Harry Pearce is in trouble.
Big trouble.
And I’m sitting here, heart rate elevated, breath coming fast, as worried as if Harry were real.
Several months ago I discovered MI5. It’s running on the local PBS station. Programs from an early series air on Thursday nights at 9:00. Programs from a more recent series air on Friday nights at 10:00 and rerun Sundays at midnight.
I’m hooked. I watch them all.
The scripts are well-written, suspenseful, fast. They assume a modicum of intelligence on the part of the viewer.
And they’re unpredictable.
The writers kill their stars.
I’ve seen several go. One was dispatched just now.
I knew it was going to happen. A couple of months ago I read some plot summaries online.
I almost never read ahead, but in this case I’m glad I did. I was able to prepare myself. Knowing made things easier.
The thing is, I didn’t read far enough. I didn’t know Harry would be threatened.
If the writers did away with all the others, there’s no reason they should flinch at disposing of Harry.
So I don’t know what will happen.
And I care what happens.
Ten more minutes…
