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thegirl20Title: Words left unspoken
Author: Angie
Fandom: Spooks
Pairing: Zoe/Helen
Summary: Five vignettey type things about Zoe and Helen's relationship. Set before and around the first three episodes of series one.
Rating: UK-15(ish) There's sex and swearing.
Author's Notes 1: Lisa Faulkner's death in Spooks traumatised me the first time. So much so that I didn't watch Spooks again. But I have recently forced myself to watch the whole of the first series. And it occurred to me that Zoe seemed an awful lot more upset at Helen's death than anyone else did. Thus, in my mind, they were obviously having a torrid affair.
Author's Notes 2: I have not cross-posted this anywhere because I am completely new to the Spooks fandom and am trying to remain unspoiled for the rest of the series (I have S2 & S3 ready to rock) so I haven't investigated any comms yet. Any recommendations?
Author's Notes 3: This has nothing to do with the fic, but I was absolutely flabbergasted when I found out that both Matthew Macfadyen and Keeley Hawes were younger than Lisa Faulkner. I am assuming that their characters were supposed to be older than her.
1.
Zoë stares intently at the screen. She’s not even sure if she’s seeing it anymore. Green and black and purple dance before her stinging eyes, making her head throb and forming patterns that a psychiatrist would have a field day with.
Then everything goes black.
Warm hands are covering her eyes and she reaches up to grab her assailant’s slender wrists.
“Guess who?”
She pretends to think.
“Hmmm…Jack the Ripper?”
“Nope.”
“The Pope?”
“Last guess.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be that sexy young girl that gets the coffee would you?”
The hands move to her shoulders and spin her around in her chair. Helen is pouting and Zoë laughs, pulling her down to sit on her lap. She wraps her arms around Helen’s waist and tickles her gently, eliciting a slight smile before the pout returns.
“That’s not funny. That’s what they think of me, you know.”
Zoë kisses Helen’s collar bone and presses her nose into her shoulder.
“No they don’t. Not all of them. Tom thinks you’re the bees’ knees.”
“Tessa doesn’t.”
Zoë shakes her head.
“She’ll come around. You’ll win her over with your abundant charms and immense, but not always obvious, intelligence. You’ll see.”
Helen brightens, smiling down at Zoë.
“You think?”
“I know.”
Helen leans down and presses her lips to Zoë’s, wrapping her arms around her neck. Zoë closes her eyes and revels in the feeling, forgetting all about her headache. When Helen’s mouth moves down her jaw and onto her neck she lets her head roll back in contentment.
“You’ve been smoking.”
Helen sits up and breathes into her hand.
“I had a polo-mint after!”
“Does he know you don’t actually smoke and you only go out there to moon over him and his baby blues?”
“I do not!”
“Oh you do so! He’s your big, manly hero.”
“Jealous, are you?”
Zoë pulls Helen down to meet her lips. But doesn’t answer the question.
“Why are you here so late anyway?”
Helen speaks in between kisses.
“Doing some reading. And waiting for you.”
Zoë’s hand slips up Helen’s back, under her top.
“Back to mine, then, is it?”
Helen draws away and smiles sadly at her.
“Can’t tonight…Sarah’s dropping Ethan off first thing.”
Zoë nods, far more saddened than she ought to be by the statement.
“’Course, I forgot.”
Helen rubs her nose against Zoë’s, making her smile.
“I didn’t want to leave without seeing you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Helen looks around the empty office, then back at Zoë.
“What d’you think they make of this?”
“Of what?”
“Of what they must see on the tapes.”
Zoë shrugs and stretches up for another kiss.
“I s’pose it’s two less people for them to vet.”
“D’you think they mind?”
“About us?”
“About us kissing on their time.”
“Sometimes, it feels like my whole life is their time. They can’t grudge me this.”
Helen pauses, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind that.
2.
Another assignment completed, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste for all involved. There had been no alternative but to go to the pub and get rat-arsed.
They stumble through Zoë’s front door, giggling and kissing and leaning on one another. Zoë pushes Helen against the wall and kisses her. They slide back towards the still open door, only Helen’s outstretched hand prevents them from falling to the floor. The resulting slam sets them off giggling again.
“Ssssshhhhhhhh! You’ll wake the pervy landlord!”
Helen grins, eyelids heavy with alcohol.
“Is he good-looking?”
“No, he is not good-looking. He’s fat and he smells funny.”
“Well, we don’t want to wake him then.”
Zoë takes Helen’s hand and leads her up the stairs, ssssshhhing the occasional giggle that bubbles out of the darkness behind her. They reach her room and she fumbles for the light as Helen fumbles with the zip on her jeans. She just manages to wedge a chair under the door handle before the jeans are around her ankles and causing problems as she tries to walk to the bed. She falls onto it, landing on top of Helen.
Helen tries to reverse their positions and only succeeds in rolling Zoë off the narrow bed and onto the floor. She makes a solid thud as she lands. Helen’s head appears over the side of the bed.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!”
Zoë is about to respond when she hears footfalls on the stairs. She holds a finger to her lips.
A light knock on the door.
“Zoë?”
Helen slides off the bed onto Zoë, smirking. Zoë puts a hand across Helen’s mouth, just in case. Helen’s tongue is hot against her palm.
Another knock.
“Zoë, I heard bangin’, you OK?”
Helen’s fingers dance down her stomach and slip into her underwear. She gasps.
“Zoë?”
She decides that it’s best to answer. Last thing she needs is him bursting in on this.
“I’m fine, Kevin. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
A particularly hard stroke almost makes her cry out but she bites her lip.
“Mmmmhmmmm.”
“’Kay then, if you’re sure.”
His footsteps fade away and she removes her hand from Helen’s mouth, claiming her lips roughly, pressing up into Helen’s hand, matching her rhythm. She tenses, rising off the floor, muscles protesting as her back arches just too much.
Helen’s name passes her lips as a whisper.
Helen leans on her elbows and rests her chin in her hands, gazing down at Zoë. Zoë is bone tired from work and drink and sex, but manages to reach up and stroke Helen’s hair back.
“What?”
Helen grins.
“When I grow up I wanna be just like you.”
Zoë laughs and looks around the room at the books falling off the shelves, the piles of clothing that won’t fit in the wardrobe, the tiny broken down bed.
“Yeah, living it up in the lap of luxury, I can see why you’d want to be me.”
Helen shrugs.
“I do. I wanna be like you.”
Zoë is never sure how to take compliments. And she has never been told that someone wants to be like her before. She’s always the one who wants to be someone else. She can’t think of anything to say.
“I always said you weren’t right in the head.”
Helen pushes herself up enough to grab the quilt from the bed and tugs it down to cover them. She lays her head on Zoë’s shoulder. The floor is hard against Zoë’s back, especially with Helen’s weight pushing down as well as her own.
But looking down at the tousled head of blonde hair on her chest, she can’t bring herself to complain.
3.
“C’mon, I’m freezing my arse off here.”
“I can’t find any lime.”
“Never mind the fucking lime. Just hurry up and do it.”
“I’ve got a lemon…or an orange. The lemon’s probably better, right. The orange would be too sweet.”
“Helen!”
“OK.”
Helen pops up from behind the bar and smiles broadly at the sight awaiting her. Zoë is lying on the bar in Helen and Danny’s flat. She is naked and she has tequila in her navel. Glistening, sticky trails show where impatience and fidgeting have made the tequila run out and over Zoë’s abdomen.
Helen runs a hand up Zoë’s leg, setting off tremors that cause yet more spillage.
“C’mon, I’m cold.”
“So I see.”
Zoë could contradict her and tell her that her hardened nipples are more to do with arousal than cold. But she doesn’t. She just watches, straining her neck, as Helen shakes a line of salt between her breasts. Her head jerks back as Helen licks it off, before plunging her tongue into Zoë’s belly-button, lapping at the liquid and getting as much of it on her chin and on Zoë as in her mouth.
Lifting her head, she bites into the wedge of lemon, screwing her face up in disgust.
“Jesus Christ!”
Zoë sits up and hops down off the bar, grabbing Helen and tasting salt, tequila and lemon juice mixed tantalisingly on her lips. Helen’s hand slides between Zoë’s breasts and down over her stomach. She smiles against Zoë’s lips.
“We should go into the shower. You’re all sticky and salty.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Completely mine.”
“As long as you know.”
“I couldn’t very well have a bar in my front room and not do body-shots on it, could I?”
“Because that would be sacrilege.”
“Exactly.”
Helen is walking backwards, leading Zoë to the bathroom. Once inside she turns on the shower and tests the temperature. She steps into the spacious cubicle and beckons for Zoë to join her.
The water is hot on her chilled skin and Zoë shivers. Helen is standing with her face turned up to the spray and Zoë wraps her whole body around her, skin meets skin, slickly. It’s Helen’s turn to shiver as she feels Zoë’s body against her back, soft and strong in equal measure.
Inexplicably, Zoë feels her eyes well up and her throat tighten. She presses her forehead to Helen’s shoulder and closes her eyes. Why suddenly showering with Helen should turn her into a blubbering wreck is beyond her. Perhaps it’s fear. Maybe she’s scared that this cocoon of warmth and happiness is as fragile as the steam clouding her view.
Or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t know how to cope with her feelings. She’s terrified that this one person feels so right.
Helen turns in her arms and holds her close. The water drones constantly on the plastic walls.
4.
She slips noiselessly into the flat and makes her way to Helen’s room. She’s sure Danny knows about them anyway, but it’s strangely satisfying to be in and out of his home without him knowing anything about it.
Helen’s bedroom is in darkness but Zoë can tell that she’s not sleeping. She shrugs out of her jacket and moves further into the room. She sits at the foot of the bed, pulling off her boots. Arms wrap around her from behind and Helen’s chin comes to rest on her shoulder. She turns slightly so that their cheeks are touching.
“I got your text.”
Helen doesn’t respond, just tightens her grip on Zoë slightly.
“What exactly is this ‘big girl mission’ then?”
“I’m going with Tom.”
Zoë turns around quickly, dislodging Helen’s hold.
“What? On Greensleeves?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to the runner?”
“Car accident. Drunk as a skunk.”
“Jesus. So why are you going with him?”
Helen recoils slightly and turns her face away.
“Dunno. Must be the last resort.”
Zoë crawls onto the bed and gently draws Helen’s face back around. Even in the dim light, she can see tears glistening in Helen’s eyes and hates herself for it.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…well, this is your first field assignment and they’re sending you deep undercover? It’s a big deal.”
“And you don’t think I’m up to it.”
The hurt in Helen’s voice hits Zoë in the chest. But her fear overrides the need to make the hurt go away.
“I don’t think they should’ve asked you. It’s too much to ask of you on your first time out.”
Helen pulls away and climbs under the covers. Zoë sighs. She strips down to her t-shirt and gets into bed. She slips an arm around Helen’s waist, pulling her back against her. She tries desperately to think of the right thing to say.
“This isn’t about me not thinking you’re good enough. You’re more than good enough, you’re far better than half the agents out there. It’s about me worrying about you. I just…I don’t think I want you out in that world yet, I just want you safe.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re out in that world.”
But that’s different. She just needs to explain the difference. But the words won’t come. She pulls Helen tighter against her and closes her eyes. She knows neither of them will sleep.
Zoë rises with the sun and dresses silently. Helen watches her. When she’s fully dressed, Zoë approaches the bed and kneels down beside Helen. She reaches into her pocket and draws out a toy in a little plastic bag.
“Was at McDonalds yesterday. Got you this for Ethan.”
Helen smiles, but it doesn’t stop tears from forming in her eyes.
“I’m scared, Zoë.”
Zoë leans down, resting her forehead against Helen’s.
“That’s good. If you weren’t scared I’d be terrified. Fear keeps you alert. Tom’ll keep you right. He’s got a big brother complex thing going on for you.”
Helen sniffs and nods. Zoë kisses her gently on the lips and stands up.
“I…”
Helen looks up at her.
“Be careful, ‘kay?”
Helen smiles.
“Course.”
Zoë stands a few more seconds before making her way out of the room, tears blurring her vision.
5.
“She’ll be OK, she’ll be OK, she’ll be OK.”
It runs through her head like a mantra as she navigates the streets on the way to the safe house. Safe house. They’d be there and they’d be safe. When she arrives she has to force herself to take the necessary precautions.
Her hand is shaking as she pushes open the door, sweeping the floor with her torch. The light catches movement and she quickly ascertains that it is Tom. He is sitting on the floor. There’s blood on his face. He scrambles back as she approaches.
“It’s me.”
Her breath is coming fast and her heart is thundering. He is alone.
“Tom, where’s Helen?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. He is broken.
She sinks to the floor, her face in her hands.
*
At Thames house everyone is being so terribly English and stiff-upper lipped that it makes her sick. She stands alone, looking at Helen’s desk. The enormity hasn’t hit her yet. It’s not real. Because Helen’s desk looks the same. Her screen still has post-its stuck to the side and her pink fluffy pen is still in the desk-tidy. How can she be dead?
Danny comes up behind her. He doesn’t speak but she sees understanding in his eyes. She lets him hold her.
“Take me home.”
She spends the journey looking out of the car window. Trying to convince herself that it’s true.
Danny follows her into the house and she can’t be bothered to stop him. She enters her room and sits on the bed. Danny stands, surveying the place.
“Jesus. What a shithole.”
She’s hit by a flash of Helen, hanging over the edge of the bed, smiling at her.
The tears come. She covers her mouth with her hand, tries to stifle them. She’s a spy, for God’s sake, she can hide her emotions. She takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry.”
She’s not sure what she’s apologising for. Danny comes closer.
“So, you ask me to give you a lift home and then you show me this.”
She wipes her nose on her sleeve, wishes he would stop talking, wishes he would just leave. But he doesn’t.
“Sorry, but. No way. I can’t leave you here. Come stay with me.”
She looks up at him, unsure what he’s offering.
“Come on. Move in.”
And then the fury hits.
“You’re thinking about your lease!”
He has the good grace to look down. She stands up, bringing herself to her full height. It feels good to be angry.
“Helen’s been dead for two seconds and all you can think about is your cashflow, you make me sick!”
He steps back, surprised by the outburst. The fury dies as quickly as it came. She covers her face with her hands, the tears flowing freely now.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh God, what a thing to say.”
She sits back down on the bed and weeps. He stands and watches her.
*
The funeral is surreal. Some vicar spouting lies about Helen. A car accident. Bollocks. She glances at the front pew and sees Helen’s mother crying into a handkerchief. She dips her eyes. At least she’ll never know how her daughter met her end.
She idly wonders what they’ll say about her when she goes. Not the truth. Never the truth.
When the service ends she needs to get out. She feels like she’s suffocating and the cold air outside is welcome. She comforts Jed, glad to concentrate on someone else’s grief for a while.
*
She takes a week off. Harry doesn’t ask any questions. No-one does.
On her return, Helen’s desk has been cleared. She’d bet a pound to a penny her record’s been wiped too. Helen Flynn never existed. In some ways it makes it easier. In some ways, it doesn’t.
It’s late when he comes to her as she knew he would. She’s at her desk looking at her monitor without seeing it. He stands silently.
“I’m sorry.”
She thinks of all of the responses she’s come up with in the past week. All of the accusations and the whys and the what ifs. She looks up into his eyes and knows that he’s been through them all already.
“I know.”
He walks away. She turns back to the screen. A second later she calls out to him.
“Tom?”
He stops and turns around.
“Just…make sure you tell Ellie you love her. OK?”
He nods once. She looks away. Once his footsteps have faded, she cries.
Author: Angie
Fandom: Spooks
Pairing: Zoe/Helen
Summary: Five vignettey type things about Zoe and Helen's relationship. Set before and around the first three episodes of series one.
Rating: UK-15(ish) There's sex and swearing.
Author's Notes 1: Lisa Faulkner's death in Spooks traumatised me the first time. So much so that I didn't watch Spooks again. But I have recently forced myself to watch the whole of the first series. And it occurred to me that Zoe seemed an awful lot more upset at Helen's death than anyone else did. Thus, in my mind, they were obviously having a torrid affair.
Author's Notes 2: I have not cross-posted this anywhere because I am completely new to the Spooks fandom and am trying to remain unspoiled for the rest of the series (I have S2 & S3 ready to rock) so I haven't investigated any comms yet. Any recommendations?
Author's Notes 3: This has nothing to do with the fic, but I was absolutely flabbergasted when I found out that both Matthew Macfadyen and Keeley Hawes were younger than Lisa Faulkner. I am assuming that their characters were supposed to be older than her.
1.
Zoë stares intently at the screen. She’s not even sure if she’s seeing it anymore. Green and black and purple dance before her stinging eyes, making her head throb and forming patterns that a psychiatrist would have a field day with.
Then everything goes black.
Warm hands are covering her eyes and she reaches up to grab her assailant’s slender wrists.
“Guess who?”
She pretends to think.
“Hmmm…Jack the Ripper?”
“Nope.”
“The Pope?”
“Last guess.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be that sexy young girl that gets the coffee would you?”
The hands move to her shoulders and spin her around in her chair. Helen is pouting and Zoë laughs, pulling her down to sit on her lap. She wraps her arms around Helen’s waist and tickles her gently, eliciting a slight smile before the pout returns.
“That’s not funny. That’s what they think of me, you know.”
Zoë kisses Helen’s collar bone and presses her nose into her shoulder.
“No they don’t. Not all of them. Tom thinks you’re the bees’ knees.”
“Tessa doesn’t.”
Zoë shakes her head.
“She’ll come around. You’ll win her over with your abundant charms and immense, but not always obvious, intelligence. You’ll see.”
Helen brightens, smiling down at Zoë.
“You think?”
“I know.”
Helen leans down and presses her lips to Zoë’s, wrapping her arms around her neck. Zoë closes her eyes and revels in the feeling, forgetting all about her headache. When Helen’s mouth moves down her jaw and onto her neck she lets her head roll back in contentment.
“You’ve been smoking.”
Helen sits up and breathes into her hand.
“I had a polo-mint after!”
“Does he know you don’t actually smoke and you only go out there to moon over him and his baby blues?”
“I do not!”
“Oh you do so! He’s your big, manly hero.”
“Jealous, are you?”
Zoë pulls Helen down to meet her lips. But doesn’t answer the question.
“Why are you here so late anyway?”
Helen speaks in between kisses.
“Doing some reading. And waiting for you.”
Zoë’s hand slips up Helen’s back, under her top.
“Back to mine, then, is it?”
Helen draws away and smiles sadly at her.
“Can’t tonight…Sarah’s dropping Ethan off first thing.”
Zoë nods, far more saddened than she ought to be by the statement.
“’Course, I forgot.”
Helen rubs her nose against Zoë’s, making her smile.
“I didn’t want to leave without seeing you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Helen looks around the empty office, then back at Zoë.
“What d’you think they make of this?”
“Of what?”
“Of what they must see on the tapes.”
Zoë shrugs and stretches up for another kiss.
“I s’pose it’s two less people for them to vet.”
“D’you think they mind?”
“About us?”
“About us kissing on their time.”
“Sometimes, it feels like my whole life is their time. They can’t grudge me this.”
Helen pauses, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind that.
2.
Another assignment completed, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste for all involved. There had been no alternative but to go to the pub and get rat-arsed.
They stumble through Zoë’s front door, giggling and kissing and leaning on one another. Zoë pushes Helen against the wall and kisses her. They slide back towards the still open door, only Helen’s outstretched hand prevents them from falling to the floor. The resulting slam sets them off giggling again.
“Ssssshhhhhhhh! You’ll wake the pervy landlord!”
Helen grins, eyelids heavy with alcohol.
“Is he good-looking?”
“No, he is not good-looking. He’s fat and he smells funny.”
“Well, we don’t want to wake him then.”
Zoë takes Helen’s hand and leads her up the stairs, ssssshhhing the occasional giggle that bubbles out of the darkness behind her. They reach her room and she fumbles for the light as Helen fumbles with the zip on her jeans. She just manages to wedge a chair under the door handle before the jeans are around her ankles and causing problems as she tries to walk to the bed. She falls onto it, landing on top of Helen.
Helen tries to reverse their positions and only succeeds in rolling Zoë off the narrow bed and onto the floor. She makes a solid thud as she lands. Helen’s head appears over the side of the bed.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!”
Zoë is about to respond when she hears footfalls on the stairs. She holds a finger to her lips.
A light knock on the door.
“Zoë?”
Helen slides off the bed onto Zoë, smirking. Zoë puts a hand across Helen’s mouth, just in case. Helen’s tongue is hot against her palm.
Another knock.
“Zoë, I heard bangin’, you OK?”
Helen’s fingers dance down her stomach and slip into her underwear. She gasps.
“Zoë?”
She decides that it’s best to answer. Last thing she needs is him bursting in on this.
“I’m fine, Kevin. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
A particularly hard stroke almost makes her cry out but she bites her lip.
“Mmmmhmmmm.”
“’Kay then, if you’re sure.”
His footsteps fade away and she removes her hand from Helen’s mouth, claiming her lips roughly, pressing up into Helen’s hand, matching her rhythm. She tenses, rising off the floor, muscles protesting as her back arches just too much.
Helen’s name passes her lips as a whisper.
Helen leans on her elbows and rests her chin in her hands, gazing down at Zoë. Zoë is bone tired from work and drink and sex, but manages to reach up and stroke Helen’s hair back.
“What?”
Helen grins.
“When I grow up I wanna be just like you.”
Zoë laughs and looks around the room at the books falling off the shelves, the piles of clothing that won’t fit in the wardrobe, the tiny broken down bed.
“Yeah, living it up in the lap of luxury, I can see why you’d want to be me.”
Helen shrugs.
“I do. I wanna be like you.”
Zoë is never sure how to take compliments. And she has never been told that someone wants to be like her before. She’s always the one who wants to be someone else. She can’t think of anything to say.
“I always said you weren’t right in the head.”
Helen pushes herself up enough to grab the quilt from the bed and tugs it down to cover them. She lays her head on Zoë’s shoulder. The floor is hard against Zoë’s back, especially with Helen’s weight pushing down as well as her own.
But looking down at the tousled head of blonde hair on her chest, she can’t bring herself to complain.
3.
“C’mon, I’m freezing my arse off here.”
“I can’t find any lime.”
“Never mind the fucking lime. Just hurry up and do it.”
“I’ve got a lemon…or an orange. The lemon’s probably better, right. The orange would be too sweet.”
“Helen!”
“OK.”
Helen pops up from behind the bar and smiles broadly at the sight awaiting her. Zoë is lying on the bar in Helen and Danny’s flat. She is naked and she has tequila in her navel. Glistening, sticky trails show where impatience and fidgeting have made the tequila run out and over Zoë’s abdomen.
Helen runs a hand up Zoë’s leg, setting off tremors that cause yet more spillage.
“C’mon, I’m cold.”
“So I see.”
Zoë could contradict her and tell her that her hardened nipples are more to do with arousal than cold. But she doesn’t. She just watches, straining her neck, as Helen shakes a line of salt between her breasts. Her head jerks back as Helen licks it off, before plunging her tongue into Zoë’s belly-button, lapping at the liquid and getting as much of it on her chin and on Zoë as in her mouth.
Lifting her head, she bites into the wedge of lemon, screwing her face up in disgust.
“Jesus Christ!”
Zoë sits up and hops down off the bar, grabbing Helen and tasting salt, tequila and lemon juice mixed tantalisingly on her lips. Helen’s hand slides between Zoë’s breasts and down over her stomach. She smiles against Zoë’s lips.
“We should go into the shower. You’re all sticky and salty.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Completely mine.”
“As long as you know.”
“I couldn’t very well have a bar in my front room and not do body-shots on it, could I?”
“Because that would be sacrilege.”
“Exactly.”
Helen is walking backwards, leading Zoë to the bathroom. Once inside she turns on the shower and tests the temperature. She steps into the spacious cubicle and beckons for Zoë to join her.
The water is hot on her chilled skin and Zoë shivers. Helen is standing with her face turned up to the spray and Zoë wraps her whole body around her, skin meets skin, slickly. It’s Helen’s turn to shiver as she feels Zoë’s body against her back, soft and strong in equal measure.
Inexplicably, Zoë feels her eyes well up and her throat tighten. She presses her forehead to Helen’s shoulder and closes her eyes. Why suddenly showering with Helen should turn her into a blubbering wreck is beyond her. Perhaps it’s fear. Maybe she’s scared that this cocoon of warmth and happiness is as fragile as the steam clouding her view.
Or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t know how to cope with her feelings. She’s terrified that this one person feels so right.
Helen turns in her arms and holds her close. The water drones constantly on the plastic walls.
4.
She slips noiselessly into the flat and makes her way to Helen’s room. She’s sure Danny knows about them anyway, but it’s strangely satisfying to be in and out of his home without him knowing anything about it.
Helen’s bedroom is in darkness but Zoë can tell that she’s not sleeping. She shrugs out of her jacket and moves further into the room. She sits at the foot of the bed, pulling off her boots. Arms wrap around her from behind and Helen’s chin comes to rest on her shoulder. She turns slightly so that their cheeks are touching.
“I got your text.”
Helen doesn’t respond, just tightens her grip on Zoë slightly.
“What exactly is this ‘big girl mission’ then?”
“I’m going with Tom.”
Zoë turns around quickly, dislodging Helen’s hold.
“What? On Greensleeves?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to the runner?”
“Car accident. Drunk as a skunk.”
“Jesus. So why are you going with him?”
Helen recoils slightly and turns her face away.
“Dunno. Must be the last resort.”
Zoë crawls onto the bed and gently draws Helen’s face back around. Even in the dim light, she can see tears glistening in Helen’s eyes and hates herself for it.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…well, this is your first field assignment and they’re sending you deep undercover? It’s a big deal.”
“And you don’t think I’m up to it.”
The hurt in Helen’s voice hits Zoë in the chest. But her fear overrides the need to make the hurt go away.
“I don’t think they should’ve asked you. It’s too much to ask of you on your first time out.”
Helen pulls away and climbs under the covers. Zoë sighs. She strips down to her t-shirt and gets into bed. She slips an arm around Helen’s waist, pulling her back against her. She tries desperately to think of the right thing to say.
“This isn’t about me not thinking you’re good enough. You’re more than good enough, you’re far better than half the agents out there. It’s about me worrying about you. I just…I don’t think I want you out in that world yet, I just want you safe.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re out in that world.”
But that’s different. She just needs to explain the difference. But the words won’t come. She pulls Helen tighter against her and closes her eyes. She knows neither of them will sleep.
Zoë rises with the sun and dresses silently. Helen watches her. When she’s fully dressed, Zoë approaches the bed and kneels down beside Helen. She reaches into her pocket and draws out a toy in a little plastic bag.
“Was at McDonalds yesterday. Got you this for Ethan.”
Helen smiles, but it doesn’t stop tears from forming in her eyes.
“I’m scared, Zoë.”
Zoë leans down, resting her forehead against Helen’s.
“That’s good. If you weren’t scared I’d be terrified. Fear keeps you alert. Tom’ll keep you right. He’s got a big brother complex thing going on for you.”
Helen sniffs and nods. Zoë kisses her gently on the lips and stands up.
“I…”
Helen looks up at her.
“Be careful, ‘kay?”
Helen smiles.
“Course.”
Zoë stands a few more seconds before making her way out of the room, tears blurring her vision.
5.
“She’ll be OK, she’ll be OK, she’ll be OK.”
It runs through her head like a mantra as she navigates the streets on the way to the safe house. Safe house. They’d be there and they’d be safe. When she arrives she has to force herself to take the necessary precautions.
Her hand is shaking as she pushes open the door, sweeping the floor with her torch. The light catches movement and she quickly ascertains that it is Tom. He is sitting on the floor. There’s blood on his face. He scrambles back as she approaches.
“It’s me.”
Her breath is coming fast and her heart is thundering. He is alone.
“Tom, where’s Helen?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. He is broken.
She sinks to the floor, her face in her hands.
*
At Thames house everyone is being so terribly English and stiff-upper lipped that it makes her sick. She stands alone, looking at Helen’s desk. The enormity hasn’t hit her yet. It’s not real. Because Helen’s desk looks the same. Her screen still has post-its stuck to the side and her pink fluffy pen is still in the desk-tidy. How can she be dead?
Danny comes up behind her. He doesn’t speak but she sees understanding in his eyes. She lets him hold her.
“Take me home.”
She spends the journey looking out of the car window. Trying to convince herself that it’s true.
Danny follows her into the house and she can’t be bothered to stop him. She enters her room and sits on the bed. Danny stands, surveying the place.
“Jesus. What a shithole.”
She’s hit by a flash of Helen, hanging over the edge of the bed, smiling at her.
The tears come. She covers her mouth with her hand, tries to stifle them. She’s a spy, for God’s sake, she can hide her emotions. She takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry.”
She’s not sure what she’s apologising for. Danny comes closer.
“So, you ask me to give you a lift home and then you show me this.”
She wipes her nose on her sleeve, wishes he would stop talking, wishes he would just leave. But he doesn’t.
“Sorry, but. No way. I can’t leave you here. Come stay with me.”
She looks up at him, unsure what he’s offering.
“Come on. Move in.”
And then the fury hits.
“You’re thinking about your lease!”
He has the good grace to look down. She stands up, bringing herself to her full height. It feels good to be angry.
“Helen’s been dead for two seconds and all you can think about is your cashflow, you make me sick!”
He steps back, surprised by the outburst. The fury dies as quickly as it came. She covers her face with her hands, the tears flowing freely now.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh God, what a thing to say.”
She sits back down on the bed and weeps. He stands and watches her.
*
The funeral is surreal. Some vicar spouting lies about Helen. A car accident. Bollocks. She glances at the front pew and sees Helen’s mother crying into a handkerchief. She dips her eyes. At least she’ll never know how her daughter met her end.
She idly wonders what they’ll say about her when she goes. Not the truth. Never the truth.
When the service ends she needs to get out. She feels like she’s suffocating and the cold air outside is welcome. She comforts Jed, glad to concentrate on someone else’s grief for a while.
*
She takes a week off. Harry doesn’t ask any questions. No-one does.
On her return, Helen’s desk has been cleared. She’d bet a pound to a penny her record’s been wiped too. Helen Flynn never existed. In some ways it makes it easier. In some ways, it doesn’t.
It’s late when he comes to her as she knew he would. She’s at her desk looking at her monitor without seeing it. He stands silently.
“I’m sorry.”
She thinks of all of the responses she’s come up with in the past week. All of the accusations and the whys and the what ifs. She looks up into his eyes and knows that he’s been through them all already.
“I know.”
He walks away. She turns back to the screen. A second later she calls out to him.
“Tom?”
He stops and turns around.
“Just…make sure you tell Ellie you love her. OK?”
He nods once. She looks away. Once his footsteps have faded, she cries.
