fidget, now glaring at me balefully from the safety of his carrier, I reply , "I really couldn't say, but she's gone to the most extraordinary lengths to keep whatever it is safe." Harry retorts, "It's safe all right, but from whom?" just as Major McLeod comes back into the room. "My wife is the most wonderful woman; I'm off the hook for bedtime story duty," he beams. "Right, let's be getting on with it. As my assistant has left for the day, I'm going to have to press one of you into service, I'm afraid." Harry nods towards me, and I say, "Of course. How may I help?" McLeod looks towards the carriers. "The cats seem to like you well enough," he begins, "So if you could help me prep them for surgery, that'd be grand." Stepping round the examination table, I take off my suit jacket, roll up my shirt-sleeves, wash my hands methodically in the scrub sink, and we begin.
Two hours later, I drop Harry home sans cats; they are sleeping off the effects of general anaesthesia in adjacent recovery cages, and will stay with the Major for the next day or two. Harry gets out of the car without a word or a backwards glance, and slowly climbs the stairs to his front door, like a very old man; he has hardly spoken since seeing the glass phial containing two capsule-shaped implants, each only slightly bigger than a grain of rice. The Major had sworn under his breath as he had carefully dropped them into the receptacle. "You lot have gone too far now, using innocent animals for safekeeping state secrets. Do whatever you like to your officers – hollow out their molars to store microdots in, or fit them up with extra nooks and crannies where the sun never shines – but let's keep the poor dumb beasts out of it, eh?" Personally, I couldn't agree more, while Harry, propped up against the wall opposite, his face drawn and grey with fatigue, had somehow managed to look suitably chastised on behalf of the security services. I know how he feels, for I am so tired I have to fight to keep my eyes open I drive towards Hampstead, the phial tucked safely into the inside breast pocket of my jacket, a tiny thing that feels as dangerous as unshielded radium.
By the time I stagger through my own front door it is half-past nine; I had considered going straight back to Thames House to analyse the implants, but common sense has overruled duty, for once, and as Aunt Emily comes out of the parlour to meet me in the hall, I know I have made the right decision. Her gaze travels over me from head to toe, before she says simply, "Oh, sweetheart," and puts her arms around me; wearily, I return the embrace, wishing I was six again, when one of her hugs was all that was needed to put things right in my world. After the events of the last week, and today in particular, I have the distinct sense that my world will never be right again, no matter how fervently I wish it were otherwise. With a long, shuddering sigh, I step back, feeling as brittle and hollow as a blown egg. Aunt Emily notes decisively, "Tea. You need a good strong cup of tea, and something hot to eat." She's right; my last meal feels like a distant memory, and my stomach rumbles embarrassingly as I catch the heavenly aroma of roast chicken wafting from the kitchen. "Yes, that sounds wonderful. How's Mother?" Aunt Emily tips her head towards the parlour. "Why don't you go in and see for yourself?" My aunt bustles off towards the kitchen. I sit on the stairs to unlace my shoes; next I hang my jacket and tie on the newel post and undo my top shirt collar button, before padding towards the parlour in my socks.
Mother is asleep: her head rests against the deeply padded wings of her favourite chair, her hands folded in her lap, her mouth slightly open as she snores softly, swaddled in the pink cashmere dressing gown I gave her for Christmas some years ago. On her feet are new sheepskin bootees; my aunt must have bought them for her. I hope she has also hidden Mother's mink coat and the high heeled, feather-trimmed mules she likes to wear in the mistaken belief she is Gloria Swanson. Mother looks so much older than when I last saw her, and far more vulnerable, and my heart catches at the sight. I know better than to try to wake her, but she stirs when an enormous yawn escapes me. "Oh, Malcolm," Mother says muzzily, peering at me owlishly, "you're back. Where's that lovely young Dr Chapman?" While I am still formulating a suitable response to this non sequitur, my aunt comes into the room with a tray of tea things, and I get up to take it from her and set it down on the walnut side table next to the sofa. "Now, Milly, never mind about Dr Chapman, here's your own son home at last." Mother struggles upright, but before she can launch into one of her diatribes, my aunt distracts her by offering to pour out the tea, while handing me a plate of roast chicken and vegetables, cutlery rolled in a napkin, and a little jug of gravy. "Here you are, love, now sit down and have your supper."
Mother grumbles to herself, deprived of the chance to point out my filial shortcomings yet again, and my aunt adroitly passes her a small crystal dish containing chocolates – Fortnum's rose and violet creams, each adorned with a candied petal designating the flavour. I loathe them; they're overly floral and cloyingly sweet, but they are Mother's particular favourite, and she immediately takes several, like a spoilt child. "Thank you, Emily, at least someone still remembers my little preferences," Mother sniffs, immediately popping two into her mouth while directing a reproachful look at me. I am simply too enervated to engage with her, and busy myself instead with tender slices of chicken and little crispy potatoes drizzled with gravy, all the while fighting to stay awake long enough to finish the delicious meal. When Mother's eyes flutter shut and her mouth falls open as the snoring recommences, Aunt Emily simply positions a cushion to support her head and says only, "These new drugs are quick, aren't they?" I wonder how many "chocolates" Mother has had today. Far more than is good for her, in all likelihood, but I can't bring myself to remonstrate with my aunt; we both know Mother is getting beyond either of us to manage.
Aunt Emily gives me a look loaded with meaning, and I groan, "Please, not now. I'm dead on my feet and longing for my bed," but she sits down next to me and begins, "I'm sorry to bring this up now, but we have to talk, fy nai. Dr Chapman wants your mother to go into to a very good clinic for treatment, not another of these privately run places that pander to her every whim. She needs help, far more than we can give her. Heaven knows, she's had endless love and understanding from us, and to what end? She's utterly selfish, and I've had enough of it. As I see it, you have a choice: get her the help she needs, and there you may still have the chance of a normal relationship with her, or let everything go on as before, and have her as a millstone around your neck forever." I close my eyes, vainly trying to imagine what a normal relationship with one's mother might look like; I must doze momentarily, because the next thing I know, Aunt Emily is patting my hand and saying, "Malcolm? Malcolm, come on, love, get away to your bed." What an excellent idea: if only I could find the energy to move…
I force open my eyelids, weighted as though with lead. "All right," I tell her, getting up like a much older man, "I'll talk to the doctor in the morning." My aunt smiles at me, hope dawning on her kindly face as she gathers the tea things. "You will? Truly?" I nod, covering another cavernous yawn. "I agree, things can't go on like this. It's too much to ask you to help with Mother every time I'm taken up with work. I've been thinking about what you said the other night; you were absolutely right about everything, and I've been a very great fool." My voice cracks shamefully on the last word, and Aunt Emily reaches up to lay a hand on my cheek as she says, "You're the least foolish man I know, and the best son anyone could have; and I'm hopeful that your mother might yet come round to the same view, given the right sort of help, or at least a jolly good shaking." I half-smile at this last thought, as I stoop to gather up Mother's heavy, limp form; carefully, I carry her upstairs to her room, the dead weight of her like a penitent's burden, with Aunt Emily following close behind to put her to bed. Then, I stumble into my own quarters and finally, blessedly, shut out the world.
Sometime after midnight, Tuesday 9 August 2006
It's cool here, and still, the air redolent with the familiar scents of beeswax furniture polish and old stone, of leather-bound books and burnished brass. Earlier, there was music, voices rising and falling in ancient harmonies, and then silence once more, deep as time itself. I don't know how long I have been sitting in this pew across from the great Milton window that graces the north aisle of St Margaret's; long enough to have watched the last light fall from the sky, long enough for the chill to have seeped into my bones, long enough for everything to have fallen into place, and nothing to have made sense. The last time I was in this place, it was to farewell Colin; and now there's been yet another loss, and no time to say goodbye. There so very rarely is, in this job; and so Ruth has sailed off down the Thames, and after today's revelations, I feel as if things will never be the same. Those tiny chips… ineffectually, I try to push my thoughts away, only to find them circling relentlessly.
Ruth has gone: the idea is still as strange and hard to swallow as a mouthful of gravel. I keep turning the events of the past week over and around in my mind, seeking answers, and finding none, and all the while blaming myself for what has come to pass; for not seeing things as they really were, rather than as I hoped them to be, and for failing to discover what Ruth has been up to for years. Although I know my failure was not for want of trying, this comes as cold comfort in the wake of so much deception. I know I should go home, but I am far too weary and dispirited to move. Worn out, I stare at the darkened windows, wishing myself a thousand miles away from Thames House, Section D and most of all, to be spared the painful spectacle of Harry Pearce amidst his broken dreams.
The shadows inside the nave shift and lengthen as pale moonlight filters through the stained glass panel of the blind poet and his doting daughters. Such filial devotion, such unselfish love…I'm nothing but a bad son…dear God, the paperwork I signed this morning…was it the right thing to do? I can look at the figures in the window no longer, and drop my head into my hands, pressing the heels of my palms hard against my eyes in an attempt to ease the crushing pressure in my skull, and to avert the hated hot prickling sensation behind my eyes. My efforts are useless, and even though I am quite alone, the familiar flush of humiliation wells up along with the stinging tears that leak through my interlocked fingers, and my shoulders shake with long-suppressed sobs as I strive for self-control; but I am a coward and a weakling, and the battle is lost almost before it begins, as I weep for the losses I have endured, and all the grief that has gone unexpressed in the face of more pressing contingencies.
Huddled into my misery, I don't notice it at first: the sensation of warmth, the faint glow of light. It is only when he speaks that I realise I am no longer alone. "You look all done in, lad. Been burning the candle at both ends and in the middle, I shouldn't wonder." My heart misses a beat from sheer shock, and I look up to see the old churchwarden seated next to me, his warm brown eyes smiling. "Ah now, I didn't mean to startle, but you were a hundred miles away, or more, p'raps?" Quite irrationally, a line from an old Scottish folk song floats through my brain. My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies over the sea… "I…er, that is…" I stammer, and stop, for what can I say? "It's all right, you just sit there for a bit and I'll talk instead. Don't often get the chance for a chat these days, y'know. It's this ruddy war, everyone's so busy they ain't got time for an old fellow like me. That's all right, I know they've got better things to do. You haven't been 'ere since your old mate's funeral, when I come to think of it, so what's 'appened now?"
The old man turns his head to look directly at me, and the gentle, wise expression on his weathered face almost undoes me altogether. "I…I don't know, exactly. I don't know what to think, or what to do." He waits patiently, and after a time I add, "There's a colleague, a woman, who suddenly left, and I think she was a spy, a double agent…but then she went into exile to save our chief…and I'll never see her again, and I…I…" The old man frowns, "It's your Guinevere you'll be talkin' about, then?" I blink in surprise, recollecting our conversation under the pier on Boscombe Beach; how could it have only taken place in March, when it feels like a lifetime ago? I nod, and he says, more a statement than a question, "So she chose to save the king, in the end." I am disconcerted by this succinct summary of the situation, especially with Ruth's words in the doghouse still echoing in my ears… There's no choice, is there. If I can save him, then I will…"But I see there's more to it. Let's be 'aving it, then. A trouble shared is a trouble 'alved, an' all that." It would be a great relief to unburden myself to this enigmatic, wise old man, and yet the thought of reliving the last few days, and explaining all that went before, never mind the situation with Mother, is simply more than I can bear. "You're very kind, but I'd rather not, if you don't mind," I say apologetically, and he inclines his head in tacit understanding. Instead, we sit in companionable quietude, and despite my utter exhaustion and the lateness of the hour, the peace of this sacred place is a balm to my overstretched nerves and the frayed edges of my soul. I close my eyes, just for a moment, and when I open them the windows are beginning to glow with the dawn, and I am alone once more.
A faint sound comes from the western porch entrance, followed by well-known footfalls, heavier than usual, slower, dragging slightly with every second step, the unmistakable gait of a man with a bad knee and the weight of the world heavy on his shoulders. I get up awkwardly, wincing with pain as my body protests at the movement after a night spent sleeping upright in a hard wooden pew, and turn to face Harry, now looming at the entrance to the row. His colour is shocking, his eyes bloodshot, and I can't help wondering when he last had a shave or a change of clothes. There's a sagging look to him, as if his skin were several sizes too big, and stale whisky fumes billow over me as he rasps, "You're awake, then. It's about fucking time."
"Harry, please. We're in church," I remind him gently, and he snorts, "Ever the parson's son, eh? I don't give a damn about churches, they're bloody awful mausoleums of fake piety and sentimental claptrap." He gesticulates around him and continues, "What's the use of any of it? It's not real. All this should have gone the way of the dinosaurs long ago, and yet people persist in believing these… these fairy tales." I watch him closely, noting the tremor in his hands, the ashen pallor of his face, as I weigh my next words carefully. "I happen to think there's a bit more to it than fairy tales; there's faith, after all." Harry regards me blearily and intones, "And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity. Oh, don't look so bloody surprised, I've been to enough weddings in my life, including my own, to have that particular verse by heart. And I say it's all sentimental rubbish." At this juncture, I decide discretion is the better part of valour; there's nothing to be gained by arguing theology with Harry in his present state, so I attempt to edge past him out of the pew instead. Moving unnervingly fast for a man of his present condition and bulk, Harry body-checks me. "You spent all of yesterday out at Cheltenham, poring over those damn microchips. What did you find?" I flinch at his ferocity as much as at the stench of his breath, and try to marshal my thoughts into some sort of order.
"Well, it's complicated," I begin, but he only glares harder. My heart pitter-patters in my chest, and my breathing is shallow as I explain, "The chips… they're unlike anything I've ever seen. They're incredibly elegantly engineered, and each is capable of storing a vast amount of data in a carbon-boron quantum data matrix, to be exact, with almost unlimited qubit capacity…" Harry's face is fast turning puce, and knowing his dislike of what he terms "the nerdy details", I hastily change tack. "There are thousands of images on them, mostly taken with the Tessina, and field reports from years of surveillance, and encoded files that only TURING can decrypt, and…" Harry interrupts, grinding out between clenched teeth, "Images of what, Malcolm?" I blink in surprise; inadvertently, I have left out the most important detail. "Oh! They're mostly of Oliver Mace, and his cronies." At these words, rage, bemusement, fear and loathing all flicker across Harry's face in rapid succession. I add, "It appears that Ruth has been spying on him since Herman Joyce tried to destroy Tom. Something Mace said or did around that time must have aroused her suspicions, and she's been watching him ever since. Do you remember when he was crashing about Five as JIC Chair two years ago, baying for our blood and declaring he was going to clean the stables? It seems Ruth took exception to his insinuating that we were rotten to the core, and decided to do some investigating of her own. She's turned up some pretty compelling stuff on Mace, and on some of his less well-known and rather more unsavoury activities. At first it's mostly field reports – she shadows him around Whitehall, does some covert digging into his background, compiles lists of committees and groups he's associated with, but she must have come across the Tessina last June, and from there on in, we have a very detailed visual record indeed, considering she wasn't assigned full-time to the task. Unless, that is, you were aware of her, erm, extracurricular activities?"
As soon as these words are spoken, I wish I could recall them: Harry looks as if I have punched him. He is stunned, utterly stunned, what little colour he has left fast draining away as he sits down heavily in the pew and fumbles a battered hip-flask out of his pocket, taking a long draught of whisky before shouting, "Known? How could I have known? I would never have sanctioned it!" His voice drops to a raw whisper. "That silly, stupid little… Oliver Mace is possibly the most dangerous man in England, and she's running around pretending to be a field officer. What the hell did she think she was playing at?" I haven't yet finished disgorging unpalatable facts; feeling sick, I add, "Harry, she was trying to save you." He drops his head into his hands, churns his fingers through his hair, and swears at length, barrack-room language of the worst sort. I decide to overlook it this time, given the news I have just imparted. I sit down next to him, and wait; for once, it seems we have all the time in the world, even as the sun rises higher and the shadows in the church recede before the multi-coloured light thrown by the stained glass windows. I have nowhere else to be; Aunt Emily went home yesterday, after Mother was admitted to the clinic near Richmond.
Mother had gone happily enough after Dr Chapman had explained it was the very best place to treat what she persists in referring to as "her nerves", and added offhandedly that it took only a superior class of patient; she couldn't get there fast enough, after that. "It will be mostly titled gentry, I expect, or nice people from the county set; none of those dreadful common types, anyway. Who knows whom one may meet?" Aunt Em had rolled her eyes at me eloquently, and kept packing sensible skirts and twinsets into Mother's monogrammed Louis Vuitton suitcase, ignoring the pile of silky nightgowns and sequined evening dresses her sister was heaping onto the bed. Dr Chapman certainly has Mother's measure; if he is as good a psychologist as his sister is a physician, he will have a brilliant career. Sally… for what must be the hundredth time, I hastily dismiss the memory of the last time I saw her, and glance cautiously at Harry, who has finally fallen silent.
He is sitting very still, his chin resting on his interlaced fingers, elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead at the Milton window. After a time, he speaks. "I've been as blind as the old poet, up there. How could I have missed it? How could I not have seen what was happening right under my nose?" His voice is flat, desolate. "None of us saw it, Harry. We weren't looking, for one thing, and then, she didn't want to be found out." The words carry no comfort, but I still feel compelled to say them. He turns towards me, his eyes dull, his expression bleak. "I should have known. It's my bloody job to know what my officers are up to. This… this makes me wonder if it isn't time to hang up my boots. Retire to the country and grow marrows, or whatever it is that people do there." I study him, dismayed; in more than fifteen years, I have never heard him talk like this. Oh, Ruth, what have you done? "That's the very last thing Ruth would want, and you know it. She's sacrificed her career, her life here, even her family, all so you wouldn't have to. Don't throw it back in her face just because you're feeling a…a bit low."
My palms are sweating and my voice is unsteady as I make this little speech; people don't talk like this to the head of Section D, not if they want to continue on as they are, but I am too tired for anything but the plain truth, and here, in this sacred place, I owe Harry nothing less. He has covered his face with his hands, and his heavy body heaves as he struggles for self-mastery; into the awkward silence he mumbles, "I love her. I love that silly, stubborn mule. And now she's gone, and I never told her…she wouldn't let me, you see. 'Leave it as something wonderful that was never said', those were her last words before she stepped off that wharf and out of my life. So yes, I expect I am feeling a bit low. You're the master of understatement, aren't you, Malcolm." I've never heard such bitterness in his voice; he takes another drink, upending his hip-flask and letting it fall to the stone-flagged floor with a hollow crash. He slumps forward, and I'm afraid he may be about to follow the flask; I put a steadying hand on his shoulder, but he pushes me away, hard. "I'm alright, damn your s…sholicitoushness. Now get out!" Harry slurs, staring at me with eyes that are deeply bloodshot and glazed; he must have had a very great deal of liquor in the last twelve hours to have reached this degree of inebriation.
Instinctively obeying orders, I get up with alacrity, but then I hesitate: I can't leave him alone like this, even though all I want to do is flee, from him, from this church, from Five and all its attendant secrets and lies. Harry's drunken admission of love has hit me like a hard punch to the solar plexus; I feel as if all the wind has been knocked out of me, and there is an ache beneath my ribs that is growing bigger and more painful by the second. I had hoped to avoid any knowledge of what passed between them as she left; if I have learned anything in this job, it is that sometimes it really is better to remain in ignorance, rather than have one's fears confirmed. Once more, I am brought to the realisation that I will never truly be free of her, despite my best efforts; she has scorched through my lonely life like a falling star through the night sky, and some faint incandescence must remain. Being with Ruth, loving her so earnestly, has forever changed me; but there is a darkness in her too, and that also has marked me, left me wearier, wiser, and far warier of women, if such a thing were humanly possible. The aching despair in Harry's voice as he had confessed his feelings for Ruth has set up an answering resonance within my bruised and battered soul: I too know what it feels like to love her, and to lose her. We have something in common after all, even though I could never tell him…If I were a different type of man,I might appreciate the irony, rather than struggling under a crushing weight of melancholy at the futility and waste of it all. Well, there's one thing I can do…
Taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I say it. "No."
Harry slews round, struggling to focus on me. "Whassat? Ins-shubordination now, is it?" Shaking my head, I reach out to help him up, steadying him as he staggers and weaves. "Call it whatever you like, but I'm not leaving you here alone." The fight goes out of him all of a sudden, and I lead him out of the church. Once we are outside and in the fresh air of a fine morning, Harry seems to sober up somewhat, but he refuses to let me call for his driver to take him home. "I've got to get back to the office," he tells me, and starts tacking unsteadily across the churchyard in the direction of Thames House. "Harry, go home, for heaven's sake." I try to take hold of his elbow to steer him across some uneven paving stones, but he swings round to face me, staying just out of reach. "Leave off, Malcolm. Go and fuss over someone else." There's something in his voice that sets alarm bells ringing; wanting to understand, I look him over carefully, but he avoids my eyes. As he continues on his way, I trot alongside him like an anxious sheepdog. "Harry, what is it?" I ask, as we gain the street and he picks up the pace. "Go away," he growls, checking his phone, but I persist, for reasons I can't articulate. "Harry…" and once more he rounds on me, furious. "What? What is it? Hell's teeth, why can't you just leave me the fuck alone?" Now I'm certain there's something terribly wrong, something beyond even the shock of Ruth's leaving; I watch him, and wait.
"It's Catherine," he admits eventually, after first ascertaining there is nobody within earshot. My heart sinks: What impossible situation has his headstrong, hopelessly idealistic daughter gotten herself into now? I very much doubt Adam will obligingly go off to rescue her as Tom once did… "I got a message from our Beirut desk yesterday. Catherine's been injured in some sort of explosion. Hezbollah picked her up off the street, still screaming her head off, but our lot lost track of her after that." Half-formed thoughts and questions tumble through my mind, chief among which is, what are you still doing here? He chuckles, a mirthless sound that chills me to the core, and answers my unspoken thought. "This is for your ears only: I'm on the next flight to Lebanon. Did you know there are only two flights a week from London to Beirut? Tomorrow's one of the days, apparently." Dear God, how is he still standing? First Ruth, and now Catherine… "H…how can I help? What can I do?" Harry resumes his walk towards Five, no longer unsteady, but rolling along with that peculiar, stiff-legged gait of his; I fall in next to him. "Nothing, Malcolm. She's my daughter and I'll deal with it myself. This isn't official, it isn't sanctioned, the higher-ups don't know I'm about to wade into that unholy mess. All they know is I've requested leave, and given recent events, they were only too happy to grant it. Adam doesn't know. No one is to know, d'you hear?" We're nearly at the side entrance of Thames House, and I nod, even though privately, I'm horrified. The head of British counter-terrorism is going alone to one of the most dangerous places on earth to look for his daughter? I want to dispatch the S.A.S. to escort him, but Harry is regarding me keenly with that hunter's eye of his. Odd, how quickly he's sobered up…
An uncomfortable thought occurs to me, but before I can voice it, he says, "I really took you in there, back in the church. You thought I was drunk as a lord, didn't you? Good to know I've still got it. Remember when you all thought I was dying of VX poisoning during that EERIE exercise just after Ruth joined us? She was so cross with me for 'giving everyone a bloody nasty fright' as she put it, she ignored me for a week afterwards." I open and close my mouth more than once, speechless, and finally manage to blurt out a single syllable of enquiry: "Why?!" Harry takes out his security pass to open the door hidden in an odd angle of the building and slides it through the reader, which blinks from red to green. "Had to put on a good show; for all I know, some of Mace's goons may have followed me to St Margaret's. Don't think they did, but best to be sure. Let them think I've gone to pieces over her, if they wonder why I'm nowhere to be found. You still haven't given me your word, you know." Stepping into the cool, brightly lit corridor, I draw myself up to my full height. "I shouldn't have to, Harry. Not after all this time. But if you insist, then I give you my solemn word: I will not breathe a syllable to a soul." He steps back to consider me. "I've offended you," he observes, adding, not very contritely, "I'm sorry. But this is important." Another unwanted thought obtrudes; stung by Harry's insistence on having my word of honour, I ask, "This trip…you're not really going after Ruth, are you?" For a moment it actually seems he might hit me; his fists clench and he takes a step forward, jaw jutting. "Would you like to read the message from the Beirut desk yourself?" he snarls, a vein in his forehead bulging dangerously, and after apologising profusely, I hastily change the subject with a request of my own, despite my misgivings and the hammering of my heart. "Harry, I know it's standard practice for us to keep former officers under surveillance, but please don't ask me to keep tabs on Ruth. Ask Adam, or Zaf, or someone you trust at Six, but I won't do it. She chose to go, and I should think the last thing she wants is to be spied on. " Schooling his face into its usual impassivity, Harry says in the blandest of tones, "Ever the gentleman, aren't you, Malcolm. Your objection is noted," as he turns towards the Grid. "Now, I suggest you apply yourself to finding out all you can from those damn chips. I'll want an update before I leave."
I watch until his broad back is out of sight, forcing myself to breathe slowly, focusing on relaxing my diaphragm to combat the tightening of my chest as I wait for my galloping heartrate to return to its normal rhythm. Harry is not himself at present, and I must make allowances accordingly, but the look on his face as he had squared up to me had terrified me. He knows about us…I should never have asked that question, or made that request! I shake my head in a futile attempt to dislodge this pernicious notion, but it refuses to go, instead triggering all-too-familiar feelings of imminent danger, edged with fear and panic. He can't know, my logical self asserts, we were so careful, but this is Harry bloody Pearce, and one must never, ever, underestimate him. I don't fancy the chances for anyone standing between him and his daughter; he had looked positively murderous, wild with rage, suspicion and grief, until the mask was replaced. On shaky legs, I make my way towards the server room, but I don't feel easy until I have locked myself into the clean, cool space, and rearranged my makeshift workstation to face towards the door.
Only then am I able to return to the task of decrypting, analysing, and cataloguing the vast amounts of data stored on Ruth's chips, this time via a hastily arranged uplink with TURING at Cheltenham. The server stacks around me are humming with the sheer volume of information I am working with, running hot, as Colin would have said. I push thoughts of my friend aside, along with the sharp pang of sorrow that always accompanies them, and focus only on my screens, and the images cascading down them; the interpretation I will leave to others. I estimate it will take weeks to sift through it all and piece it together into the pattern Ruth intended us to see. That she has thoroughly damned Mace is already clear; what remains to be seen is the extent of the covert network that he has cultivated, and who else might be implicated. I welcome the work; it occupies my mind, and I take a quiet satisfaction in identifying each item, like sorting a vast box of jigsaw puzzle pieces. I used to enjoy doing that with Father, when I was very small, putting all the pieces of sky in a pile in one corner of the box, and all the pieces of grass in another…
I work on, alone.
Evening, Friday 12 August 2006
It's a hot night, one of those London occasionally experiences towards the end of summer, and the broad river sparkles in the last rays of sunlight as it flows slowly past the disused pier near the World's End pub at Tilbury, although there are thunderheads massing over the city. The pub is nice enough, as these modernised places go; there's an outdoor seating area under a wide green awning, and the interior has been redecorated in the generic contemporary style so common now in public houses, and which, to my mind, is no improvement on the charm and character of the original. I have been sitting out here for the past hour or more, nursing a glass of very average cabernet sauvignon. Groups of young men in sagging jeans and oversized shirts saunter by on the river path behind me, looking strangely ill-suited to squire the glossy girls who accompany them; parents issue endless directives to their unruly offspring as they dart towards the water, while grandparents beam on benignly from further back; here and there a couple walks hand in hand, oblivious to everything except each other. No one notices the quietly dressed middle-aged man perched at the far end of the pier, and that's exactly how I prefer it.
"So, what are we doing here?" Colin asks; in the gathering twilight I can just about make him out, sitting on the pylon opposite. "She's long gone, mate, and bloody good riddance, if you ask me." Ah, but I'm not asking, though... "Oh, I'm just watching the world go by." I take another sip of the frankly abysmal wine, and tip the remainder into the river: an offering to old Father Thames for presumably giving Ruth safe passage. "They don't do a bad pint of bitter here," Colin observes, watching the crimson wine swirl and dissipate into the brown water. "I don't drink beer any more. Not since… well, I never did like it much anyway." The fading light glints off Colin's spectacles as he shakes his head. "What are you like?" he retorts in exasperation, "you can't just sit here, waiting for something to happen. How about Dr Chapman? She seemed keen." I shrug, "She's in America, on sabbatical, and unlikely to return in the near future. And before you start, I'm fine as I am. No more romantic adventures for me, thank you very much. I'm not cut out for them." Colin regards me thoughtfully. "So this is it, then? This is how it's going to be? Parked out here on your own, pining for a woman who never loved you in the first place?"
Spotting a handful of small stones heaped at the edge of the pier, no doubt by some child, I stoop down, select the flattest one, and hurl it towards the water, watching it skip across the smooth surface until it sinks out of sight. "I'm not pining for anyone. There's a lot going on, that's all, and I don't know what to think or who to trust and Mother keeps getting worse and Harry's gone right off the deep end, and I miss you every time I walk onto the Grid, and it's not getting any easier, I don't think it ever will, and Ruth… well. Only God knows what Ruth is or what she was doing, but I'd like to think at least we were friends, once, and now I've lost her too, and I've bloody well had enough." My voice is thickening, catching in my throat, and I fumble out my inhaler as my chest constricts, overcome with emotion and exhaustion. Hands on knees, sides heaving, I fight simply to pull air into my lungs, and when I can finally look up once more, he is gone. A flash of irritation jolts through me, but just as swiftly, my annoyance turns to an indefinable sadness. Why am I here? I really couldn't say. I only know that when I walked out of Thames House earlier tonight, the World's End had seemed the right place to be. A persistent breeze has sprung up, ruffling the water. Shivering in my shirtsleeves, and with footsteps as leaden as my heavy heart, I walk slowly along the pier, pausing to set my empty glass on a deserted table outside the pub.
As I turn away, something catches my eye, something light-coloured wedged between the wooden planks of the tabletop. Something small and inconsequential, a twist of grubby paper napkin, perhaps, or a fragment of bread, and yet I can't help myself; my long, strong fingers pluck the tiny scrap from between the cracks. Carrying it into the pool of light cast by a nearby street lamp, I carefully flatten out the crumpled paper in the palm of my hand, for it has been folded again and again. The paper itself is interesting, very smooth and fine, like the pages of a Bible, foxed with age and judging by the width, torn from an octavo volume, most likely from the flyleaf. Greek letters are scrawled across it in pencil, and my heart begins to pound: it must be a drop from Ruth, for who else would have left such a thing? Peering at the faint writing, I recognise the opening lines of the Aeneid, albeit rendered in Greek instead of Latin. The blood thrums in my ears, and I have to remind myself to breathe: this is what I have come for, although I had not known it until now.
Arms, and the man I sing,
Who forc'd by fate,
And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate,
Expell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore…
In my mind's eye, I see my own copy of the epic poem lying as I had found it in the hallway of Ruth's house, and dazedly wonder why she has chosen to translate from the original Latin into Greek. Upon closer inspection, I see that certain letters are darker, as if the pencil has pressed harder into the page; these bold characters form the Greek word 'aphesis', and I lean against the ornate wrought iron lamppost for support, as my knees are refusing to perform that function effectively. Oh, Ruth…
It's cosy in the library after the chilliness of the long, tiled passage, where biting cold seeps under my dressing gown and through the soles of my slippers, and I pause on the threshold to savour the warmth radiating from the fireplace. Father is working on tomorrow's sermon, but when I enter the room he looks round and smiles. "Ah, Malcolm. Would you be a good chap and bring me my Strong's, please?" I cross to the tall bookcase which comprises one wall of the study, running my finger along the leather- and cloth-bound spines, reading the gilt titles until I reach the book he wants. It is huge, thick as two volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and half as high as me, and I have to use both hands as I gently tug it loose from its place on the second shelf up. When I have freed it, I admire the familiar green cover with its bold gold lettering proclaiming Strong's Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible. It is as heavy as it looks, and it smells like all the knowledge in the world. Holding the book tightly against my chest, I carry it to my father. "Thank you, son. I wonder if you would be so kind as to look something up for me?" he says, pulling another chair up to the oak desk with its green leather blotter and heavy silver inkwell, and clearing a space amongst the papers for the Strong's.
I set the book on the desk with great care before happily clambering onto the chair. "To get at the real meaning of the Scriptures, one should always go back to the source text," Father tells me, "there is great power in words, and we must understand how to use them properly." Confused, I ask, "But, Father, why do you need a dictionary when you can already read Greek and Latin, and even Hebrew and Ara...Aram..." I look to him for help, and he supplies, "Aramaic?" I nod, waiting for him to reply. "This isn't a dictionary, Malcolm, it's an index for looking up the meanings of the original Greek and Hebrew words which were used to translate the Bible into English. I do read those languages, but words can have many meanings, and one must be sure of the writer's intention."
This I understand, for I am already aware that my schoolfellows can say one thing and mean another, resulting as often as not in tears (mine) and laughter (theirs). "But even when I think I know what the other boys mean, I don't. Can I look it up in this book?" Father's eyes are kind behind his spectacles. "In between what is said, and what is meant, there lies a God-shaped space," he says, and in response to my puzzled expression, he explains further. "One always has to leave room for faith, Malcolm, for believing the best of others, and for allowing the impossible to unfold." I nod uncertainly, waiting to find out which word I'm to look up, and he chuckles, "Well, enough of theology; let's move onto good old Greek. Look up a-p-h-e-s-i-s, if you would be so kind." Reverently, I turn the tall pages until I find the word my father is looking for. "Oh, there are lots of meanings!" I exclaim, and Father smiles, "You see how important it is to find the right one?"
Deliverance. Pardon. Complete forgiveness. A sending away. A letting go. A release… over forty years later, I can still see the words as they were printed on the heavy paper in small, old-fashioned type, I can even smell the mustiness of the cloth-and-board binding, but all the eidetic memory in the world won't help to work out Ruth's meaning, and the musty smell of old books is in fact the ozone of an oncoming summer storm, as the first fat drops of rain confirm. I tuck the tiny scrap of paper into the fob pocket of my trousers, and make haste back to the Rover, parked a street back from the river. I reach it just as the heavens open in good earnest, with rain sluicing down the windscreen and falling in long rods that bounce off the road; I decide to wait for it to ease a bit before moving off. Reaching into the glovebox, I feel about for the car chamois in its yellow plastic cylinder, and use it to dry myself as best I can, ceaselessly revolving Ruth's word puzzle in my mind all the while. I don't even know by whom she intended the message to be found – Harry, or myself? The storm reaches its zenith, with ominous thunderclaps presaging great gouts of lightning, and I inadvertently shudder at the sheer power and fury of the elements; I wonder if the storm is headed out to sea, and whether Ruth is caught in its path, if she is indeed sailing for parts unknown.
When the storm begins to ease, I pull away from the kerb, now overflowing with stormwater and all the noisome detritus of the city, and turn the Rover for home, mulling over the problem as I drive. The storm clouds are rolling away to the north by the time I pass through Hampstead village, and the idea of going straight into an empty, silent house does not appeal; besides, after being cooped up for days, poring over those extraordinary quantum data chips, I feel a very great need for wild, open spaces and green, living things. Arriving home, I park the Rover on the carriage drive, reach for the heavy, long-barrelled policeman's torch I keep in the driver's door pocket, fetch my Barbour jacket from the garden shed, and open the secret gate onto the Heath. Ducking beneath the briar rose dripping with rain, I take a great gulp of the fresh-washed air, and set off up Parliament Hill, following a route I could walk blindfolded. The torch's beam sweeps in a swinging arc, here and there picking out the shining red eyes of rabbits, temporarily transfixed, and once the bright white eyes of a fox, slinking along a hedgerow. After gaining the top of the hill, I sit upon my usual bench (first drying it off with my handkerchief) and switch the torch off, the better to allow my own eyes to adapt to the dull orange glow of the city: from the construction cranes crowding the jagged skyline in Docklands and Canary Wharf, to the elegant dome of St Paul's, I know it all, and yet tonight I find no peace in the sight.
"A penny for your thoughts?" Ruth asks from somewhere behind me; I jump at the sound of her voice and attempt to regain some semblance of composure. "Oh, they're not worth so much," I say, digging my hands into my pockets and keeping my eyes on the horizon. I instinctively know I mustn't look at her, lest she disappear like Eurydice in the ancient myth; the breeze conveys the faintest trace of her unmistakable perfume to me, but that's all the sensory evidence I have to go on, apart from the sound of her voice. "I've just been considering Greek verbs, and their various meanings." I can almost sense her smiling in the dark, and against my will, remind myself not to look around. "Any one in particular?" she enquires lightly, and I retort, "You know jolly well which one!" She laughs softly, "Do I?" Gritting my teeth in frustration at her teasing, I ask, "What did you mean by it, Ruth?" She is silent for long enough that I begin to doubt her presence, when she sighs, "So you did find it, then. I thought you might." I nod in acknowledgement, and Ruth murmurs, "I have to go. I shouldn't be here at all, but I just had to know." The temptation to seize her by the shoulders and shake her secrets loose is almost overwhelming, but I fear that the second I turn to her she will vanish like a will o' the wisp.
"Please, Ruth," I beg, and her voice comes to me as from a very great distance. "How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to each other in the waking state?" I open my mouth to reply to this Platonic proposition, but she is gone, and I jolt awake on the bench: it is very late, so late it is really early morning, and the sky is just beginning to lighten in the east over the city, huddled beneath a blanket of sullen-looking cloud. I groan aloud as I stretch, feeling far, far older than my forty-seven years and as hollow as a drum. My eyes feel gritty, I am chilled despite the Barbour jacket I had pulled on as I headed out, and my right foot has most comprehensively gone to sleep. Very slowly, I get to my feet, and as I straighten up, rubbing at the dull ache in the small of my back, the sun's first rays break through the clouds; the light gilds everything it falls on, transfiguring the great grey mass of London into a vision of rare beauty. Something, some fleeting remnant of thought stirs in the dimmest recesses of my weary brain at the sight; I blink, scrub my eyes with my knuckles, and look again. Of course! Just as the sun is lighting up the entire city, old and new buildings alike, Ruth's final puzzle isn't a puzzle at all, but an interconnected whole, with a message so simple I nearly missed it altogether.
Deliverance. Pardon. Complete forgiveness. A sending away. A letting go. A release… and those lines from the Aeneid, about exile… it's all of a piece, and now I know for whom the message is meant. I may never know the true reasons for Ruth's departure, whether she actively sought to escape a dangerous threat, or for other, more personal considerations, but in this last communication Ruth is clumsily attempting to both exonerate Harry from guilt – Aeneas blames Fate and a jealous goddess for his misfortunes, after all - while pleading to be set free to live life in another direction, as she put it. Upon further reflection, it seems to me that the message should be interpreted as a parting gift to each member of Section D; certainly that is how I intend to present it when Harry returns from his desperate search.
Dawn, Saturday 13 August 2006
As the sunlight spills over the Heath, the pure, liquid notes of a blackbird's song float on the morning air; it seems a very long time since I have heard this simple music. I have missed so many mornings like this, my life given over to the demands of an increasingly relentless world where there is always another threat to neutralise, another crisis to manage. Perhaps it's time things changed; Mother might actually get well this time, and then she could move into a little place of her own. I might even use some of the great pile of annual leave I've accrued over the years, and do some travelling: I've always wanted to see the fall colour in New England, and sunrise over the Pacific Ocean, but my world is bounded by duty and conscience, fear of the unknown, and an even greater fear of what I do know. At heart, I'm still just a scared little boy, afraid of the monsters lurking in the shadows, begging not to be left alone. Please, read me one more story, Father, just one more…
Interminably tired, stiff, aching in every muscle and joint, I make my way back down the hill, nodding to the early morning dog walkers and joggers I encounter, pausing to take note of the web of an orb weaver in the tall grass, pearled with dew; the busy flitting to and fro of sparrows; the sinuous bounding of grey squirrels as they shin up tree trunks and run out along the branches. Passing back beneath the briar-rose and into the garden, I pause to survey the damage done by Mace's men; I will have to ask the gardeners to come in for a few extra days next week to put it right, and in the meantime I must do some digging myself, and make improvements to my security systems, for the prospect of another such visit is all too likely, unfortunately. It might even be time to consider moving, but in my present state of sheer exhaustion, I can't decide which of these evils is worse as I survey the wreckage wrought by Mace's men, and sigh at the thought of all the lifting and relocating of various plants I will have to do before the gardeners can start restoring the lawn and borders. As I walk towards the house, I think I spot something, a flicker of movement, before dismissing it as a trick of the light, or of my overstretched imagination. It's probably just a windowpane winking in the sunshine, I decide, but there it is again, a faint reflection in the glass of the conservatory, and I hasten my steps towards the front of the house.
As I round the corner, I come to the sort of skidding, sliding stop favoured by trick riders in old Westerns, sending gravel flying in all directions; my eyes feel as though they are out on organ stops and my heart skips several beats as I gasp, "W…wh…what are you doing here?" The slim figure standing in the portico glances in my direction disinterestedly as she grinds out a cigarette against the brass fingerplate of the front door, before letting the noxious object fall. The green eyes narrow, like a cat's when it sees a dog it disdains. "Waiting for you, as it happens. Hasn't Mummy taught you how to open the front door yet?" I blink, so thoroughly discombobulated by Ms Meyers' appearance that the power of speech fails me altogether, before returning with a vengeance, fuelled by fury at the sight of the only person I have ever professed to hate leaning against said front door, and idly scratching the paintwork with the steel heel of her stiletto boot. "H…how the h...h…hell did you get in?" I splutter, enraged, and she rolls her eyes: Please. "Oh, we learn all sorts of useful things at big school," she drawls, "unlike some I could mention, who haven't even been potty-trained." My hands clench involuntarily into fists at her taunting, and I jam them quickly into my pockets, but not quickly enough. "Temper, temper," she tuts, "and here I thought you were the last gentleman left in Thames House." I have had enough of this: I'm completely done in, I despise this woman with every atom of my being, and all I want is to get rid of her so I can fall into bed and sleep the clock round. "Why are you here?" I ask again, adding with only the barest trace of civility, "and I'll thank you to stop lounging in my doorway like a Berwick Street prostitute."
"And I bet you'd know all about those," she sneers, but she straightens up and moves into the centre of the portico. "Harry's gone off to find his silly little cow of a daughter, Adam's having a family day, so he's probably boffing the nanny into next week even as I speak, and Jo and Zaf are most likely doing the same in his sordid little bedsit in Brixton. That leaves me in charge of the Grid, and I need a technical officer. You're the best, I'm told." She says this last in a tone of disbelief calculated to be as insulting as possible; I count slowly to ten, then to twenty, before replying evenly, "You'll have to find someone else. I'm on a forty-eight hour stand-down. Section C can provide a relief officer. Ask for Eric Compton, he's reasonably familiar with recent events." I don't ask how she knows about Harry's plans, or anything else; I don't want to know. "I don't think so. I want the best, even if that means… you." With my keys in hand, I move purposefully past her towards the door. "Well, you'll just have to go on wanting, because I have not the slightest intention of obliging you. Now, if you'll excuse me." I turn the key in the lock and step into the hall. "I never say sorry," Ms Meyers informs me airily as I begin to close the door, "And I'm not sorry Ruth's gone, if that's what you're holding against me. She was a distraction for half of Section D and I'm convinced she was running a covert op right under Harry's nose. She was far too eager to get out of the country, if you ask me."
Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt to crush the massive headache which has begun to throb behind my eyes; I really must get to bed, or I'll be in a bad way. When I open them again, there is a narrow, booted foot in the doorjamb. "Look, Malcolm. I'm stuck with Section D, and I'm not thrilled at the prospect. I don't want to sit at the little kids' table. I was running deep undercover ops solo, in places you've never even heard of, until dear Papa's train of thought derailed and things got messy." I gape at her, wondering if I have really just heard her dismiss her father's very credible attempt at a coup d'etat as 'things got messy'. "Get out. Now." The words are mine, but I don't recognise the voice; harsh, low, jagged with grief. "All's fair in love and war," she continues coolly, seemingly oblivious to the change in my demeanour. "So my father gets locked up for the rest of his life, and Ruth gets to take a permanent holiday abroad, away from everyone who loves her. That sounds about right, wouldn't you say?" The corners of her mouth twitch upwards, in a cruel approximation of a smile. Without warning, the world turns red, as if a crimson curtain has fallen across the sun, and a strange rushing noise fills the air…
The next thing I am aware of are her bony wrists beneath my hands as I pin her against the door and snap, "What about Colin Wells? Where does he fit into your revenge equation?" Ms Meyers frowns, apparently trying to place the name. "He was an utterly brilliant technical officer, and he was my bloody best friend, and you murdered him," I force the words out, striving for breath as the familiar chest-crushing sensation takes hold. Surprisingly, she doesn't fight, just stands there, smiling like a woman who's finally found something she has wanted for a long time. "Sorry, Malcolm, but I'm just not that into you," she purrs, flinching as my grip on her wrists tightens. "I have killed men for not much more than what you've just done," she says conversationally, "but for the record, I did not kill your boyfriend. That was unsanctioned, and I believe the operatives responsible were terminated." Finally driven beyond the limits of endurance by her couldn't-care- less tone, I roar, "Colin would never have been killed at all if it wasn't for you and your f…fucking megalomaniac father!" The effort is exhausting; sensing weakness, Ms Meyers twists out of my grip with a practiced manoeuvre and pivots towards the drive, green eyes glittering. A chilly silence falls between us as I prop myself against the door and deploy my inhaler, never taking my eyes off her; we eye each other up like two pugilists in a prize ring, neither giving an inch. Eventually, Ms Meyers observes calmly, "So that's where we stand, then. Fine. Oh, don't worry, I won't say a word about your stupid cow of a mother throwing herself at a married man like an obsessed teenager." She surveys me from head to toe, upper lip curling in disgust. "You look like shit," she adds, and stalks off without a backwards glance.
Knock-kneed with adrenaline withdrawal, I stagger inside, bolt the door with trembling fingers and watch the CCTV monitor as Ms Meyers effortlessly scales the gates, commando-style, and disappears from view. I'll definitely have to increase security…preferably with miles of electrified razor wire. As for Ms Meyers, I've a feeling it's going to be a long, cold war... All this will have to wait, though, along with everything else; I totter upstairs, locking all the doors behind me, make some very perfunctory ablutions, dim the windows and collapse into bed. I sleep the clock round, a dreamless slumber which is like plunging from a cliff into deep, dark water. When I awaken late on Sunday morning, the house is profoundly still and silent. I could be an entombed Pharoah, sealed into a pyramid of my own making; but the Pharoahs were buried with their entire household to keep them company in the afterlife, whereas I am quite, quite alone.
Lying in the dark, my ears ringing from the silence, I can't quite shake the strange thought that the world has somehow stopped altogether, or else gone on without me in all its clamour and noise. When I can't stand it any longer, I heave myself upright, shrug on my old wool dressing gown, and make my way towards the music room, first stopping to open a window in the hall to ascertain that the world is more or less as I left it. As I open the door of the music room, I detect it immediately: the last faint trace of the fragrance of a garden after rain, preserved in the cool, motionless air. Ruth evidently found my sanctum sanctorum, then, on her last visit. Feeling sick at the violation of this most private of spaces, I look about warily, wondering if she might have bugged the place, before telling myself not to be so ridiculous, even as I make a mental note to sweep the house thoroughly, as a precaution. One can't be too careful…
There's an unfamiliar indentation in the Eames ottoman, and I imagine Ruth sitting there, knees hugged to her chest as is her way when engaged in rapt concentration, slanting a smile over her shoulder as I enter the room. Will I ever be free of her? I wonder, all the while knowing the answer. Not while we're both living; perhaps not even then. With practiced effort, I dismiss these fruitless speculations, press 'play' without bothering to check which CD is loaded, and turn my thoughts into a happier channel as the first notes of Mozart's bassoon concerto in B-flat major roll out of the state of the art speakers, the titular instrument's deeper voice grounding the flightiness of the strings in a whimsical blending only Mozart could have conjured up: this, then, is Ruth's final farewell, for I am fairly sure the last music I listened to was Bach's Brandenburg concertos, and she always was mad about Mozart. "Such a unique mind, such an immensity of imagination…only think what he might have done had he lived longer! Oh, Malcolm, why is it that so many brilliant people die so young?" she had asked me once, curled up on the passenger seat of the Rover on our way home from an evening recital at St Martin's in the Fields. "Life was harder then, and musicians were held in no higher regard than servants. Certainly they weren't paid much more. Besides, genius is rarely recognised within its own generation." Ruth had fallen silent as we drove towards Hampstead. Just as I turned into the drive, she had said, so quietly I had almost missed it, "We would have recognised it."
The music changes to one of Mozart's final works, the Clarinet Concerto in A major, and I close my eyes, plonk my feet onto the ottoman, indentation and all, and give myself over to the ravishing strains of the adagio movement, which always sounds to me like God, humming. "I would like to think so, my love," I had replied, and Ruth had riposted, "They say it takes one to know one, right?" I had demurred, "Well, I don't know about that," and the conversation had taken another turn, but not before I had caught Ruth giving me a most peculiar look. Now, I think I know the meaning of that look: despite appearances to the contrary, Ruth has always known her own worth, whereas I never have. Perhaps that too needs to change, I muse; perhaps I need to be prepared to stand my ground against the Ms Meyers of this world, and the Mothers, and the Harrys.
"I reckon you're onto something there, mate," Colin opines, unexpectedly, and I open my eyes to find him leaning against the rack of high-fi equipment. "Nice set up, this. I remember when we sat up half the night arguing about the best subwoofers to install. Looks like you got them." He's here, but not quite: he seems to be fading in and out of focus, and I can see the outlines of the stereo system directly behind him. "And here's something else you seem to have forgotten. The others need you, more than you'll ever realise. Diana Jewell told you that, but you didn't believe her. It's true though. So, what are you going to do?" His eyes glint from behind his specs, and he stands with arms akimbo, watching me.
What am I going to do? That is the question, the great question that hangs over my life: what am I going to do about Mother, about the endless chain of crises that comprise my ever more difficult work, about my growing disenchantment with Five, my dislike of the present government and my fears over the general economic and social malaise that is slowly engulfing our once-great nation. I think, as I have so often found myself doing in recent months, of simply walking away, and leading a life of quiet retirement; but as one born and bred to serve his country without fuss or complaint, I simply cannot bring myself to do it. So it seems the only option is to carry on, a faceless, nameless watcher on the wall, working behind the scenes for the greater good, my solitary life given some semblance of meaning by the memories of those who went before.
Colin's answering grin is the last thing to vanish, like a Cheshire Cat's; as I gaze at the exact spot where he no longer is, the mobile phone I had automatically tucked into the breast pocket of my dressing gown commences an insistent shrilling, and my heartbeat quickens: that ringtone means the caller can only be someone dialling from the Grid. Flipping the phone open, I hold it to my ear. "Wynn-Jones," I begin, and Jo says, breathlessly, "Malcolm. Thank God. I know you're on stand-down but could you please come in? We're picking up some very weird chatter around the Saudi embassy and Adam says he wants you on eyes and ears, not a relief officer." Closing my eyes, I listen intently as she outlines the situation, my brain already racing with names, dates, known associates, past operations, present requirements; it's what I do, it's what all of us in the security services do, day in, day out, as we battle to keep this stubborn, damp little island of sixty million souls safe from those who would destroy our democracy, our most cherished beliefs, and our very way of life. Even those of us who would greatly prefer a life of modest stillness and humility must take up the fight, each in our own way. Opening my eyes and getting up, I interject, "I'm leaving now, Jo," and smile at the relief in her voice as she thanks me before hanging up.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm showered, suited, and turning the Rover towards Thames House.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…
Harry is reciting 1 Corinthians 13:13 at St Margaret's (KJV)
Malcolm's final quote is from Shakespeare's Henry V, Act III, Scene I, the famous Agincourt speech.
A/N: Here is where we leave Malcolm for the time being. I'm sorry it's taken so long to post the last chapter – I first started writing this at a time where I was in a job where I often didn't have enough to do and consequently had mental energy to burn, but that is most definitely no longer the case. My heartfelt gratitude and thanks go to everyone who has ever read this little tale (!) or taken the time to post a review, especially the faithful few (you know who are) who have stuck with it for every chapter, sent me PMs when I hadn't posted for far too long, and generally encouraged me to keep going. I have appreciated each and every message and review, and hope my readers have garnered the same enjoyment from H,L, &S as I have gained from writing it.
Malcolm will return at some time in the future, but for now he is going to have a very well-earned rest, putting his beloved garden to rights and keeping the technical section of the Grid ticking over as only he can. As for me, I'm off shortly for a well-earned ramble around Europe and the British Isles, revisiting old haunts and hopefully finding some new ones.
Until we meet again
Airgead