Thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially those who have taken time to review. Thank you. Again, apologies for the delay in updates – I, myself, can't quite believe just how long this story has taken. Well, on with the show.
Chapter Sixteen: A Means to an End.
Is that all I am to you? 'Some guy' there to be framed…
Lucas' internal thoughts on the matter made him sound almost like a spurned lover. Someone to be used until something better came along. A means to someone else's end. Now he had served that purpose and had been casually tossed aside – or, almost, at any rate. He had never meant anything to Weston except for one cheap opportunity. He didn't even have the gumption to put two and two together and realise that Lucas had been the one to take the fall.
That moment in the interrogation had been replaying in his head like an internet GIF. At the time, his knuckles whitened and every sinew in his body tightened. Otherwise, he had swiftly composed himself and showed no reaction whatsoever. But inside, he had reeled. Weston's admission came like a kick in the gut and the urge to punch the bastard had been strong. Then, his spy training had kicked in and he let himself believe that he was not that 'some guy' they framed. It had been one of his aliases, not him. But now the working day was over and the bullshit stopped at the pods.
Now that he had stopped pretending, he half wanted to return to the Grid and have a moment alone with Weston while the cameras were conveniently shut off. It could be arranged and worse had happened in those interrogation suites. If those drab, grey walls could talk they would turn the air a brighter shade of blue. But with the eyes of the service still on him, he knew he had to play by the book.
During the drive home that evening, he had been a silent and surly presence in Ros' passenger seat. His gaze directed unflinchingly out of the window, like he was the one at the wheel. He made no attempt at small talk and Ros had not been so foolish as to attempt it in return. But nothing passed her by and he knew that she had noticed his taciturnity.
By the time they actually reached home, Lucas had the keys ready and opened their apartment door while maintaining his silence. Greeted by the cold and dark, the front room felt abandoned and sterile. Their furniture and the ornaments lining the shelves could only be seen in silhouette.
"Welcome home," said Ros. "Now are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"
She flicked on the lights and fell into an armchair, legs crossed and fixing him with a hard look in her eyes. It was the same expression she used when interrogating suspects.
"Like you don't already know," he replied, taking the armchair opposite hers. He drew a deep breath, buying a few seconds in which to marshal his own thoughts. "You were there when Weston admitted what he had done. He just came out with it as if it had been of no importance. But that was my whole life he came within a gnat's arse of destroying."
"So?" asked Ros, almost nonchalantly. "Every terrorist, gangster and subversive basket case we drag through those doors would love a chance to take us swimming with a brick. Why is it so different just because one of them accidentally admitted it to your face?"
He'd rarely been hit with such a blunt point before. "You're a very mixed metaphor, Ros. But then, I think that's why I love you."
She smiled, showing a rare glimpse of her softer side. "What do you want to do about it? Weston, I mean."
"I want to punch the bastard, but apparently there's this thing called the Human Rights Act and that sort of thing is generally frowned upon," he answered. "Anyway, what's the point? Even if I did deck the man, it'd only be one more thing on my conscience and Weston isn't worth it."
Venting anger was like that. A momentary relief followed by bruised knuckles and the threat of human rights activists hanging over his head like a Damocles Sword. In short, the hassle amounted to more than the end result. Wearily, he looked to the clock on the mantelpiece, the time inching towards eight in the evening and the moonlight shining through the net curtains reminded him of how bone tired he had become.
"Besides, it's all over now," Ros pointed out. "Weston's confessed, Carlton's been brought into custody and we now know what Securitech were up to. All that's left is Harry consoling the Home Secretary."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Rather him than me."
"Mind you, after the waxing incident, it could be a mutual thing," she added, thoughtfully. "First there was the pig incident at Connie's farm, now Nathan's near death experience with a tub of leg wax. Poor Harry's been getting his wires crossed left, right and center these days."
"Good God, I can see them now, crying into each other's shoulders," Lucas grimaced. "It really doesn't bear thinking about."
"You didn't exactly help by keeping the real scenario to yourself," she said, disapprovingly. "Or was your mind elsewhere by that stage?"
"Ah, come on now, it was funny," he replied. "Admit it, it was funny!"
Barely a flicker of a smile crossed her lips. "Now all we have to worry about is whatever's next."
"Now there's a thought." Actually, he didn't want to go there just yet.
William Towers was still shaking. He'd been cradling the same brandy for the last hour, swirling the contents to make the ice chink against the glass, at least until it melted into the liquor. After that, he consoled himself by gazing dolefully into the watery depths. Harry wasn't even sure if the Home Secretary was even listening to him anymore. But still he continued to make reassuring sounds.
They were tucked away in a discreet corner of a Gentleman's Club not far from White Hall. Those places were permanently discreet, but this was the most discreet part of that discreet interior. The price of the drinks was being added to Towers' bill, so Harry was in no hurry. Normally, in such establishments, his presence was as welcome as a fart at a funeral. Normally, he revelled in that knowledge. But tonight it ruined the air of discretion by making him feel as if he stuck out a mile.
Meanwhile, Towers continued to mope. "I thought about tending my resignation, you know."
"What would that achieve?" asked Harry.
He spoke more out of concern for who would come next, rather than affection for Towers. This blunder could have brought untold damage on the Government, as well as seen chaos on the streets, had ISIS managed to get a foothold in the British arms industry. But, the crisis had been averted and the criminals brought to book. Ruth was still on the Grid, at that moment, methodically compiling the evidence.
Now, Harry looked across the narrow table at Towers, safe in the knowledge that the man owed him. Owed him on a grand scale. It would be useful.
"Anyway," he added, "no one will ever find out how close you came. We have it under wraps. But I need to know, that you will never deign to interfere with the running of MI5 Operations again. What's the point of our existence if all we are is another branch of Government to do your bidding? Do you understand where we're coming from on this?"
The sting in his words made Towers fold in on himself a little further, as though he were trying to vanish on the spot. "You have my word, Harry. What more can I give you at this stage? Carlton took me in. It seemed like the best deal we could secure. It had everything: local jobs, cheap weapons for our cash-strapped forces and local investment. All at a bargain price."
Only, the price wasn't looking so cheap to Harry now. He finished off his own whiskey and gave the Home Secretary a few minutes in which to stew in his own juices. After that, he wanted to get home and surprise Ruth with a nice dinner. Then, after that, he wanted to get ready for Sunday's dinner with Catherine and Will Crombie. He smiled as he thought ahead. Life was beginning to look normal, almost routine. Family visits and social calls. Walks in the park with someone other than the dog. Conversations. He thought he hated smug bastards who seemed to have it, now he realised that he had only ever envied them, as much as it pained him to admit it.
Once more, he glanced in the direction of the man who came within a whisker of losing it all.
"Oh, cheer up," he said, exasperatedly. "And drink that brandy, for goodness sake. You've been contemplating it long enough already."
Towers sighed indignantly. "I knew I could rely on your infinite reserves of empathy and sympathy to shore me up in my darkest hour, Harry."
Harry flashed him a smile. "I'm famed for it, Home Secretary. Well, now I'm going home before they bring on the lady-boy strippers, or whatever debauchery it is you lot get up to in these places."
"Hmph, chance would be a fine thing," Towers retorted. He followed it up with a half-hearted raising of the hand, something Harry took as a gesture of farewell.
On his way out, the silent and immaculately dressed footman handed him his coat. Inside the pockets of which were the black leather gloves so carefully ironed by Ruth. But outside in the late autumnal air, it wasn't so very cold. He wouldn't be needing them tonight; not for either purpose.
It was late by the time Ruth had finished handing over all the evidence to the Met. Every document they had, every damning snippet of information about John Carlton and his cohorts was handed in and nothing left to chance. She was exhausted and her feet ached to the ankle, even with the driver who was ferrying her from pillar to post.
For the final leg of her journey, from Thames House to home, she drove herself. She passed the Hospital where Nathan was waiting for discharge and the club where Harry was 'consoling' the Home Secretary. She passed the spot where she and Harry once said goodbye on a shingle embankment before she sailed downriver to god knows where. Even all these years later that one spot caused a spasm of pain somewhere deep inside her. Every corner on every London street seemed to hold some memory or other, bringing with them pain, joy or something in between. At least her life had never been boring.
By the time she parked up outside their townhouse, it was nearing ten in the evening. Dark and chilly, a night breeze plucked at her hair as she let herself in. Light from the living room windows shone through the curtains and the silhouetted outline of Fidget the cat could be seen where he perched on the ledge. Frowning, she wondered whether Harry had left the lights on before they left that morning.
Tentative now, she unlocked the door and let herself in to be welcome by the warmth of their central heating and the smell of home cooked food. She could see him through the open kitchen door, uncorking a bottle of red to be left to breathe. He turned from the task at hand and smiled.
"Welcome home," he greeted her.
"Harry," she said his name, pulling him into a hug. "You did all this?"
"Sort of," he said, extricating himself and nudging a few takeaway boxes aside. But she saw them, and opted to make no mention of it. They were back together again and that was all that mattered. At least until the next crisis came along to spice things up a little.
The following morning dawned grim and frosty. But Nathan wasn't complaining. He was bundled up in a wheelchair – quite needless in his own opinion – with a blanket over his knees. Currently parked before the front desk, he looked up at his parents who were signing what needed to be signed. Then, he was being whisked away to Wales for a week. Time to convalesce before re-entering the fray of national security. While he was away Olly would be moving them into their new home – another service approved place in central London, near to Thames House.
Meanwhile, the man himself had entered the Hospital to see him off.
"It worked then," he said, tilting Nathan's chin up.
He was referring to the wax job. "I told you it would."
"It was my idea!" Olly protested.
"Like that's anything to boast about." Nathan turned round to find his mother louring over the both of them. "Bloody idiot, you could have had your whole jaw off. What were you thinking?"
But she moved on after she had had her mini-vent. She tucked the ends of his blanket in before returning to the front desk to collect his painkillers and anti-biotics. The latter a precaution against any infection to his stab wounds.
Olly watched her leave before turning back to Nathan. "A week of that to look forward to. Can't say I envy you."
"Don't," Nathan rolled his eyes. "Just don't."
They engaged in an awkward embrace, kissing each other quickly before Nathan could be wheeled away into the sunrise. Another mission survived, but only just.
And this is where I leave it for this one. Apologies for the abrupt ending, but I could not think at all on how to end this one more thoroughly. But, thank you for reading and, as always, reviews would be welcome if you have a moment to spare. Thank you.