{ Neglect }
Neglect
S8; Ros Myers, Harry Pearce
A woman like that couldn't just let herself go.
The first time Harry noticed the ultimately fatal change, he dismissed the idea immediately. After all, this was Ros he was seeing; Ros, the woman who prided herself on composure, who it was rumoured had ice running through her veins, who could pull the trigger on a colleague.
A woman like that couldn’t just let herself go.
Could she?
--
She didn’t fix her hair.
It seems ridiculous, but that should have been a warning. Harry remembers looking up from his desk, eyes scanning the Grid, looking at his team. Ruth was buried in her research; Lucas was typing and Ros was writing a report.
A strand of hair fell and - unusually - she didn’t brush it back and simply let it hang.
It didn’t make sense.
At least it didn’t then, now it seems perfectly logical.
--
Ros wasn’t afraid of death; it was why she and Adam fit so well together. She loved the thrill, the exhilaration that this time, this time she might not return.
Harry knew this and that was why he turned a blind eye when she took more risks, put herself in more danger. Surely, it was a simple evolution; as she got better, the risks got bigger.
Right?
--
She slackened in her seat, back no longer ram-rod straight. Instead, it curved and she slouched (well it was a slouch by Ros’ standards), and leant forward slightly in her chair. It was too casual, too at ease, too un-Ros-like.
When Harry remembers this he inwardly kicks himself and asks ‘why’, why didn’t he notice?
He knows the answer.
He couldn’t deal with it.
--
Mascara.
Ros’ make-up was always immaculate, she could return from anything and still look as she always did; cool and composed. That was why he recalls simply staring when she entered his office and handed him a file.
A black smudge beneath her right eye.
“Ros,” he remembers saying, gesturing towards her, “you... ah...”
She raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“Yes, Harry?”
“Your mascara...”
She wiped her eye, seemingly unsurprised when her fingertip turned black.
“Oh, it’s run,” she said, almost absent-mindedly.
Then she shrugged and walked out the door.
Harry simply stared.
--
Leaner.
Harder.
Colder.
Already slim, Ros seemed to harden in front of him. Already strong, she trained harder, pushed herself further, which he’d never thought possible. Harry thinks of Lucas, coming into the Grid, smelling faintly of sweat. He learns that the two were forced to chase a suspect and that Ros got to him first.
He remembers Lucas incredulation.
And his own internal ‘ah’ of comprehension then - predictably - the way he refused to believe she was letting herself go.
--
“Saving Baisley won’t bring Jo back.”
“No.”
She made a joke and moved on.
And so did he.
Now, Harry sometimes wonders that if he had placed her on mandatory leave and sent her to Tring, she might still be here.
It seems unlikely but the guilt still weighs on his shoulders.
--
A loose strand of cotton.
He, Lucas and Ros were to meet the Home Secretary and they were getting ready to go when he heard her swear beneath her breath. He turned and saw her tug at her shirt sleeve. The cotton was barely two-inches long, but it left a slight hole in an otherwise pristine shirt.
And yet she didn’t seem to care.
Danger, danger.
In hindsight, it screams at him in neon lights.
At the time, he simply shrugged both literally and metaphorically.
--
Now, looking at her grave, he remembers the three warning signs.
Hair out-of-place; mascara beneath her eye; and a loose strand of cotton. All so mundane, all perfectly normal for an ordinary person.
All so wrong for Rosalind Myers.
He touches the grey headstone and closes his eyes.
“I’m very sorry, Ros.”
It’s the second time he’s said that to her, but this time she isn’t here to wave away his apology.
He saw the warning signs and he ignored them.
He knows the guilt he feels will never assuage.
And is grateful.
S8; Ros Myers, Harry Pearce
A woman like that couldn't just let herself go.
The first time Harry noticed the ultimately fatal change, he dismissed the idea immediately. After all, this was Ros he was seeing; Ros, the woman who prided herself on composure, who it was rumoured had ice running through her veins, who could pull the trigger on a colleague.
A woman like that couldn’t just let herself go.
Could she?
--
She didn’t fix her hair.
It seems ridiculous, but that should have been a warning. Harry remembers looking up from his desk, eyes scanning the Grid, looking at his team. Ruth was buried in her research; Lucas was typing and Ros was writing a report.
A strand of hair fell and - unusually - she didn’t brush it back and simply let it hang.
It didn’t make sense.
At least it didn’t then, now it seems perfectly logical.
--
Ros wasn’t afraid of death; it was why she and Adam fit so well together. She loved the thrill, the exhilaration that this time, this time she might not return.
Harry knew this and that was why he turned a blind eye when she took more risks, put herself in more danger. Surely, it was a simple evolution; as she got better, the risks got bigger.
Right?
--
She slackened in her seat, back no longer ram-rod straight. Instead, it curved and she slouched (well it was a slouch by Ros’ standards), and leant forward slightly in her chair. It was too casual, too at ease, too un-Ros-like.
When Harry remembers this he inwardly kicks himself and asks ‘why’, why didn’t he notice?
He knows the answer.
He couldn’t deal with it.
--
Mascara.
Ros’ make-up was always immaculate, she could return from anything and still look as she always did; cool and composed. That was why he recalls simply staring when she entered his office and handed him a file.
A black smudge beneath her right eye.
“Ros,” he remembers saying, gesturing towards her, “you... ah...”
She raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“Yes, Harry?”
“Your mascara...”
She wiped her eye, seemingly unsurprised when her fingertip turned black.
“Oh, it’s run,” she said, almost absent-mindedly.
Then she shrugged and walked out the door.
Harry simply stared.
--
Leaner.
Harder.
Colder.
Already slim, Ros seemed to harden in front of him. Already strong, she trained harder, pushed herself further, which he’d never thought possible. Harry thinks of Lucas, coming into the Grid, smelling faintly of sweat. He learns that the two were forced to chase a suspect and that Ros got to him first.
He remembers Lucas incredulation.
And his own internal ‘ah’ of comprehension then - predictably - the way he refused to believe she was letting herself go.
--
“Saving Baisley won’t bring Jo back.”
“No.”
She made a joke and moved on.
And so did he.
Now, Harry sometimes wonders that if he had placed her on mandatory leave and sent her to Tring, she might still be here.
It seems unlikely but the guilt still weighs on his shoulders.
--
A loose strand of cotton.
He, Lucas and Ros were to meet the Home Secretary and they were getting ready to go when he heard her swear beneath her breath. He turned and saw her tug at her shirt sleeve. The cotton was barely two-inches long, but it left a slight hole in an otherwise pristine shirt.
And yet she didn’t seem to care.
Danger, danger.
In hindsight, it screams at him in neon lights.
At the time, he simply shrugged both literally and metaphorically.
--
Now, looking at her grave, he remembers the three warning signs.
Hair out-of-place; mascara beneath her eye; and a loose strand of cotton. All so mundane, all perfectly normal for an ordinary person.
All so wrong for Rosalind Myers.
He touches the grey headstone and closes his eyes.
“I’m very sorry, Ros.”
It’s the second time he’s said that to her, but this time she isn’t here to wave away his apology.
He saw the warning signs and he ignored them.
He knows the guilt he feels will never assuage.
And is grateful.