June-July 1979

John passed through Sandhurst with flying colours in June. Only his parents attended the graduation ceremony – it clashed with Helen's second year exams. A week later he joined the Parachute Regiment as an officer. He was immediately posted at St Athan, Wales, joining the 1st Battalion, which is permanently attached to the Special Forces Support Group. All men within the parachute regiment serve some time here, on rotation, ensuring that all get trained in advanced military skills.

Within weeks, Helen came to visit. As they were unmarried, he lived in the single officers' quarters in the barracks, so it was her turn to illicitly spend the night. As an officer he had a tiny private room - rather different than the barracks block shared by enlisted men, four to a room. In the early hours of the morning, a surprise knock jolted them out of bed. Quickly, John pushed Helen into the tiny wardrobe before opening the door.

"Sir." He stood to attention.

"At ease John. I'm not here officially, just to invite you and your fiance to join my wife and I for dinner tonight."

John barely kept his face composed. "Colonel. We'd love to join you."

"Good lad. She loves to host dinners and meet the officers' wives. Dress smart, arrive at 1800." The Colonel paused at the door on his way out, looking back at him. "And Rider - I don't want unmarried women in the barracks again."

"Sir, yes sir."

And with that, he was gone.

John barely shut the door before Helen stumbled out of the wardrobe, hand clasped over her mouth and eyes wide with barely contained mirth. The moment he met her gaze she broke out into giggles, and he had to close the distance between them quickly.

"Shhh. You'll get heard by someone else now."

It didn't work. Her body shaking against his, her hands trying desperately to dampen the hysterics, John started laughing too as the adrenaline faded.

After all their adventures so far, that had to be the closest to disaster they'd come.

That evening, dinner went well. It was a small gathering, with four couples including themselves and their hosts. The Colonel's wife took to Helen immediately after hearing she was currently at Oxford. She liked the smart wives, not the insipid housewives that so many military men tended to attract. She told Helen just that in fact, in a moment in the kitchen when she'd offered to help bring out the pudding.

"Make sure you finish your degree dear. And get married soon- he's a catch that one, he'll go far, and with you by his side he'll go further."

She eyed up the younger woman, continuing before she could respond. "And whatever you do, do not get in the family way until after you are married. Too many good officer's careers are ruined by that sort of thing. But I doubt you'll be so foolish, you have a sensible head on those shoulders. Graduate first too - don't be too dependent, or they get complacent."

"Now, if you take the cheesecake I'll get this, there's a good girl."

They finally left late that evening, after a few too many glasses of port, and a wink from the Colonel as he mentioned that after such a good evening, neither he nor the Captain - who had also joined them for dinner - would be in the barracks before 0800 tomorrow. Mrs Hayes had pursed her lips at that, and gave Helen a look.

Helen became Mrs Rider in July, not long after her exams. She told herself it had nothing to do with Mrs Hayes's words.

As a married officer, John rented a house inside the fence. Helen joined him for a month that summer, spending her days volunteering in the garrison clinic, and Saturday evenings usually found them at Colonel Hayes's dinner parties.

The newlywed bliss was brief.

August 1979

On 27 August 1979, 16 men of the 2nd Battalion, Parachute Regiment, and two from the Queen's Own Highlanders (QOH) were killed in the Warrenpoint ambush. The first six Paras were killed while travelling in a small convoy of three vehicles. As it passed a roadside bomb hidden in a lorry by the Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA), the bomb exploded. The PIRA had studied how the Army reacted after a bombing and correctly guessed that they would set up an incident command point in the nearby gatehouse. A second bomb detonated 32 minutes later, killing 10 Paras and two men from the QOH, one being Lieutenant-Colonel David Blair, their commanding officer. After the first explosion, the soldiers, believing that they had come under attack from the IRA, began firing across the narrow maritime border with the Republic of Ireland, a distance of only 57 m (187 feet). An uninvolved civilian, Michael Hudson (an Englishman whose father was a coachman at Buckingham Palace) was killed as a result, and his cousin Barry Hudson wounded. According to RUC researchers, the soldiers may have mistaken the sound of ammunition cooking off from the destroyed Land Rover for enemy gunfire from across the border. The Paras were under orders not to pursue their attackers into the Republic to avoid causing any diplomatic incidents. The death toll in the Warrenpoint ambush is the highest suffered by the British Army in a single incident in Northern Ireland. [Wikipedia]

November 1980

With the sudden losses in Northern Ireland, John had been immediately rotated in as part of the reinforcements to the 2nd battalion. Helen worried, and wrote letters weekly, but she had to get used to his infrequent, bare-bones replies. There was so much he couldn't share with her now.

She immersed herself in her studies, and occasionally wrote to lan, who was also missing John's tales of mischief. lan actually came to her third year graduation, for the honours degree, as John was still unavailable. Her parents had really had a field day with that.

John came back for a few weeks a couple of times, but they always seemed to clash with when she was really busy with university. Today was one of those times. Week seven, in her first term of 4th year - the first clinical year. If she'd thought she'd been busy in previous years, she wished she could go back to tell her past self how good she had it! Lectures and practicals 9-5, only now she also had placements in hospitals every holiday, and the currently - but not for ever - far off impending doom of the end of Sth year exams. If she didn't stay on top of the workload…

Helen snapped the book closed with a huff. If she wasn't going to read it, and instead dwell over how she was too busy to spend time with John - who was currently visiting - then she should go home and enjoy his company instead. He was going back again in two days, for at least another six months.

She frowned as she gathered her papers and slipped notes in the books to reserve them for her to come back to tomorrow. John had been quieter since he'd first gone to Belfast over a year ago. He was still charming, and when he looked at her it's like he was back to how he always was. But he seemed quiet, and more reserved in other moments somehow. He'd grown up, she realised, but also she suspected he'd seen things he'd never share. Done things, her mind supplied. He's probably killed people. And she's dissected one, in anatomy - and plenty of people find that distasteful. It's his job.

Helen shook her head to clear her thoughts as she unlocked her bike outside the library.

"Helen!" She spun around as she was encircled by muscular arms. "You're finished early!"

"Oh, its you!" Helen leant back to look at John. She stretched up on her toes to kiss him, and pulled back in shock at how cool his lips were. " You're freezing! Have you been outside all day? Wait- were you waiting out here for me?"

" Guilty." He looked sheepishly at her. "I went for a walk but it's not the same anymore. I mean, it is, the uni doesn't ever change, but…"

But you have. It lay between them, unvoiced, yet somehow still spoken. Helen tucked her face into his neck and inhaled that familiar scent that she had missed so much, and couldn't get enough of over the last few days. That hadn't changed.

A sudden icy gust of wind cut through them. "Let's get you home and warmed up."

"I know -" Helen looked at him quizzically as he stepped away from her, and caught the playful glint in his eyes. What's he up to.. "It'll be warmer if I cycle!"

He grabbed her bike and ran, hopping onto it as he gained speed. Helen tore after him, laughing. "John Rider, you're in so much trouble!"

That hadn't changed either.

John lay awake that night, watching moonlight flicker over the side of Helen's face. She shifted in her sleep, snuggling into his side more, dislodging a lock of hair which fell forward, tickling his bare skin. Gently he brushed it back over her shoulder, marvelling at how soft it was.

Soft. Clean. Pretty.

Comforting.

Having Helen wrapped in his arms was a far cry from the gunfights in the back streets of Belfast. When he closed his eyes he could still see the faces of the men he'd killed. Hear their final gasps. Smell the metallic tang of blood. Taste it, when it gurgled up, landing on his face, joining the rivulets of sweat running down into his mouth. Copper and salt and dust. Hands slick with blood. Ears still ringing from distant gunfire and explosions and from somewhere barely audible shouting. Screams.

A sigh from Helen bought him back. John focused on the feel of her skin pressed against his. He ran a hand down her side, feeling her ribs expand and relax as she breathed. He felt his heart rate slow as he timed his breathing to match hers. It felt like time stood still, in that moment, until he felt the quickening of her heart and breathing that heralded Helen's emergence from slumber.

"John?" She murmured groggily as she cracked her eyes open and found him watching her. "Why aren't you asleep?"

He paused, the lie on the tip of his tongue. Something stopped him. So much death he'd already seen. Had caused. A lie right now, in this moment - it felt wrong somehow. Like it would taint the purity of it. Of their time together. A raft in the middle of the ocean.

He'd hesitated for long enough for Helen to become more alert and rise up on one elbow to better see his expressions. Now, the moonlight hit the back of her head, illuminating the edges of her hair like a halo, face cast into shadow. Softly, she reached her hand out to stroke along his cheek. "John?"

He shook his head. Telling her felt like it would taint this too.

Helen sat up more, as much as she could in the tiny single bed. "You don't have to tell me anything. But if you want to - I mean, I'm no stranger now to some of the things people do to each other. I know it's different, but-"

He scooted up the bed, shoving the pillow behind him more and tugged her towards him. Focusing on the skin contact helped. The comfort tangled around his thoughts, calming them, bringing the memories into focus and dampening the visceral reactions to the emotions. Now it felt like he could access them. Process them. He hadn't allowed himself to do that yet. There had never been a good time.

"I knew I was going to war, but in Sandhurst they train you to react - so that your muscles just pull the trigger when you see the enemy combatants, there's no time for second thoughts. Or even first thoughts. It's all reflex. But training is clean. Targets and mannequins, or its capture the flag exercises without live rounds. That sort of thing."

Helen snuggled into his side as he spoke, silent, but her hand traced along his collar bone, up his neck, behind an ear to massage the scalp as he spoke.

"It was messy. Fast and slow at the same time. Me or them. Or my men. So it was react and allow the training to take over, issue orders, make sure my boys got home safe. We did. They didn't. We can't think about them having parents and kids and wives because then we'd hesitate, and then they'd get us, and we have all those waiting back home too."

"I was good at it. I am good at it. I guess it's in the genes." He paused, voice cracking. "I can still see their faces, when I try to sleep. It's not killing them that - I mean, it's the job. I have to be able to - I mean that-"

Helen kneaded harder, her body pressed harder against his. Thoughts that he hadn't allowed himself to even think before seemed to crystalise as he spoke. "It's that I've done all these things - and some of the things in Ireland - it's not even just following orders, I'm good at my job, at the tactics, at knowing how to hit and where to hit them. My suggestions work. The thing is I don't feel bad about killing those men. Us or them. It'll always be them. And I'm really good at my job. I enjoy it. Not the killing, but the strategy, the tactics, the planning. And the adrenaline, the danger, the comradery. It's like nothing else I've ever done."

The words hung in the air when he stopped. The question lay unspoken between them. John held his wife, while she considered the man she'd married. She was studying to save lives. He was ending them.

The silence stretched out, only interrupted by the rustle of branches on the wall outside.

The massaging stopped, and John held his breath. Then Helen's arms wrapped around him tightly. She'd made her decision, it seemed.

Dawn was still far, far away, in the middle of November, but the city was beginning to stir outside. Not the students yet, besides a few rowers going to the boathouse, but slowly the city would come to life, familiar sounds that comforted them both.

September 1982

Alan Blunt pursed his lips as he closed the thirty eighth file that evening. A mix of direct applications and recommendations for recruitment, the files he had looked at so far had immediately been rejected. Too many of them would be too obvious. Probably suitable for other MI6 roles, but he was looking for something specific. Not from a well off family – there was too much nepotism in the civil service, and everyone knew it – but they needed to be educated enough to move in different worlds. Ideally with a military background – a real background would stand up to scrutiny far better than one they fabricated. The ability to blend in, or stand out, as desired. It was a little shallow perhaps, but reasonably good looking was often helpful. Whilst strong family ties were often just downright inconvenient in this trade, someone without any attachments would attract suspicion as a plant. Some sort of tie here then, however irritating it would be logistically with this operation. Besides, they'd be less likely to go rogue.

He flipped open the next file. Captain Rider, John. That's not a surname he recognised, unlike half the pile. The days of recruiting from the same well to do families were over – the families make too much fuss if they never come back, for one. He stopped musing, and continued reading.

Married, Rider, Helen. Medical student at Oxford. No children. Both parents deceased recently, the father from lung cancer, mother shortly after. Grew up working class until the father was promoted to an officer during John's early teens. Younger brother, graduated Cambridge last year, entered the civil service fast stream. Talented family.

State grammar school, PPE at Oxford, then Sandhurst. A few pages listed his various scores and reports during training ; an excellent shot, well liked, a quick learner. On one exercise, he ordered his team to cause a distraction while he snuck inside the base behind the opposing team's back, through multiple doors they swore were locked, and stole the flag under their noses. And a note - it was unproven, but he was the main suspect for a spot of trouble - smuggling three kegs of beer into base to celebrate graduation. Interesting.

Then an excellent service record with the Parachute Regiment. Two years in Northern Ireland straight out of officer training, promoted to Lieutenant halfway through. A short stint in Gambia, following the 1981 failed coup d'état. Recently awarded the military cross in the Falklands, alongside a promotion to Captain. Highly commended by commanding officers in reports. Multiple firefights, with several recorded kills - including one particularly bloody incident in close quarters. A few men from his platoon had been carrying out surveillance on an IRA safehouse when one of the junior soldiers had fallen asleep on watch, allowing an IRA team to stumble on their position, apparently by chance. Two para's were watching the farmhouse, while John and another man slept, and woke to the door being kicked in. His reaction apparently was to grab the nearest object - a spoon - and thrust it through the assailant's eye. Blunt frowned. Why not his rifle? He flicked to the next page - ah they were not officially supposed to engage across the border, they were fact finding only. Resourceful.

That encounter and a brief association with military intelligence whilst in Gambia had flagged his file to MI6 – they always kept tabs on rising stars in the forces. And poached them first.

Alan reached for his jotter. Next week, someone would approach John Rider with a particular mission. Not him of course – there needed to be no trace of MI6 agents near the Riders. No, he had just the right person in mind. Anthony Sean Howel. An Oxford graduate a year or so ahead of John, he'd been recruited two years ago. He was talented, ambitious – and had been transferred to a civilian post within the Ministry of Defence. As far as the MoD were concerned, he'd been recruited via the usual civil service fast stream route. Unofficially, he was one of Alan's eyes inside the MoD. One could never trust anyone in this job.

Alan continued scribbling notes. They'd have to arrange an appropriate cover story – and something sufficiently public enough to get SCORPIA's attention. A murder then. Decorated officer, dishonourable discharge, facing at a minimum a charge of manslaughter. Yes that would do. A drunken brawl perhaps? A few more notes jotted.

Rider already had special forces RTI training. No need to add more – and giving him any additional training would only put holes in his cover. He wanted no trace of intelligence agencies anywhere near the Riders.

John sat inside the TR6, his hands tracing the steering wheel, mind racing. The idea that he'd been selected for a secret, undercover mission was incredible. He'd seen enough of the intelligence service during the war to know it was risky work – and fished a body out of the Irish sea himself after the IRA had been tipped off about an informant. And that was just an informant – the spies were found in pieces.

The recruiter – oddly, it was Ash, who he already knew well and hadn't suspected was involved with the intelligence world – had made it clear that he must tell no one except Helen – and only then if he was certain he could trust her with his life. One wrong word was all it would take.

He had to tell Helen. Had to offer her a choice. The choice to be publicly humiliated, and stand by a murderer on trial, or... she could leave him. Or he could not take the job. He shook the thought off quickly. No, this was a job he wanted – he just wanted Helen too.

What if she said no?

What if she said yes? Would you put her through years of that? And then your disappearance before the trial? What about her family? What about her dreams – she's about to graduate as a doctor!

A sharp rap on the window gave him a jolt.

"Are you staying out there all day?" Helen asked, smiling at him. Good spy you'll make, not paying attention, he thought.

"Just lost in thought, love." He stepped out of the car to hug her, relaxing as her arms encircled him. Her familiar perfume embraced him. "Actually, I need to talk to you about something."