Thank you, once more, to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; making it such a pleasure to write.

Chapter Twenty: When Hope and History Rhyme.

"History says, don't hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime,
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme."

(Seamus Heaney: the Cure at Troy, 1991)

It was Sunday morning when the sunlight broke through the clouds. It came to say goodbye to the politicians as they packed up and left, ready to get on with what the public pay them for. If Harry turned to his left, he could see the First Minister, Kyle McCracken, saying farewell to Nathan. Hands are shaken; the great man almost departs, then turns back to the Junior Case Officer. Words he cannot hear are spoken, then they embrace. A fleeting, manly-man hug that makes Ruth smile. Oliver, newly released from Hospital, lingers in the shadow of the porch leading into the castle, too timid to approach the Spooks. But soon Nathan returns to him and guides him over, arm in arm as he is still unsteady on his feet. All of Nathan's eager, bullish confidence had melted away, leaving only a vast tender softness in its wake. Harry knew that look, that feeling: Ruth had teased it out of him, all those years ago.

Immediately, Ruth made a fuss of them. She reached into her handbag and started fishing about in its obscure depths. For one terrible moment, he thought she was about to dig out a hankie and spit wash their faces. But she produces nothing more than a pack of gum, offering it to them both. He decided to leave them to it.

With his hands in his pockets, he set off slowly across the lawns to soak up the last rays of autumn sun. The trees were almost bare now. Soon, the early frosts would come in. The surface of the nearby pond would freeze and the Mourne Mountains would turn white with snow. The Silent Valley would shine like the stars. He could feel the turning of the season, the on-coming change. Another rotation of a cyclical wheel. Progressing slowly, but never stopping altogether. That was the reality behind Northern Ireland in this century. It may look like everything was frozen and dead; but it was only a regeneration, another fleeting change. Spring will bring the thaw, the world will bloom once more and everything will look completely different. And so will the peace process.

He began the ascent up the gentle hill, breathing in the crisp clean air. Knowing he was not alone, he recognised the man standing at the crest of the hill. He greeted the other man with a breathless smile.

"You're out of shape if this leaves you huffing and puffing," said Sean Mallon.

His ten-mile, cross-country running days were over. That much he knew. "Unlike yourself, Sean. Still at the apex of your physical peak, I see."

"Actually no, I'm bloody knackered and my knees are killing me," he replied, sucking on a cigarette.

Harry laughed as he reached the top of the climb. It was steeper than it looked. Once they drew level, they stood in silence and looked out over the mountains. If Harry turned around, he could see Cavehill in the north and Divis to the left. The whole of Belfast was ringed by rolling, rugged mountains. The city was nestled in the heart of them, dissected down the middle by the river Lagan that opened out onto a wide lough. The Harland and Wolf cranes were tiny as matchsticks on the horizon. Distant church bells chimed from afar.

"So, did the talks achieve anything?" asked Mallon.

Harry answered honestly. "I have no idea."

Mallon laughed deeply. "You won't be the only one, I bet you that. Half those buck-eejits have no idea what they were there for."

"I suspected as much," replied Harry. "We should be grateful, though. It's a real sign of progress that your politicians are now feathering their own nests with an enthusiasm that equals their English counterparts."

Mallon was laughing again. "Just think of all those years our lot had to spend pretending they had real principles. They've a lot of making up to do, you know."

With the DUP being hit with expenses scandals and controversy over Government contracts to rejuvenate the Giant's Causeway, Stormont was already closing in on Westminster. They had also voted themselves a fat pay rise – proving themselves to be fast learners.

Together, Harry and Sean strolled along the top of the hill they had scaled, taking in the view. Only once they reached a broad, bare oak tree did they pause. Mallon turned to Harry, a frown deepening his brow.

"When I was young, I saw things in very simple terms," he said, once more scanning the horizon. "The way I looked at it was this: when the British Army came to Ireland and started carrying out operations against the Irish people; that wasn't the British Army defending Britain – that was the British Army attacking Ireland. Answer me honestly: what would you do if France decided it owned Britain and rocked up on the southern shores and began attacking? Like 1066 all over again. Would you let them take over, or would you fight them back?"

There was no anger or recrimination in Mallon's voice. He was only explaining. Attempting to show how Britain's actions looked through the eyes of Irish natives. But as he had already confessed, it was simplistic.

"But, if more than fifty percent of England's population legitimately identified themselves as French, would France not be morally obligated to protect its people from attack by hostile natives?" he countered. "More so, had France settled those Anglo-French people in England several centuries before and promised to protect them. It scarcely matters that the French have no right to be in England; the fact is they are and that's the reality we must deal with. Well, in our little hypothetical situation, at any rate."

But even so, Harry was loath to admit letting France come rolling into Britain like they owned the place. Mallon picked his nations well. But the old IRA man smiled.

"That's where the shades of grey come in," he said. "That's what we learned as time went on. That's when I realised this peace process was essential and that the IRA could not win against the British Army. We are two different cultures sharing one homeland and, one day, all the animosity will melt away. You and I will always have that lingering bitterness. But our grandkid's grandkids won't give a shit. I hope."

Harry smiled. "I share that hope, Sean. I really do."

They lapsed into a momentary silence, each lost in their own thoughts and perceptions. There was no longer any point in dragging out isolated incidents and holding them up to scrutiny and saying "this is why you're evil." They could spend another forty years doing that and it would get them precisely nowhere. Harry remembered being physically sick when he saw film footage of two plain-clothed British Army soldiers dragged from a car and beaten to death after they accidentally strayed into an IRA funeral. But three days before that, Mallon had given chase to a Loyalist Paramilitary throwing grenades into another funeral procession. One event would not have happened without the other and there was no such thing as an "isolated event". It was a deadly chain stretching back centuries, binding both countries in deadly enmity. Now, it was time to break that chain.

"It's funny how the past lingers," said Harry. "You know there's a vigil happening outside the gates of the Castle – for the peace and reconciliation committee. I passed it the other day and thought I saw an old friend of mine among them. But it cannot have been him."

"Dead?" asked Mallon.

Harry nodded. "A long time."

"I am sorry to hear that, Harry. I am sorry for us all," said Mallon. "But they agreed to set up the committee didn't they?"

"They did. That was one thing these talks did achieve. Will you be attending?"

"Maybe. If I'm called," Mallon replied. "It will either reopen old wounds; or set the past to rights. I don't know which yet."

With that, Mallon smiled and extended his hand. Harry shook it willingly.

"Go home and grow old, Harry," said Mallon. "You've earned it."

"You too, Sean."

Both men turned and walked away, each going their own direction. Separate paths, but probably leading back to the same place. At least until Harry met William Towers, who was approaching from the bottom of the hill looking worried. Harry knew that look and stopped dead in his tracks, a cold dread closing over him once more.

Ruth paid for the drinks with her credit card, handing it over to the barman with an apologetic look on her face.

"They aren't all mine," she said, gesturing to the seven pints of Guinness laid out in front of her.

Tariq appeared at her side, ready to help her carry them over to the table the team had commandeered.

"Don't listen to her, she's lying," he said, flatly. "She's incorrigible."

"Oh, ha ha."

He dextrously squeezed four of the pint pots into his hands before conveying them to team, while Ruth took up the remaining with her returned credit card between her teeth. Although nearly time to go home, it had been deemed indecent for them to have been in Ireland this long without sampling the nation's most famous delicacy. Once they were all settled, she looked around for Harry – still conspicuous by his absence.

"Harry isn't about to pass up the opportunity for a drink," said Ros. "I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Deciding she was right, Ruth turned her attention to her own pint. She had tried to get away with a half-glass, but the looks of scornful derision from the others had convinced her otherwise. Lifting the heavy glass to her lips, she took a tentative sip. To her, it still tasted like tar, but it was clear she was in the minority.

"I'll never be able to drink that black foetid piss you get in London, ever again," said Lucas.

"I'm surprised you were able to drink it in the first place, it's an obscenity," said Beth, newly out of hospital.

Ruth let them chatter and enjoy their drink, relishing a happy end to a complex and delicate operation. But the space beside her where Harry should have been, with its untouched pint, kept drawing her eye. Worriedly, she cast a glance over her shoulder, wondering where he had got to. Finally, he appeared looking flustered and ill-tempered. Even his tie was crooked.

"William bloody Towers," he muttered darkly, stepping round Ruth and taking the only vacant seat.

Before she could ask what was wrong, he had taken his pint and downed near half of it. Once done, he held up the glass and looked at it curiously.

"It is a lot better here, you know," he observed. "Not like that black bile they serve everywhere else."

The others laughed as he echoed Lucas' sentiments of not five minutes previously.

"Yet you still manage to put away a fair share of that black bile," Ruth observed, smiling. "Anyway, what about William bloody Towers?"

"Oh nothing," Harry waved her away. "We've time for another round, haven't we?"

"We have a plane to catch-"

"Of course we do!" everyone else cut over Ruth.

Harry had brushed her off. Ruth knew it, but wouldn't raise the issue here in front of everyone else. Instead, she sat back and let them banter until they could delay leaving no longer. Their cars were parked out the front, their luggage already being loaded into the back. Finally, it was time to go home. On their way out, they all took one last look at the castle and the mountains.

Everything empty, now that the politicians had gone. But when she looked to the gates, Ruth could see the candle lit vigil was still going on. It had been going on since the day before last, but they hadn't noticed amongst the all the activity of the Op. Only a few of them remained. Some held placards with the names of the dead. Others nursed tiny candles, nursing the delicate flames against the breeze. Another one, a dark haired man in his late twenties held nothing, but was looking straight at her. Their eyes met, the intensity of his hard stare making her inwardly flinch. But soon he moved from her, to whoever was standing behind her.

"Ruth, come on," said Harry, tugging at her elbow.

Minutes later, they were passing through the gates for the final time. Past the people lingering at the vigil, where Ruth looked for the man again. But he was gone. She turned her gaze from the vigil to Harry.

"Did you see that man?" she asked.

"No," he replied, turning the page of the paper.

She waited for him to add something, but he didn't, she continued: "He was looking right at me, or you. Tall, dark hair. About twenty-"

"No, Ruth. I didn't see him."

Ruth let the matter go and turned to watch the scenery passing by. They had only arrived four days ago, but it felt much longer after all that had happened. They were all tired and the last thing she wanted was a squabble with Harry. So tired, that the flight was the best opportunity they had had to get some much needed sleep.

Once back in London, Lucas and Ros took it upon themselves to take Beth home. But Harry, Ruth, Nathan and Olly lingered at the airport. They trailed down the steps of the plane and out on to the tarmac, standing some way off before forming a line. Under a grey sky, the mood quietened further as a small group of immaculately uniformed soldiers formed up at the cargo hold near the rear of the aircraft.

Harry slipped his arms around Ruth's middle, holding her tightly as the coffin – now draped in a union jack flag – was carried out onto the tarmac. A lone bugler played the Last Post as the remains of the real Andrew Gillan were borne to a waiting hearse. The forgotten victim that no one knew existed. Ruth watched him go with a tear in her eye. One more strand of the conflict closed.

"So, what did William Towers want?"

They ordered a take away, rather than cook on their first night back. An Italian meal served out of the boxes it came in. A bottle of wine was open on the dining room table between them. But Harry had remained quiet and withdrawn all evening and it was more than just the upheaval of the day. She thought he was about to brush her off again, but he put down his knife and fork, speaking to her without distraction.

"You know this Truth and Reconciliation thing the politicians agreed to host?" he asked.

Ruth nodded. "Yeah. It's modelled on the one in South Africa, isn't it? Victims and perpetrators come together to talk about the past, all under the same roof."

Harry nodded. "Towers is trying to rope me into it."

"You can't Harry," she replied. "It's not safe. You're a serving MI5 man, desk job or no."

"But ex-Servicemen are being interviewed from behind screens and with actors doing their voice-overs," he explained. "It will be pre-recorded."

It was still a chance for all those involved to tell their stories. A great unburdening of a bitter past and lingering pain. Ruth hated the word, but it sounded like 'closure.'

"If your anonymity is guaranteed, then I am all for it," she declared, waving a forkful of pasta.

Harry snorted derisively. "And what would I tell them?"

"Everything," she retorted. "But Bill Crombie would be a good place to start."

She watched as Harry paled and shutters come down.

"There is nothing to say on the matter," he bluntly stated, downing the rest of his wine.

That night, they lay in their own bed, sleepless and silent. Harry turned on his side, facing the far wall, where the curtains failed to block the streetlamp glare. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the man at the vigil. Bill Crombie Junior was the spitting image of his father; it was small wonder he'd taken him for a ghost when Harry first spotted him among those holding vigil outside the castle gates. Truth and reconciliation, Harry thought, it was just beyond his grasp. But maybe, one day, the time may come when hope and history rhyme.

The End.

Thank you again for taking the time to read and review this story, it means a lot. Thank you.

The story, however, is not quite over. There will be a sequel covering the Crombie issues, but I have no idea when it will be published.

It's very hard to add anything about the content of this story (which as you know is very much grounded in reality) without sounding trite or twee. Four thousand people were killed; sixty thousand left seriously injured. Countless others left grieving and deeply traumatised. I have lived in Northern Ireland for fifteen years and saw the peace process transform this place first hand. From when Army foot patrols still roamed the streets, until we saw them leave for the final time and everything in between. This war is over and this place is beautiful. Thank you again, and see you soon.