Amazing, isn't it? How quickly things change, I mean. Today seemed such a normal day. I got up - as usual…I showered - as usual…ate breakfast - as usual…dressed and went to work - as usual…arrived five minutes late - as usual…and settled down to work -as usual. I noticed a bit of a buzz going around - but this is MI5…there's ALWAYS some kind of buzz. Office gossip here is generally one step above who was seen snogging who at the coffee machine. It always makes me smile that an organisation that deals in secrets is so bad at keeping them from its own staff. Anyway, it didn't take long for Lisa to edge her way over to me - there's a lady who really could have gone far here. She can squirrel secrets out of practically anyone…her only trouble is that she's got a mouth like the Mersey Tunnel and finds it impossible not to tell everyone what she's discovered.

"Heard the latest?" She asked, her eyes gleaming. I smiled and sat back - she always finds the juiciest gossip and you can generally bet happily on its accuracy.

"Go on," I said, anticipating something along of the lines of one of the office girls caught snogging someone who wasn't her husband.

"Peter Salter's dead," she said eagerly. "Killed himself …"

Her words seemed to fade away after that. She was still talking but I couldn't hear her. The blood was pounding in my ears…my heart was thudding so much I thought it would burst out of my chest. It was as if I been punched in the stomach and hit over the head - at the same time. Have you heard the expression "you could have knocked me down with a feather"? Well - that sums it up perfectly. Stunned…shocked…pick your word. All that was going through my mind was Peter…his name…his face…along with complete and utter disbelief. I had to ask Lisa to repeat what she said - she looked at me surprised before comprehension suddenly dawned.

"Oh…I'm sorry," she said, "I forgot that you had known him."

Yes, I had known Peter…I had been his contact on a lengthy undercover op…but they didn't know the half of it. I think Lisa realised there was more to it than met the eye - she immediately offered to find out more…probably in the expectation that I would return the favour. I accepted her offer - but couched it in such terms as to make it quite clear that she wasn't to ask me for details. She agreed - I think she's of the opinion that I will change my mind at a later date…but that's not going to happen. A few hours later, she casually dropped a large envelope on my desk. I opened it in plain view, making no attempt to hide it - that would have been the worst thing I could have done - and started reading the few sheets of paper inside. I should have waited. It was too much…too much to take in. I felt closed in…the air felt oppressive and I knew I had to get out of there before I broke down completely. So, I grabbed my bag, made some excuses and left…

I've taken the afternoon off…which is why I'm sat here now…in front of the fire…with a bottle of wine and a few photographs. I want…I want to think about Peter…nothing else…just him. I can remember our first meeting…remember looking up at him and thinking "wow…photos do NOT do this guy justice". He looked rather disappointed when he saw me - he explained later that it was because he felt his operation was too important to be handled by someone as green as me. He was probably right - I rarely knew what I was doing half the time. I constantly worried that I’d screw it up somehow…and in this game, a screw-up could cost a life. Peter always managed to make me feel better…he’d smile and say "take care, love" at the end of each of our meetings. They were usually last minute affairs, which caused me to drop everything and run - until one night…during which everything changed. Peter left an interesting message that resulted in me dressing up and meeting him at a restaurant. Turned out he was being followed - and needed to allay suspicion because he’d been seen with me. That was more than fine with me - a free night out courtesy of MI5 didn’t come along that often and I was determined to make the most of it. So was Peter it seemed. We didn’t talk business - we merely enjoyed each other’s company. And what company he was - witty, charming and with an intensity in his gaze that quite took my breath away. I’d seen it before, briefly, but that had been business…this most definitely was not. As we left the restaurant and his arm went around me I had almost forgotten the reason for the dinner in the first place - I was very soon reminded as Peter whispered quickly to me, skilfully pinpointing at least three men who were watching us.

"Back to my place, I think," he said softly. I looked at his eyes and damn near lost the ability to speak. I remember nodding at him…remember the taxi journey - hell, how could I forget that taxi journey?

"We have to make this look good," whispered Peter as he leaned close to me. Look good? Who the hell cared about it looking good? I wanted it to feel good…and, if I remember right, I was sending heartfelt thanks to those following Peter for giving me the opportunity. So, a taxi journey of kissing and caressing…whilst of course making sure we could be seen out of the back window. I think, if I remember right, I threw myself into it rather more than I usually would have done. I didn’t want it to stop…and knew that the moment we got inside his house - or rather the house he was using - that we would be back to our usual professional relationship. And that’s exactly what happened. Peter drew back - and calmly explained that I would, for appearances sake, have to spend the night there. It was tough. Mr Gallant took the couch…and insisted on me having the bed. Could I sleep? Could I hell! I wanted him…and I mean WANTED him. Badly. He was the proverbial itch I couldn’t scratch. I tossed and turned for what seemed like an eternity before finally flinging the duvet aside and getting out of bed. I figured a cup of tea would help…or hot chocolate if Peter possessed such a thing. I wandered quietly into the kitchen - studiously avoiding looking at the couch - and put the kettle on. I was searching through the cupboards when I heard Peter softly clear his throat behind me. I apologised for waking him…then I looked up…looked into his eyes. At that moment, we both knew…and seconds later we were kissing hungrily…desperately. Oh we weren’t in love or anything like that - this was want and need - pure and simple. Comfort I suppose. Two lonely people colliding at the right time. It’s a lonely profession we’re in - and you quickly learn to take any opportunity for comfort, for companionship…for whatever moments of love and affection you can find. That’s what Peter and I did. I didn’t love him…I COULD have done…given time…but that didn’t happen. This was sex - boy, was it ever - no expectations…no strings…no consequences. We made it to the bed…just…leaving a trail of clothes from the kitchen. In a way, the whole evening had been foreplay, and I was ready for him the moment he kissed me. The first time was hard and intense - we didn’t "make love"…we fucked - and it was bloody wonderful. The second time was gentler…slower…more…"loving" - for want of a better word. I fell asleep sated and content - pushing down that brief pang of regret that this couldn’t last.

The next morning was as I expected: friendly but professional. We were both at ease - and in a way I rather think it helped us to relate to one another - there were no awkward moments, no regrets. When I left I was smiling...Peter’s familiar "take care, love", ringing in my ears. I rather hoped that those following Peter could see me leaving…could see the expression on my face. I was wearing what I think of as the "smile of the well-shagged". I was happy - and if it happened again, it happened again…if it didn’t…it didn’t. It worked out to be the latter. Peter’s op finished a few days later - our little performance had convinced enough for him to be accepted into the inner circle of the person he was after. Peter obtained the necessary information and was pulled out. That was it. It was over. From that moment on, it was brief encounters between us - we stopped to chat occasionally in corridors…smiled and waved at each other…until the last time I saw him…a little while ago.

I’d heard on the grapevine that he’d just been assigned some big case or other and so, when I saw him near the records office, it was only natural that I stop and congratulate him - wish him luck. He turned to face me…and how I didn’t flinch I will never know. The light in his eyes had all but died…that gorgeous twinkle seemed to be missing. There was a heaviness about him…a sort of tiredness that I’d never seen before. It was a brief meeting - he didn’t seem to want to talk and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I wished him luck and as I moved away he called after me. I turned and Peter smiled slightly…a small smile…but to me it was like a light at the end of a tunnel.

"Take care, love," he said softly, then he turned and walked away. I never saw him again.

So now I’m sitting here…with a couple of photos of Peter. I never thought it would hurt like this…never thought that I would feel like my heart had been ripped out. I can still feel his touch…still smell him…still taste him…still see those gorgeous eyes...hear that soft voice. How can he be gone? Why the hell did he do it? You killed yourself, Peter - bloody went and killed yourself. And why? Because you believed? Or because you didn’t? I don’t know why - did you know? Or was it simply the only way out you could find? It all seems so…pointless. It’s such a bloody waste. I can’t stop crying. It seems like I’ve been crying for hours. I didn’t see him often and yet…I miss him already so damn much. All those stupid sayings go through my head - "he’s in a better place"…"he’s at peace"…well, how the fuck do they know? God, I must look a mess…what would Peter think if he could see me now? Would he be pleased that someone, somewhere missed him? I hope so…I hope you can see this, Peter…wherever you happen to be. I remember reading about some religions believing that good thoughts can help a person find eternal peace…well, I’m sending them after you, Peter. Good thoughts - always good thoughts. You deserve no less. Take care, love.