Thanks for the reviews and your patience awaiting the next chapter. Not sure you're going to enjoy it.

The rigidity of Harry Pearce's upper lip in the face of adversity was the stuff of MI5 legend. At this present moment however it was the configuration of his jaw that was presenting a problem. After a struggle, of probably no more than ten seconds duration but which seemed, in comparative terms, to last an aeon, he manage to control jaw and tongue sufficiently to address the figure on the doorstep.

'Good Evening Ruth.'

Words uttered while he was simultaneously scanning her features for any indication that the person in front of him was wearing a state of the art latex mask, or, alternatively bore the indications of plastic surgery scars. A few seconds convinced him that she, Ruth, whoever, had not undergone the latter while he'd defy anyone to imitate those eyes. The clothes were also typical Ruth, long skirt, dark coat fastened to the throat, spook colours for night time work. The appearance might match his cherished memories but even so it was difficult to believe it was actually her and if seeing was truly believing how the hell ….. speculation temporary halted when the figure spoke.

'Please it's cold.'

It wasn't the plea or the factually accurate words that produced a slight frown across Harry's face, but the tone, flat, almost robotic, with which the three words were uttered. The pitch was correct but Ruth's voice, as befitted a talented amateur musician, was usually full of lilt and variation. Quickly assessing the situation Harry decided his best course of action was to pretend that a supposedly dead woman turned up on his doorstep every day. Not that he wasn't accustomed to being confronted by brain dead zombies, it was just that he normally encountered them in Whitehall or amongst the attendees of the sadly misnamed Joint Intelligence Committee.

Fixing his face into what he hoped was a welcoming expression he responded politely,

'My apologies. Please do come in."

Once again that puzzling pause followed by a monotone, 'Thank you." Uttered as she stepped across his threshold, Harry moving slightly aside to let her pass. Wondering how she'd arrived when a few minutes ago the street was near deserted, he took advantage of her movement to cast a very speedy left right glance down the road. No car. Nobody. Surely she hadn't walked and if so from where?

Turning back from the door he noted that she'd only stepped about five paces beyond him. An abrupt stop with no head turning and no acknowledgment. Harry's level of disquiet was increasing by the second. Ruth had never been across his doorstep but after how much they'd meant to one another he'd have expected some indication of curiosity regarding his living quarters. Hell, her last words when dying – correction when allegedly dying - had revolved around her plans for the two of them to live together, so a surely a normal reaction would be to at least glance at the furnishings in his somewhat ascetic hallway. The analyst he'd known, even excluding the ill fated personal dimensions to their relationship, would have been occupying herself by drawing inferences from her surroundings.

After a lengthy pause during which she stood like a frozen statue failing to make any movement of head or limbs he addressed her back view, 'The kitchen is straight ahead." Again that delay for his words to register before the dark clothed figure moved forward, still making no attempt to turn her head to even notice the one picture he had hung on the wall, its subject matter depicting a seascape she should have recognised. Watching her slow progress he called out to her, "I'll be with you in a minute', as he turned to close the still wide open front door that was allowing the Artic blasts, still warmer than Ruth's demeanour, to ooze across his threshold.

The necessary security tasks completed he followed her into the kitchen, indicating a seat as he suggested. "Please sit down. I think we have a lot to talk about.'" The response to this understatement of the century was, to his surprise, immediate.

"Not really. Not after you killed me and left me for dead.'"

An accusation that had Harry reeling mentally as he replied, "That is not true. Ruth!"

"Liar."

"Never to you Ruth."

"I'm not here to argue." While Harry was wondering how the hell he'd get through to her she made a sudden swift movement thrusting her hand into her coat pocket, then withdrawing it accessorized with a small hand gun, as she made a further robotic response. "I'm alive. No thanks to you. So now you can die."

Harry, quashing the fleeting thought that he'd just been press ganged into a rather bad melodrama, recovered from his shock sufficiently to insist. "No Ruth I was in love with you and would never have killed you." Repressing the belief that came to him in those waking hours before dawn when he relived the events at the estuary that he should have been quicker, should have pushed her behind him ….. should have…..

And now he was looking down a barrel and unable to dive for the gun without risking it being fired. While the old Ruth was not a good shot Harry, recalling a past incident, know that not even she could miss him from point blank range. The best he could do was to insist, "I said I loved you and I still do."

The only reaction was again in that dead tone, "Lies won't save you."

As her finger squeezed on the trigger Harry frozen to the spot yelled, "I love…."

The end of his sentence drowned out by gunfire.

I'm working on the next chapter but it may take some time to complete. if you feel you can review given the way this might be going it would be appreciated.