Miscellaneous Fic
M*A*S*H
Letter To A Long-Gone Friend (R, Hawkeye/BJ, hints of Hawkeye/Trapper)
Ravenous
Delicacy (NC-17, Boyd/Ives)
Quills
Warnings for Non-Con, Torture, Drug-Use. NC-17, one-sided Coulmier/De Sade
My Dearest Abbé,
I wish to bid you welcome to this, our humble asylum. I am told nothing but good things about you, and regret my delinquency in writing to formally introduce myself.
I am Donatien-Alphonse-François, Marquis de Sade. I am detained here at the behest of my wife; a woman whose devotion to her husband is sorely lacking. You may, on occasion, meet her when she arrives from time to time to drop off some of life’s little luxuries. Dildos for example. I am sure as an Abbé you have often had need of such comforts, unless of course, you find your desires well met by our staff of lovely ladies and even lovelier stable-hands.
Now, to come to the crux of things. I am sure that you will have heard of my many books. To an extent, my stay here is to ensure that I am no more prolific in my writing. This, you will find, is not the case. Especially not now that I have my new muse. He is quite the specimen of virtue, brown-haired and green-eyed, and athletic in ways that exceed that necessary for his vocation. Indeed, I am told by reliable sources in the medical profession that his physique is exquisite. A beautiful lead for my new novel, I am sure you will agree.
You may wonder why I have seemingly turned my back on my prostitutes and Jezebels. Fear not, because they still are at the forefront of my mind. I simply find that I have grown bored, to an extent, of the weaknesses of the fair sex. Women, I find, are too malleable and exploited. Why, one need only hold one down with an arm to rape her. Even the whore on the street, used to brutality and educated with tricks to avoid it, even she can fight back for only a brief time before I can cleave her in two. A strong woman is as unbelievable as a repentant Clytemnestra, no matter what Euripides would have you believe.
So the star of my next piece will be a young man; a Curé not long let loose from the seminary. In fact, I would value your opinion on his characterisation. I am by no means unintelligent, and can write this well without your assistance. But for a sense of verisimilitude, I would seek your counsel.
Imagine yourself the young Curé. The scene is this. You have been invited to supper with a certain Dr. Roche, a man of some standing. He has brought you to his home on the pretext of spiritual guidance. You make polite conversation over decent food and good wine. A little pride carries you away, and so without thinking, you agree to join him in his smoking room. You begin your prepared sermon, a combination of seminary and your own, still bright, imagination. He bids you sit on the love seat and feigns interest as he sends the servants away and locks the door. Taking the chair opposite, he listens while you extol the virtues of the holy trinity. But you notice that he looks troubled.
"Good doctor, you do not seem comforted by the thought of your immortality through Christ," says the Curé.
"I must admit that, laudable though your words are, I am troubled by an underlying problem." replies Roche.
"And what is that?"
"God created all, man and child alike. We are told that before him there was nothing. And so all that we see around us, this is all his work, yes?"
"Indeed, all the wonders that you encou-"
"Yes, yes," the doctor waved his hand irritably. "But if this is true, then was not evil and malignity also his work? Did he not create the pederast alongside the parent; the tyrant with the teacher?"
The Curé nodded in what he hoped was a sage manner. Given his lack of years, it was more constipated than contemplative.
"Such a question has plagued-" he began but was cut off once again by the impatience of the doctor.
"So if evil is created by God, then all the perversities of the world are, in fact, holy and sanctified." Roche became more animated as he spoke, leaping from his seat and pacing in front of the fire, brandy in hand.
The Curé shook his head, "No! No, not at all. These are tests, sent to strengthen our faith and obedience to the Lord."
He nearly yelled the words, so troubled was he by the doctor’s statement.
"And so we must suffer then," Roche mused, philosophically. "But you,” he gestured with his brandy, "you must be suffering most of all."
The Curé was taken aback. "Forgive me sir, I do not understand. Why would you think me more sorely tested?"
Roche sat down next to the Curé, pressing himself uncomfortably against the Curé’s leg. "At such a young age, to have promised never to indulge in all manner of activities. Gambling, dancing," Roche brought his free hand to his lips, smiling gently, "not even sexual acts."
"None can compare to the felicity of serving our Lord," the Curé replied, shifting uneasily.
"How do you know?" Roche's smile grew larger.
"I...I'm sorry?"
"Poor naive thing; how do you know that nothing compares?" It was asked innocently but even the Curé could sense that innocence was far from Roche's question.
"I put my faith in-"
"Psht, that is no answer!" interrupted Roche, angrily. He calmed himself before continuing. "Look at you, how distressed you appear. I took an oath to aid those suffering." He raised his free hand again and reached to stroke the Curé's jaw. "Allow me to strengthen your faith."
The Curé leapt from the seat, shock and disgust combined in his expression. "Doctor Roche, you forget yourself. I am a man of God!"
"And what is more godly than ecstasy?" Roche spread his legs, arching one gracefully onto the newly vacated cushion, demonstrating his readiness to give more than a theoretical demonstration.
"Sir, I will take my leave and talk no more with you tonight!" The Curé strode towards the door and rattled the handle. "Doctor, please unlock the door."
"I shall do no such thing."
The Curé rattled the handle more forcefully and pounded on the door. "Let me out, Doctor. Servants, unlock the door!"
"And they will do no such thing. They have their instructions and we shall not be disturbed until I have educated you." Roche laughed, as though a teacher chastising a petulant child.
"No, I do not wish to partake of your lessons. I refuse!" Panic sounded in each word as the Curé lost all attempt at restraint.
"Refuse?" Roche repeated. "You cannot refuse. I'm a doctor; I shall simply deem you unfit. In fact, I do now deem you unfit and appoint myself your guardian." Roche clapped, impressed by his own genius. "As your guardian, I declare that you must do exactly as I say. Don't they teach you obedience to the Lord? I am your lord now, and you will obey me."
With that Roche strode to the door and pushed the Curé against it, pinning him in place.
"I recommend that you do not struggle, dear Curé. This will be pleasurable if only you will relax." Roche pressed himself bodily against the struggling form, freeing both hands to reach for beneath the Curé's robes. He fumbled with the buttoned pantaloons below and gradually pulled them below the Curé's knees.
"I beg of you, doctor, in the name of the Holy Virgin."
"Mary be damned, I care for but one virgin and I near have him." With that Roche released the buttons on his own confining breeches and let free his half-hard cock. Despite his earlier words, he cared not for any comfort in his victim and spat brandy-wine flavoured saliva onto his hand, stroking his cock to full firmness. Spreading the alabaster cheeks, he lined himself with the tiny hole presented to him and pushed with all his might. The Curé screamed and Roche's actions were met with such resistance that he himself strained and groaned. His cock barely breached the entrance, less than an inch making its way inside.
"Blast you, too tight!" Roche withdrew and the Curé collapsed at the door, his robes tumbling back down to cover him. Roche dragged him to carpet in front of the fire.
"Andre!" Roche called for his manservant. "Come in here!"
A hulk of a man lumbered in and nodded at Roche, seemingly unsurprised by the sight of his master with nothing but his shirt covering him. The Curé raised his head weakly as Roche continued. "Fetch my bag, this man requires medication."
"Please, Andre, sir don't leave me here!" the Curé begged. "This man is a monster, not a doctor!"
"Be silent, fool." Roche spat at the Curé. "Your pleas to Andre will do you no good. Now" he turned his attention to his servant. "my bag."
Andre turned to leave as a demonic smile spread across Roche's face, a thought occurring to him. "And also bring young Antoinette, and her little friend Henri."
The Curé looked at him, as though observing the devil himself, in a terrified awe. He tried one more plea. "I beg you, Doctor Roche, let me go."
"So soon? No dear Curé, we have barely begun." Again Roche laughed and continued until Andre returned, flanked by a young woman and a boy who was some years away from maturity. Andre held the bag in front of him and Roche delved inside, rattling bottles and instruments. He retrieved a bottle labelled Laudanum and beckoned Andre to set down the bag.
"Andre, restrain the Curé if you will. I shall need to administer a draft. Only weak, of course," he turned to address the figure on the floor. "We need you pliable, not horizontal."
The Curé fought as Andre dragged him on to his feet and held him in place. Strong hands wrestled his mouth open and he choked as Roche dripped a small dose of laudanum down his throat.
"Don't worry, dear child," Roche said, comfortingly, as the Curé spluttered. "You'll feel much better in a matter of minutes."
He dropped the bottle onto a nearby table and clapped his hands together.
"Now, where are my manners? Curé Cordaire, allow me to introduce to you Antoinette." Antoinette curtsied, irregular movements betraying her confusion and nerves at the situation. "She is the newest of my maids, just seventeen years old, fair and flush with youth. And this," he gestured to the young boy clinging to Andre. "This is Henri, a fine boot boy despite his tender years. And precocious too; only twelve years old and already chasing girls." He strode to Henri and patted him on the head, much to the boy's discomfort. Roche leant down until his mouth was level with Henri's ear and whispered conspiratorially, "I hear he actually has a little crush on the lovely Antoinette here." Henri squirmed uncomfortably as the Curé's head began to spin.
"And now, Curé, you will choose."
"Choose?" The Curé refused to focus on what he suspected was Roche's question.
"One will watch, the other will suffer." Roche held up a hand to the Curé's protests. "This has already been decided. Your only input in the matter is whether you have a preference for young women or young boys. Now, which shall it be?"
The Curé shook his head, as though this was all a nightmare and he could wake himself. The world had ceased spinning, but a certain fuzziness was encroaching upon his vision. He looked from the terrified boy, now clinging to Andre's arm, to the girl, shivering with the realisation that her master was the most vicious form of tyrant. She looked, open mouthed and with a begging expression toward the Curé. He shook his head, as though to signify that he had no more control than she did. He saw her stop shivering and step forward.
"If you will let Henri listen from outside, I will do whatever you say."
She began to cry as she spoke but still forced the words out.
Roche walked around to her, clutching her chin in his fingers. "How sweet, sacrificing herself for the boy" He turned to face the Curé, his face alongside hers. "A volunteer!"
The Curé tried to mouth an apology but Roche caught it and turned to face Antoinette, blocking her face from the Curé's view.
"A word of warning, whore," he spat venomously, "should you think of reneging on your promise, Andre here will have a knife to little Henri's throat. A ‘no’ from you will be the last thing he ever hears. Am I understood?"
Antoinette whimpered as she nodded. Roche turned again to the Curé.
"I do hope that she will be good enough for you. In fact, let us see if this is the case!" The Curé did not fight as Roche began to fully strip him of his vestments. Roche looked at the Curé's flaccid prick as he stroked his own back to firmness beneath his shirt.
"Oh dear, perhaps the boy would have been better after all. Ah well, I am a man of my word." The Curé looked at him with disgust and amazement. "Oh it's true, Curé, I swore I would show you the pleasures you have foregone and I shall. I have also sworn that Antoinette would be your first conquest, on condition that Henri is taken outside the room. This reminds me." He signalled for Andre and the boy to leave. "But be sure to leave the door open," he called after them.
"Please, sir you promised!" Antoinette begged.
"Indeed I did and outside he is. I agreed nothing as to the door!" Roche laughed and the Curé wondered if it would forever echo loudly in his head.
"Now, Antoinette, you will strip and bend across the arm of the chair there. While you are doing that, we will see if we can't persuade the Curé to rise to the occasion, aha."
Antoinette turned her back and began to remove her dress. Roche, meanwhile, dropped to his knees beside the Curé and began to stroke his smooth calves.
"I wonder if lack of use has seen your delightful cock waste away." Roche whispered, blowing hot air onto the Curé's delicate skin before gradually licking at his foreskin.
"It is my dearest hope that it has, and that your fun will be spoiled." the Curé replied, shaking.
Roche engulfed the Curé briefly before sucking down to the end, his lips releasing it with a pop.
"Do you really think me so unimaginative, Curé?" Roche seemed genuinely surprised. "If you are not forthcoming, there are any number of ornaments or bottles that will serve in its place."
The armchair groaned as Antoinette laid herself across it, and Roche rose to his feet. "It seems we are out of time. How do you feel, Curé?"
"I will not do this, Roche. Kill me if you will, but I will not harm her."
“Know this, Curé; if you do not do as I tell you, it is not you who will suffer. Do exactly as I say or I shall instruct Andre to kill the boy."
"No!" screamed Antoinette, slithering to her knees on the floor, "You promised! Please, don't hurt him!"
Roche raised an eyebrow. "It is not my decision, dear Antoinette. It is the Curé's. What shall it be?"
"May God forgive your immortal soul." the Curé quavered.
"Is that agreement?"
"What should I use," the Curé asked, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, ashamed.
Roche dragged Antoinette upwards and shoved her once again over the chair arm. "Oh I don't know, use the candlestick for all I care!" he said absently.
The Curé spied the bottle of Laudanum and presented it to Roche. "Will this suffice?"
"It's a little small but I suppose it will do." Roche shrugged and directed the Curé to stand behind Antoinette. Leaning over, he parted the lips of Antoinette's quim to expose her entirely. Antoinette shifted uncomfortably and the Curé took the distraction as opportunity to loosen the bottle cork and, upending it, leaked some of the liquid down the sides of the bottle. He hoped that it would numb her enough as it had done him. Roche noted this but said nothing.
"Now, do I need to guide you, or do you at least know where to fuck her?"
Roche grabbed the Curé's hand and thrust the bottle towards Antoinette's opening. She winced in pain as it breached her, whimpering slightly as it was pushed further, and then began to scream. Faintly in the background, the Curé could hear Henri cry for Antoinette.
"Dear Curé, a word of advice. Alcohol, which is the basis of that tincture, can be an irritant to skin. Which means that, however well meant your gesture, you have just made things all the more painful for Mademoiselle Antoinette."
Antoinette continued to scream and Roche forced the Curé's hand to move the bottle in and out of Antoinette. As he did so, Roche positioned himself behind the Curé. The Laudanum had done its job well enough, and on his first thrust he managed a full two inches inside. The Curé yelled in pain, complimenting Antoinette’s sobs as he did so. Roche thrust again and was over half way in. On the third attempt he fully breached the Curé. Setting his own rhythm he ignored the pained cries of his two victims. Blood trickled down both Roche and the Curé's legs as he ripped and tore at the flesh. The trickle was matched by that from Antoinette as the ridges of the bottle scraped at her raw insides. She sobbed with every thrust as the Curé wept with each of Roche's.
Finally Roche increased his speed before climaxing suddenly. He leaned heavily on the Curé's back for a moment before withdrawing, a streak of semen following his cock. He slowly walked around to the Curé and removed the bottle of Laudanum from his hand. Uncorking the lid, he wrenched at Antoinette’s hair and lifted her head upwards. He poured a large dose into her mouth and she fell into a dead faint. Whether from the exertions or the fast effects of the Laudanum, the Curé did not know.
Roche approached him. "Your turn, dear Curé."
He tried to fight but could summon up no more energy. Even before the bottle left his lips he fell to the floor, barely conscious and breathing heavily. Roche knelt down beside him.
"Next time, we shall see if you will enjoy it."
Of course, this is only a draft. If I were able I would have had the good doctor slice each joint of our young victim, paralysing him yet leaving him still capable of feeling each assault. Sadly, this was not possible. I shall have to save that for another victim.
So, good Abbé, with this scene in mind, I seek your guidance as to the good Curé's reactions. Would you extend me the courtesy of attending supper in two night's time? I assure you a most invigorating time.
With love,
Donatien, Maquis De Sade
Spooks/MI-5
(PG, Ruth/Harry)
Dear God, or Gods or spirits of any kind,
I'll admit that I've not been much of a believer in religion, or spirituality, or anything along those lines. But in the past few months I am slowly coming to the conclusion that there may be such a thing as fate. If this is, in fact, the case, I would like to emphasise the fact that, right now, I am very, very angry.
Ruth could still hear the footsteps behind her. Right, so that was a quarter of a mile. Probably too long, and these days probably was enough.
Her handbag fell to the ground, and she scrabbled to catch its various contents. The footsteps approached as she clutched at her keys, holding the sharp door-key prominently in her fist. She looked up as the figure passed her, a look of contempt on his face as he walked by. A nobody. Just a man going home. She scooped up her bag and continued the long walk back to her flat.
Regulating her breathing, she began to question whether she should move again. It didn't feel right here anymore. Last month she'd begun to feel...uncomfortable. Watched. And for her, even now, that was dangerous.
I had a life. Not a fantastic one, I'd be the first to admit. But I had a job, one that I was really good at. I had friends, a cat, a nice house. I even, almost, had something else.
It was a blessing, Ruth thought, that South American governments didn't care all that much about immigrants into their countries. Two months on from Hungary, she had a job as a freelance translator; another small, sparsely furnished flat; even a neighbourhood cat appeared to have adopted her. She had begun to tentatively wonder if she could stay here.
And I accepted that, after I was set up, I'd have to leave it all behind. Fake death, move on, start again. Fine, all fine. Well, except it wasn't fine, but I think I was coping rather well. So did you have to cause that wretched weather front and delay my "immigrant special" boat to Holland? I didn't need to see Harry again. Was there any point to that? Other than making me feel miserable, of course? Knowing that I couldn't stay, and that he couldn't do anything. I could have lived a much happier existence without the memory of him standing on the dock, watching me go.
Ruth was far from being an expert in this things, but she suspected that Ramon at the office was being, well, particularly nice. He smiled a lot. Quite often at her. She'd tried to ask Clementina, who had long ago appointed herself as Ruth's guide to Santiago, and Chilean culture in general. She'd laughed in that somewhat annoying tinkly way and walked off. Ruth wasn't sure what to make of that.
From Holland to Hungary, then to Algiera and a long flight to Chile. That was Adam's suggestion from the start; a country with no automatic extradition to the UK. "Just in case". I used to think he was underestimating me. I thought I'd be quite capable of staying under the radar, even in Europe. After all, I'm just plain Ruth. I blend in. The wallflower, even when I'm in the centre of the room. Except someone still managed to find me in Hungary.
"So, what is it like to live in England" Ramon said. Ruth set down the tray of coffee and considered her reply.
"Well, it was very dull for me." she replied, sitting beside him on the sofa. "Nothing really happened. That's why I moved here. For an adventure."
"You like excitement?" Ramon asked, amused. Ruth was confused by his tone.
"Why would that surprise you?"
"Because you, Anna," he gestured with his cup "seem to always avoid the interesting assignments."
But Chile is nice. I have a decent job translating documents, which I'm really rather good at. I have new friends, a new house, even a new cat. Soy Anna Wilson, nada especial. Except for the strange quirk I have about not doing any work for the government. But hey, I'm just Anna, la inglesa.
Now of course, life in Chile was almost beginning to be enjoyable. Ramon was happy that she wouldn't out him; she and Clemetina would go to dinner few evenings a week at his place, being fed magnificent food by his boyfriend, el jefe. Ruth's social life was as active as it had ever been. More so maybe. It was starting to be fun.
This time, she shrugged off the watched feeling. Almost a year after moving to here, and no-one had approached her. The paranoia was a remnant of an old life. This was her new life.
It’s funny, really, that I actually began to believe that I had left everything behind. How many times had I tracked down people who had thought the same things? Set Tom, or Danny, or Adam on their trail. No-one ever disappears. Not when someone is looking for them.
Though she didn’t know until later, the first email had been caught in her spam filter, deleted before she’d even read it. The second she glanced over distractedly and deleted herself. For the rest of the day she had a sense that she had forgotten something, or missed it.
The third caught her attention. She noted the instructions and told Ramon that she would be taking a late lunch.
Sitting on the bench between the trees, she nervously twisted the handle of her handbag between her hands. She ignored the occasional rustling of the couples walking by. Despite herself, she began to smile as she picked up on the tiny signs of someone trying to walk, very quietly, through the early autumn blanket of leaves. Remembering who it was, she focused, and the smile melted away.
The noises stopped directly behind her. She raised her head and looked straight ahead.
“Percutio.com? Really, Harry, I expected more from you.” She said, smugly
I wasn’t sure what to think when I saw Harry’s email. I know I was terrified when the words clicked into place and I saw that this company wasn’t really that interested in extending any part of me or my finances. Six and Five have been using spam emails for one-way communication for years. I’m fairly sure they will have moved past that by now, but Harry had to use something he knew that I knew. How else could he tell me that I was unofficially exonerated?
“It’s not a pardon. Not as such. I couldn’t recommend that you return to Britain, but no-one from there will be looking for you anymore.”
Ruth leaned her head back against the top of the bench and took a deep breath. She almost hadn’t come. She’d gone through several scenarios in her head in which officers of various security services had tapped her on the shoulder. The nicest of those scenarios ended up with her going back to the UK to serve a life sentence, which would mean life in her case.
She turned her head towards Harry, caution still at the forefront of her thoughts. He said nothing and passed the file towards her. His face was utterly unreadable and she chided herself for expecting that she could see through the spy-master’s poker face. She flicked through the file.
And it was true.
Letters demonstrating that the Evershed incident had been re-designated as a level 8 priority; a note stating that, due to an unfortunate fire at the national archive office, the physical file of the investigation had been destroyed; confirmation from the new head of Six that they had much better things to do than worry about one of Five’s agents gone astray (“You’d like her,” Harry had said. “She hates politics almost as much as she hates politicians”). In essence, her freedom to live in exile.
Ruth nodded slowly and confronted the elephant in the room.
“Why now, Harry?”
Later, I found out that Harry had chosen to bow out gracefully after training up a successor. He was given a new identity, generous pension, the typical ‘please don’t make a nuisance of yourself’ handshake. Of course he ignored the identity altogether, preferring one he had been creating for some years: Peter Garvey, a moderately successful business man who had chosen to retire early and travel the world. The money, however, he kept, sufficiently filtered through five bank accounts, three countries and two shell companies. That was before I met him, again. It’s substantially more complicated now.
Ruth had insisted that they move to a cafe. It was loud enough and busy enough to provide cover for their conversation. A small part of Ruth was rather pleased that Harry winced whenever the live band in the corner struck up a rhythm. The rest of her was more focused on Harry’s lack of answer.
“Ruth, if I had been aware of this talent of yours, I would have assigned you to our tougher interrogations.” Harry said, a faint tone of exasperation coming through.
“I just...I want a straight, uncomplicated answer,” she said. “Not ‘Operational reasons prevented it’ or, or ‘precautions had to be taken’” Ruth paused and looked down into her fruit juice, wondering whether she had gone too far. She lifted her head and looked Harry dead in the eye. “I want to know why the documents in this file are dated from a year and a half ago.”
“I’d like to say that it wasn’t easy to find you,” Harry began. Ruth opened her mouth to speak but Harry continued.
“But we both know that I would be lying. I did attempt to make contact through an intermediary some time ago. He said that you did not appear receptive.”
“Not recep- was that in Hungary?!” exclaimed Ruth. She knew she’d been too loud as customers at neighbouring tables turned to look. Whispering, almost to her self, she went on “I knew it. I could tell I was being watched. Was he following me? Keeping an eye on me?” Harry looked as though he was about to speak but Ruth gave him no opportunity. “Your intermediary” she hissed “was the reason that I left!”
“He assured me that you were unaware-”
“Well he was wrong!”
“Yes, I see that now.”
Even now, I get the occasional urge to slap Harry for the almost sarcastic response he gave. He had absolutely no idea how terrified I was for the weeks between leaving Hungary and reaching Chile. Every immigration check, each siren and even walking through security made me shake with fear. Any pause and I was convinced I’d be pulled into an interrogation room. I wasn’t trained for this. I’m not a field agent. And it felt like he was laughing at me.
Ruth was a mixture of furious and relieved. “I left a good job,” she caught Harry’s look “an acceptable job, a decent apartment; all because I thought Six or worse were after me. And all for what?”
Harry leaned towards her, keeping his voice low, if far from calm. “What choice did I have? I couldn’t trust this file through a courier or postal service, and I couldn’t come myself, not then.”
Ruth knew all this, of course, but her frustration at being forced to uproot herself for no good reason refused to allow her to concede anything to Harry.
“So why now? Why am I now graced with your presence? Run through your stock of go-betweens?” It was a childish shot but Ruth couldn’t help it.
“I’ve resigned, Ruth.”
The words took her by surprise. Harry, resign? The man who had outlasted more coups than a corrupt government; the man who had blackmailed a member of government in practically every post.
“Why?” Ruth’s question was muted, tempered by Harry’s last response.
“I was made to re-think my priorities. By the man who now occupies my office, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I should have seen that coming,” Harry said, drily. Despite herself, Ruth smiled and shook her head.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” She said, gently.
“Which one of the four or five in the last ten minutes?”
“Why are you here, Harry. Why did you, personally, have to bring this file all this way?”
I suppose, in retrospect, it was really very cruel to make Harry actually say it. He’s not a particularly expressive man. Not verbally, or not in his own words at least. Through sonnets and quotations, yes, but not his own words.
Harry reached for her hands and she relinquished her glass. As he held them gently, she reminded herself not to smile too foolishly at this gesture. To wait. There was more to come.
He was looking at her, straight into her eyes and it almost felt like he was trying to look into her. Like she had some secret that he needed to uncover. His expression looked utterly determined, but there was a softness there. Ruth waited, as she had been doing for the last god knows how many years.
“I wanted to see you.” Harry paused. Just as she was about to say that that wasn’t enough, he continued, “Because, Ruth, I have very deep feelings for you.”
If this had been a classic movie, the orchestra would have struck up, and we would have walked hand in hand out towards our happy ending. This being life, I paid for our drinks (despite the protestations of both Harry and the waiter), and asked Harry to email when he wanted to meet again (I had a new spam message before I got back to the office). I may also have, rather embarrassingly, smiled like a teenager in love for the rest of the day. At least, that’s how Clementina described me.
At our next meeting, I put Harry out of his misery.
“I suppose I should tell you that I am, in fact, rather fond of you as well.” Ruth said, as casually as she could manage.
She was looking down, fiddling with her napkin as she spoke. Raising her head, her eyes met Harry’s. There was the same, almost childlike smile from their last dinner together adorning his face. This time she reached for his hand and was relieved when he interlocked their fingers.
The waiter returned to take their order and they separated sheepishly. Ruth smiled at Harry and he smiled back as they ordered. It was, thought Ruth, a ridiculous example of British reserve that they both felt embarrassed to even hold hands in public. But then she had never been one for public displays, and was in some way grateful that Harry appeared to feel the same.
The waiter left and something struck Ruth.
“Oh, we haven’t been introduced.”
“Excuse me?” Harry seemed justifiably confused
Ruth put her hand forward again “Anna Wilson, translator.”
Harry took her hand and shook it “Peter Garvey, gentleman of leisure.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Peter.”
“Likewise, Anna.”
I mean really? All that? Just to show me that yes, as a matter of fact I am rather pathetically in love with a man and that, by a startling coincidence, he happens to feel similarly for me? A little over the top, don't you think.
So God, Fate and spirits of any kind, I would be very grateful if you could leave me alone to have my happy ending now. I think I've had to wait for it for rather a long time. Could you please go and inspire great acts of selflessness in some other poor fool?
Yours faithfully
Anna Garvey
Letter To A Long-Gone Friend (R, Hawkeye/BJ, hints of Hawkeye/Trapper)
Ravenous
Delicacy (NC-17, Boyd/Ives)
Quills
Warnings for Non-Con, Torture, Drug-Use. NC-17, one-sided Coulmier/De Sade
My Dearest Abbé,
I wish to bid you welcome to this, our humble asylum. I am told nothing but good things about you, and regret my delinquency in writing to formally introduce myself.
I am Donatien-Alphonse-François, Marquis de Sade. I am detained here at the behest of my wife; a woman whose devotion to her husband is sorely lacking. You may, on occasion, meet her when she arrives from time to time to drop off some of life’s little luxuries. Dildos for example. I am sure as an Abbé you have often had need of such comforts, unless of course, you find your desires well met by our staff of lovely ladies and even lovelier stable-hands.
Now, to come to the crux of things. I am sure that you will have heard of my many books. To an extent, my stay here is to ensure that I am no more prolific in my writing. This, you will find, is not the case. Especially not now that I have my new muse. He is quite the specimen of virtue, brown-haired and green-eyed, and athletic in ways that exceed that necessary for his vocation. Indeed, I am told by reliable sources in the medical profession that his physique is exquisite. A beautiful lead for my new novel, I am sure you will agree.
You may wonder why I have seemingly turned my back on my prostitutes and Jezebels. Fear not, because they still are at the forefront of my mind. I simply find that I have grown bored, to an extent, of the weaknesses of the fair sex. Women, I find, are too malleable and exploited. Why, one need only hold one down with an arm to rape her. Even the whore on the street, used to brutality and educated with tricks to avoid it, even she can fight back for only a brief time before I can cleave her in two. A strong woman is as unbelievable as a repentant Clytemnestra, no matter what Euripides would have you believe.
So the star of my next piece will be a young man; a Curé not long let loose from the seminary. In fact, I would value your opinion on his characterisation. I am by no means unintelligent, and can write this well without your assistance. But for a sense of verisimilitude, I would seek your counsel.
Imagine yourself the young Curé. The scene is this. You have been invited to supper with a certain Dr. Roche, a man of some standing. He has brought you to his home on the pretext of spiritual guidance. You make polite conversation over decent food and good wine. A little pride carries you away, and so without thinking, you agree to join him in his smoking room. You begin your prepared sermon, a combination of seminary and your own, still bright, imagination. He bids you sit on the love seat and feigns interest as he sends the servants away and locks the door. Taking the chair opposite, he listens while you extol the virtues of the holy trinity. But you notice that he looks troubled.
"Good doctor, you do not seem comforted by the thought of your immortality through Christ," says the Curé.
"I must admit that, laudable though your words are, I am troubled by an underlying problem." replies Roche.
"And what is that?"
"God created all, man and child alike. We are told that before him there was nothing. And so all that we see around us, this is all his work, yes?"
"Indeed, all the wonders that you encou-"
"Yes, yes," the doctor waved his hand irritably. "But if this is true, then was not evil and malignity also his work? Did he not create the pederast alongside the parent; the tyrant with the teacher?"
The Curé nodded in what he hoped was a sage manner. Given his lack of years, it was more constipated than contemplative.
"Such a question has plagued-" he began but was cut off once again by the impatience of the doctor.
"So if evil is created by God, then all the perversities of the world are, in fact, holy and sanctified." Roche became more animated as he spoke, leaping from his seat and pacing in front of the fire, brandy in hand.
The Curé shook his head, "No! No, not at all. These are tests, sent to strengthen our faith and obedience to the Lord."
He nearly yelled the words, so troubled was he by the doctor’s statement.
"And so we must suffer then," Roche mused, philosophically. "But you,” he gestured with his brandy, "you must be suffering most of all."
The Curé was taken aback. "Forgive me sir, I do not understand. Why would you think me more sorely tested?"
Roche sat down next to the Curé, pressing himself uncomfortably against the Curé’s leg. "At such a young age, to have promised never to indulge in all manner of activities. Gambling, dancing," Roche brought his free hand to his lips, smiling gently, "not even sexual acts."
"None can compare to the felicity of serving our Lord," the Curé replied, shifting uneasily.
"How do you know?" Roche's smile grew larger.
"I...I'm sorry?"
"Poor naive thing; how do you know that nothing compares?" It was asked innocently but even the Curé could sense that innocence was far from Roche's question.
"I put my faith in-"
"Psht, that is no answer!" interrupted Roche, angrily. He calmed himself before continuing. "Look at you, how distressed you appear. I took an oath to aid those suffering." He raised his free hand again and reached to stroke the Curé's jaw. "Allow me to strengthen your faith."
The Curé leapt from the seat, shock and disgust combined in his expression. "Doctor Roche, you forget yourself. I am a man of God!"
"And what is more godly than ecstasy?" Roche spread his legs, arching one gracefully onto the newly vacated cushion, demonstrating his readiness to give more than a theoretical demonstration.
"Sir, I will take my leave and talk no more with you tonight!" The Curé strode towards the door and rattled the handle. "Doctor, please unlock the door."
"I shall do no such thing."
The Curé rattled the handle more forcefully and pounded on the door. "Let me out, Doctor. Servants, unlock the door!"
"And they will do no such thing. They have their instructions and we shall not be disturbed until I have educated you." Roche laughed, as though a teacher chastising a petulant child.
"No, I do not wish to partake of your lessons. I refuse!" Panic sounded in each word as the Curé lost all attempt at restraint.
"Refuse?" Roche repeated. "You cannot refuse. I'm a doctor; I shall simply deem you unfit. In fact, I do now deem you unfit and appoint myself your guardian." Roche clapped, impressed by his own genius. "As your guardian, I declare that you must do exactly as I say. Don't they teach you obedience to the Lord? I am your lord now, and you will obey me."
With that Roche strode to the door and pushed the Curé against it, pinning him in place.
"I recommend that you do not struggle, dear Curé. This will be pleasurable if only you will relax." Roche pressed himself bodily against the struggling form, freeing both hands to reach for beneath the Curé's robes. He fumbled with the buttoned pantaloons below and gradually pulled them below the Curé's knees.
"I beg of you, doctor, in the name of the Holy Virgin."
"Mary be damned, I care for but one virgin and I near have him." With that Roche released the buttons on his own confining breeches and let free his half-hard cock. Despite his earlier words, he cared not for any comfort in his victim and spat brandy-wine flavoured saliva onto his hand, stroking his cock to full firmness. Spreading the alabaster cheeks, he lined himself with the tiny hole presented to him and pushed with all his might. The Curé screamed and Roche's actions were met with such resistance that he himself strained and groaned. His cock barely breached the entrance, less than an inch making its way inside.
"Blast you, too tight!" Roche withdrew and the Curé collapsed at the door, his robes tumbling back down to cover him. Roche dragged him to carpet in front of the fire.
"Andre!" Roche called for his manservant. "Come in here!"
A hulk of a man lumbered in and nodded at Roche, seemingly unsurprised by the sight of his master with nothing but his shirt covering him. The Curé raised his head weakly as Roche continued. "Fetch my bag, this man requires medication."
"Please, Andre, sir don't leave me here!" the Curé begged. "This man is a monster, not a doctor!"
"Be silent, fool." Roche spat at the Curé. "Your pleas to Andre will do you no good. Now" he turned his attention to his servant. "my bag."
Andre turned to leave as a demonic smile spread across Roche's face, a thought occurring to him. "And also bring young Antoinette, and her little friend Henri."
The Curé looked at him, as though observing the devil himself, in a terrified awe. He tried one more plea. "I beg you, Doctor Roche, let me go."
"So soon? No dear Curé, we have barely begun." Again Roche laughed and continued until Andre returned, flanked by a young woman and a boy who was some years away from maturity. Andre held the bag in front of him and Roche delved inside, rattling bottles and instruments. He retrieved a bottle labelled Laudanum and beckoned Andre to set down the bag.
"Andre, restrain the Curé if you will. I shall need to administer a draft. Only weak, of course," he turned to address the figure on the floor. "We need you pliable, not horizontal."
The Curé fought as Andre dragged him on to his feet and held him in place. Strong hands wrestled his mouth open and he choked as Roche dripped a small dose of laudanum down his throat.
"Don't worry, dear child," Roche said, comfortingly, as the Curé spluttered. "You'll feel much better in a matter of minutes."
He dropped the bottle onto a nearby table and clapped his hands together.
"Now, where are my manners? Curé Cordaire, allow me to introduce to you Antoinette." Antoinette curtsied, irregular movements betraying her confusion and nerves at the situation. "She is the newest of my maids, just seventeen years old, fair and flush with youth. And this," he gestured to the young boy clinging to Andre. "This is Henri, a fine boot boy despite his tender years. And precocious too; only twelve years old and already chasing girls." He strode to Henri and patted him on the head, much to the boy's discomfort. Roche leant down until his mouth was level with Henri's ear and whispered conspiratorially, "I hear he actually has a little crush on the lovely Antoinette here." Henri squirmed uncomfortably as the Curé's head began to spin.
"And now, Curé, you will choose."
"Choose?" The Curé refused to focus on what he suspected was Roche's question.
"One will watch, the other will suffer." Roche held up a hand to the Curé's protests. "This has already been decided. Your only input in the matter is whether you have a preference for young women or young boys. Now, which shall it be?"
The Curé shook his head, as though this was all a nightmare and he could wake himself. The world had ceased spinning, but a certain fuzziness was encroaching upon his vision. He looked from the terrified boy, now clinging to Andre's arm, to the girl, shivering with the realisation that her master was the most vicious form of tyrant. She looked, open mouthed and with a begging expression toward the Curé. He shook his head, as though to signify that he had no more control than she did. He saw her stop shivering and step forward.
"If you will let Henri listen from outside, I will do whatever you say."
She began to cry as she spoke but still forced the words out.
Roche walked around to her, clutching her chin in his fingers. "How sweet, sacrificing herself for the boy" He turned to face the Curé, his face alongside hers. "A volunteer!"
The Curé tried to mouth an apology but Roche caught it and turned to face Antoinette, blocking her face from the Curé's view.
"A word of warning, whore," he spat venomously, "should you think of reneging on your promise, Andre here will have a knife to little Henri's throat. A ‘no’ from you will be the last thing he ever hears. Am I understood?"
Antoinette whimpered as she nodded. Roche turned again to the Curé.
"I do hope that she will be good enough for you. In fact, let us see if this is the case!" The Curé did not fight as Roche began to fully strip him of his vestments. Roche looked at the Curé's flaccid prick as he stroked his own back to firmness beneath his shirt.
"Oh dear, perhaps the boy would have been better after all. Ah well, I am a man of my word." The Curé looked at him with disgust and amazement. "Oh it's true, Curé, I swore I would show you the pleasures you have foregone and I shall. I have also sworn that Antoinette would be your first conquest, on condition that Henri is taken outside the room. This reminds me." He signalled for Andre and the boy to leave. "But be sure to leave the door open," he called after them.
"Please, sir you promised!" Antoinette begged.
"Indeed I did and outside he is. I agreed nothing as to the door!" Roche laughed and the Curé wondered if it would forever echo loudly in his head.
"Now, Antoinette, you will strip and bend across the arm of the chair there. While you are doing that, we will see if we can't persuade the Curé to rise to the occasion, aha."
Antoinette turned her back and began to remove her dress. Roche, meanwhile, dropped to his knees beside the Curé and began to stroke his smooth calves.
"I wonder if lack of use has seen your delightful cock waste away." Roche whispered, blowing hot air onto the Curé's delicate skin before gradually licking at his foreskin.
"It is my dearest hope that it has, and that your fun will be spoiled." the Curé replied, shaking.
Roche engulfed the Curé briefly before sucking down to the end, his lips releasing it with a pop.
"Do you really think me so unimaginative, Curé?" Roche seemed genuinely surprised. "If you are not forthcoming, there are any number of ornaments or bottles that will serve in its place."
The armchair groaned as Antoinette laid herself across it, and Roche rose to his feet. "It seems we are out of time. How do you feel, Curé?"
"I will not do this, Roche. Kill me if you will, but I will not harm her."
“Know this, Curé; if you do not do as I tell you, it is not you who will suffer. Do exactly as I say or I shall instruct Andre to kill the boy."
"No!" screamed Antoinette, slithering to her knees on the floor, "You promised! Please, don't hurt him!"
Roche raised an eyebrow. "It is not my decision, dear Antoinette. It is the Curé's. What shall it be?"
"May God forgive your immortal soul." the Curé quavered.
"Is that agreement?"
"What should I use," the Curé asked, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, ashamed.
Roche dragged Antoinette upwards and shoved her once again over the chair arm. "Oh I don't know, use the candlestick for all I care!" he said absently.
The Curé spied the bottle of Laudanum and presented it to Roche. "Will this suffice?"
"It's a little small but I suppose it will do." Roche shrugged and directed the Curé to stand behind Antoinette. Leaning over, he parted the lips of Antoinette's quim to expose her entirely. Antoinette shifted uncomfortably and the Curé took the distraction as opportunity to loosen the bottle cork and, upending it, leaked some of the liquid down the sides of the bottle. He hoped that it would numb her enough as it had done him. Roche noted this but said nothing.
"Now, do I need to guide you, or do you at least know where to fuck her?"
Roche grabbed the Curé's hand and thrust the bottle towards Antoinette's opening. She winced in pain as it breached her, whimpering slightly as it was pushed further, and then began to scream. Faintly in the background, the Curé could hear Henri cry for Antoinette.
"Dear Curé, a word of advice. Alcohol, which is the basis of that tincture, can be an irritant to skin. Which means that, however well meant your gesture, you have just made things all the more painful for Mademoiselle Antoinette."
Antoinette continued to scream and Roche forced the Curé's hand to move the bottle in and out of Antoinette. As he did so, Roche positioned himself behind the Curé. The Laudanum had done its job well enough, and on his first thrust he managed a full two inches inside. The Curé yelled in pain, complimenting Antoinette’s sobs as he did so. Roche thrust again and was over half way in. On the third attempt he fully breached the Curé. Setting his own rhythm he ignored the pained cries of his two victims. Blood trickled down both Roche and the Curé's legs as he ripped and tore at the flesh. The trickle was matched by that from Antoinette as the ridges of the bottle scraped at her raw insides. She sobbed with every thrust as the Curé wept with each of Roche's.
Finally Roche increased his speed before climaxing suddenly. He leaned heavily on the Curé's back for a moment before withdrawing, a streak of semen following his cock. He slowly walked around to the Curé and removed the bottle of Laudanum from his hand. Uncorking the lid, he wrenched at Antoinette’s hair and lifted her head upwards. He poured a large dose into her mouth and she fell into a dead faint. Whether from the exertions or the fast effects of the Laudanum, the Curé did not know.
Roche approached him. "Your turn, dear Curé."
He tried to fight but could summon up no more energy. Even before the bottle left his lips he fell to the floor, barely conscious and breathing heavily. Roche knelt down beside him.
"Next time, we shall see if you will enjoy it."
Of course, this is only a draft. If I were able I would have had the good doctor slice each joint of our young victim, paralysing him yet leaving him still capable of feeling each assault. Sadly, this was not possible. I shall have to save that for another victim.
So, good Abbé, with this scene in mind, I seek your guidance as to the good Curé's reactions. Would you extend me the courtesy of attending supper in two night's time? I assure you a most invigorating time.
With love,
Donatien, Maquis De Sade
Spooks/MI-5
(PG, Ruth/Harry)
Dear God, or Gods or spirits of any kind,
I'll admit that I've not been much of a believer in religion, or spirituality, or anything along those lines. But in the past few months I am slowly coming to the conclusion that there may be such a thing as fate. If this is, in fact, the case, I would like to emphasise the fact that, right now, I am very, very angry.
Ruth could still hear the footsteps behind her. Right, so that was a quarter of a mile. Probably too long, and these days probably was enough.
Her handbag fell to the ground, and she scrabbled to catch its various contents. The footsteps approached as she clutched at her keys, holding the sharp door-key prominently in her fist. She looked up as the figure passed her, a look of contempt on his face as he walked by. A nobody. Just a man going home. She scooped up her bag and continued the long walk back to her flat.
Regulating her breathing, she began to question whether she should move again. It didn't feel right here anymore. Last month she'd begun to feel...uncomfortable. Watched. And for her, even now, that was dangerous.
I had a life. Not a fantastic one, I'd be the first to admit. But I had a job, one that I was really good at. I had friends, a cat, a nice house. I even, almost, had something else.
It was a blessing, Ruth thought, that South American governments didn't care all that much about immigrants into their countries. Two months on from Hungary, she had a job as a freelance translator; another small, sparsely furnished flat; even a neighbourhood cat appeared to have adopted her. She had begun to tentatively wonder if she could stay here.
And I accepted that, after I was set up, I'd have to leave it all behind. Fake death, move on, start again. Fine, all fine. Well, except it wasn't fine, but I think I was coping rather well. So did you have to cause that wretched weather front and delay my "immigrant special" boat to Holland? I didn't need to see Harry again. Was there any point to that? Other than making me feel miserable, of course? Knowing that I couldn't stay, and that he couldn't do anything. I could have lived a much happier existence without the memory of him standing on the dock, watching me go.
Ruth was far from being an expert in this things, but she suspected that Ramon at the office was being, well, particularly nice. He smiled a lot. Quite often at her. She'd tried to ask Clementina, who had long ago appointed herself as Ruth's guide to Santiago, and Chilean culture in general. She'd laughed in that somewhat annoying tinkly way and walked off. Ruth wasn't sure what to make of that.
From Holland to Hungary, then to Algiera and a long flight to Chile. That was Adam's suggestion from the start; a country with no automatic extradition to the UK. "Just in case". I used to think he was underestimating me. I thought I'd be quite capable of staying under the radar, even in Europe. After all, I'm just plain Ruth. I blend in. The wallflower, even when I'm in the centre of the room. Except someone still managed to find me in Hungary.
"So, what is it like to live in England" Ramon said. Ruth set down the tray of coffee and considered her reply.
"Well, it was very dull for me." she replied, sitting beside him on the sofa. "Nothing really happened. That's why I moved here. For an adventure."
"You like excitement?" Ramon asked, amused. Ruth was confused by his tone.
"Why would that surprise you?"
"Because you, Anna," he gestured with his cup "seem to always avoid the interesting assignments."
But Chile is nice. I have a decent job translating documents, which I'm really rather good at. I have new friends, a new house, even a new cat. Soy Anna Wilson, nada especial. Except for the strange quirk I have about not doing any work for the government. But hey, I'm just Anna, la inglesa.
Now of course, life in Chile was almost beginning to be enjoyable. Ramon was happy that she wouldn't out him; she and Clemetina would go to dinner few evenings a week at his place, being fed magnificent food by his boyfriend, el jefe. Ruth's social life was as active as it had ever been. More so maybe. It was starting to be fun.
This time, she shrugged off the watched feeling. Almost a year after moving to here, and no-one had approached her. The paranoia was a remnant of an old life. This was her new life.
It’s funny, really, that I actually began to believe that I had left everything behind. How many times had I tracked down people who had thought the same things? Set Tom, or Danny, or Adam on their trail. No-one ever disappears. Not when someone is looking for them.
Though she didn’t know until later, the first email had been caught in her spam filter, deleted before she’d even read it. The second she glanced over distractedly and deleted herself. For the rest of the day she had a sense that she had forgotten something, or missed it.
The third caught her attention. She noted the instructions and told Ramon that she would be taking a late lunch.
Sitting on the bench between the trees, she nervously twisted the handle of her handbag between her hands. She ignored the occasional rustling of the couples walking by. Despite herself, she began to smile as she picked up on the tiny signs of someone trying to walk, very quietly, through the early autumn blanket of leaves. Remembering who it was, she focused, and the smile melted away.
The noises stopped directly behind her. She raised her head and looked straight ahead.
“Percutio.com? Really, Harry, I expected more from you.” She said, smugly
I wasn’t sure what to think when I saw Harry’s email. I know I was terrified when the words clicked into place and I saw that this company wasn’t really that interested in extending any part of me or my finances. Six and Five have been using spam emails for one-way communication for years. I’m fairly sure they will have moved past that by now, but Harry had to use something he knew that I knew. How else could he tell me that I was unofficially exonerated?
“It’s not a pardon. Not as such. I couldn’t recommend that you return to Britain, but no-one from there will be looking for you anymore.”
Ruth leaned her head back against the top of the bench and took a deep breath. She almost hadn’t come. She’d gone through several scenarios in her head in which officers of various security services had tapped her on the shoulder. The nicest of those scenarios ended up with her going back to the UK to serve a life sentence, which would mean life in her case.
She turned her head towards Harry, caution still at the forefront of her thoughts. He said nothing and passed the file towards her. His face was utterly unreadable and she chided herself for expecting that she could see through the spy-master’s poker face. She flicked through the file.
And it was true.
Letters demonstrating that the Evershed incident had been re-designated as a level 8 priority; a note stating that, due to an unfortunate fire at the national archive office, the physical file of the investigation had been destroyed; confirmation from the new head of Six that they had much better things to do than worry about one of Five’s agents gone astray (“You’d like her,” Harry had said. “She hates politics almost as much as she hates politicians”). In essence, her freedom to live in exile.
Ruth nodded slowly and confronted the elephant in the room.
“Why now, Harry?”
Later, I found out that Harry had chosen to bow out gracefully after training up a successor. He was given a new identity, generous pension, the typical ‘please don’t make a nuisance of yourself’ handshake. Of course he ignored the identity altogether, preferring one he had been creating for some years: Peter Garvey, a moderately successful business man who had chosen to retire early and travel the world. The money, however, he kept, sufficiently filtered through five bank accounts, three countries and two shell companies. That was before I met him, again. It’s substantially more complicated now.
Ruth had insisted that they move to a cafe. It was loud enough and busy enough to provide cover for their conversation. A small part of Ruth was rather pleased that Harry winced whenever the live band in the corner struck up a rhythm. The rest of her was more focused on Harry’s lack of answer.
“Ruth, if I had been aware of this talent of yours, I would have assigned you to our tougher interrogations.” Harry said, a faint tone of exasperation coming through.
“I just...I want a straight, uncomplicated answer,” she said. “Not ‘Operational reasons prevented it’ or, or ‘precautions had to be taken’” Ruth paused and looked down into her fruit juice, wondering whether she had gone too far. She lifted her head and looked Harry dead in the eye. “I want to know why the documents in this file are dated from a year and a half ago.”
“I’d like to say that it wasn’t easy to find you,” Harry began. Ruth opened her mouth to speak but Harry continued.
“But we both know that I would be lying. I did attempt to make contact through an intermediary some time ago. He said that you did not appear receptive.”
“Not recep- was that in Hungary?!” exclaimed Ruth. She knew she’d been too loud as customers at neighbouring tables turned to look. Whispering, almost to her self, she went on “I knew it. I could tell I was being watched. Was he following me? Keeping an eye on me?” Harry looked as though he was about to speak but Ruth gave him no opportunity. “Your intermediary” she hissed “was the reason that I left!”
“He assured me that you were unaware-”
“Well he was wrong!”
“Yes, I see that now.”
Even now, I get the occasional urge to slap Harry for the almost sarcastic response he gave. He had absolutely no idea how terrified I was for the weeks between leaving Hungary and reaching Chile. Every immigration check, each siren and even walking through security made me shake with fear. Any pause and I was convinced I’d be pulled into an interrogation room. I wasn’t trained for this. I’m not a field agent. And it felt like he was laughing at me.
Ruth was a mixture of furious and relieved. “I left a good job,” she caught Harry’s look “an acceptable job, a decent apartment; all because I thought Six or worse were after me. And all for what?”
Harry leaned towards her, keeping his voice low, if far from calm. “What choice did I have? I couldn’t trust this file through a courier or postal service, and I couldn’t come myself, not then.”
Ruth knew all this, of course, but her frustration at being forced to uproot herself for no good reason refused to allow her to concede anything to Harry.
“So why now? Why am I now graced with your presence? Run through your stock of go-betweens?” It was a childish shot but Ruth couldn’t help it.
“I’ve resigned, Ruth.”
The words took her by surprise. Harry, resign? The man who had outlasted more coups than a corrupt government; the man who had blackmailed a member of government in practically every post.
“Why?” Ruth’s question was muted, tempered by Harry’s last response.
“I was made to re-think my priorities. By the man who now occupies my office, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I should have seen that coming,” Harry said, drily. Despite herself, Ruth smiled and shook her head.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” She said, gently.
“Which one of the four or five in the last ten minutes?”
“Why are you here, Harry. Why did you, personally, have to bring this file all this way?”
I suppose, in retrospect, it was really very cruel to make Harry actually say it. He’s not a particularly expressive man. Not verbally, or not in his own words at least. Through sonnets and quotations, yes, but not his own words.
Harry reached for her hands and she relinquished her glass. As he held them gently, she reminded herself not to smile too foolishly at this gesture. To wait. There was more to come.
He was looking at her, straight into her eyes and it almost felt like he was trying to look into her. Like she had some secret that he needed to uncover. His expression looked utterly determined, but there was a softness there. Ruth waited, as she had been doing for the last god knows how many years.
“I wanted to see you.” Harry paused. Just as she was about to say that that wasn’t enough, he continued, “Because, Ruth, I have very deep feelings for you.”
If this had been a classic movie, the orchestra would have struck up, and we would have walked hand in hand out towards our happy ending. This being life, I paid for our drinks (despite the protestations of both Harry and the waiter), and asked Harry to email when he wanted to meet again (I had a new spam message before I got back to the office). I may also have, rather embarrassingly, smiled like a teenager in love for the rest of the day. At least, that’s how Clementina described me.
At our next meeting, I put Harry out of his misery.
“I suppose I should tell you that I am, in fact, rather fond of you as well.” Ruth said, as casually as she could manage.
She was looking down, fiddling with her napkin as she spoke. Raising her head, her eyes met Harry’s. There was the same, almost childlike smile from their last dinner together adorning his face. This time she reached for his hand and was relieved when he interlocked their fingers.
The waiter returned to take their order and they separated sheepishly. Ruth smiled at Harry and he smiled back as they ordered. It was, thought Ruth, a ridiculous example of British reserve that they both felt embarrassed to even hold hands in public. But then she had never been one for public displays, and was in some way grateful that Harry appeared to feel the same.
The waiter left and something struck Ruth.
“Oh, we haven’t been introduced.”
“Excuse me?” Harry seemed justifiably confused
Ruth put her hand forward again “Anna Wilson, translator.”
Harry took her hand and shook it “Peter Garvey, gentleman of leisure.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Peter.”
“Likewise, Anna.”
I mean really? All that? Just to show me that yes, as a matter of fact I am rather pathetically in love with a man and that, by a startling coincidence, he happens to feel similarly for me? A little over the top, don't you think.
So God, Fate and spirits of any kind, I would be very grateful if you could leave me alone to have my happy ending now. I think I've had to wait for it for rather a long time. Could you please go and inspire great acts of selflessness in some other poor fool?
Yours faithfully
Anna Garvey