by Mick Herron
He didn’t answer. He didn’t want Mummy to be happy. He wanted Mummy to be there. That was important.
‘Well then. It won’t be for long. And when I come back—well.’ She dropped a badly folded shirt into the case and turned to him. ‘Maybe I’ll have a surprise for you.’
‘I don’t want a surprise!’
‘Not even a new daddy?’
‘I hate him,’ River said, ‘and I hate you too.’
They were the last words he’d say to her for two years.
His grandmother had been first shocked, then kind, and fussed over him in the kitchen. As soon as her back was turned, he’d slipped out the back door to flee, but here was this man on his knees by a flowerbed; who for the longest time said nothing, but whose silence held River rooted. And in his memory, they at length had the following conversation, though in truth it might have happened at a different time, or possibly never, and was simply one of those episodes the mind constructs to retrospectively explain events that would otherwise remain haphazard.
His grandfather said, ‘You must be River.’
River didn’t reply.
‘Damned silly name. Still. Could have been worse.’
River’s experiences at a number of schools suggested that the old man was wrong about this.
‘You mustn’t think badly of her.’
Not knowing whether yes or no was required, River didn’t answer that either.
‘Blame myself. Don’t blame her. Least of all blame her mother. That would be your grandmother. The lady in the kitchen. She’s never spoken about us, has she?’
That definitely didn’t need a reply.
After a while his grandfather pursed his lips, and examined the patch of earth he was tending. River didn’t know what he was doing: planting flowers or digging up weeds—River had spent his life in flats. Flowers arrived in colourful wrapping, or sprouted in parks. If he could magic himself back to one of those flats now he’d do so, but magic was unavailable. The grandparents he’d encountered in stories were sometimes, not always, benign. There remained the possibility of murderous intent.
‘It’s easier with dogs,’ his grandfather continued.
River didn’t like dogs, but decided to keep this information to himself, until he knew which way the wind was blowing.
‘You look at their paws. Did you know that?’
This time, it seemed an answer was required.
‘No,’ River had said, after a gap of maybe three minutes.
‘No what?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Didn’t know what?’
‘What you said. About dogs.’
‘You look at their paws. If you want to know how big they’re going to get.’ He began trowelling again, satisfied with River’s contribution. ‘Dogs grow into their feet. Children don’t. Their feet grow with them.’
River watched soil dribble down the trowel’s edge. Something red and grey and squirming happened, briefly. A flick of the tool, and it was gone.
‘I don’t mean your mother grew bigger than we’d expected.’
It had been a worm. It had been a worm, and now—if what River had heard was true—it was two worms, in two separate places. He wondered if the worm remembered being just one worm, and if that had been twice as good, or only half. There was no way you could answer such questions. You could learn biology, but that was all.
‘I meant we couldn’t know she was a bolter.’
More trowelling.
‘Made a lot of bad decisions, your mother. Your name was the least of them. And you know what the worst thing is?’
This too required a response, but the best River could manage was a shake of the head.
‘She hasn’t noticed yet.’ He was trowelling harder, as if there were something in the soil to be brought into the light. ‘We all make mistakes, River. Made a couple myself, and some have hurt other people. They’re the ones you shouldn’t get over. The ones you’re meant to learn from. But that’s not your mother’s way. She seems intent on making the same mistake over and over again, and that doesn’t help anyone. Least of all you.’ He gazed up at River. ‘But you mustn’t think badly of her. What I’m saying is, it’s in her nature.’
It was in her nature, River thought now, as he waited for his grandfather to return from the bathroom. That was undeniable, at this point in time. She’d been making the same mistakes ever since, and showed little sign of slowing down.
As for the old man: when River thought back on scenes like that—on the umpire’s hat and the jumper holed at the elbow; at the trowel and the rivulets of sweat creasing his round country face—it was hard not to see it as an act. The props were certainly to hand: big house with wrap-around garden; horses within spitting distance. English country gentleman down to the vocabulary: ‘bolter ’ was a word from early twentieth-century novels; from a world where Waughs and Mitfords played card games on tables designed for the purpose.
Except that acts could shade into reality. When River remembered his childhood in this house, it was always bright summer, and never a cloud in the sky. So perhaps it had worked, the game the O.B. played; and all the clichés he espoused, or pretended to espouse, had left their mark on River. Sunshine in England, and fields stretching into the distance. When he’d become old enough to learn what his grandfather had really done with his life, and determined to do the same himself, those were the scenes he was thinking about, real or not. And the O.B. would have had an answer for that, too: Doesn’t matter if it’s not real. It’s the idea you have to defend.
‘Am I going to live here now?’ he had asked that morning.
‘Yes. Can’t think what else to do with you.’
And now he came back into the room, more sprightly than the way he’d left it. It was on the tip of River’s tongue to ask if he was all right, but he put that tongue to better use, and sipped whisky instead.
His grandfather settled back in his armchair. ‘If Hobden’s on your radar, it’s political.’
‘I heard his name. Can’t remember the context. It rang a bell, that’s all.’
‘In your line of work, lying can be a matter of life and death. You’re going to have to practise, River. Speaking of which, what did you really do to your hand?’
‘Opened a flash-box without the code.’
‘Idiot activity. What was that about?’
‘I wanted to see if I could do it without getting burnt.’
‘Got your answer, didn’t you? Had it seen to?’
It was River’s left hand. If he’d used his right he’d have been quicker and perhaps not burnt himself at all, but he’d taken the pragmatic approach: if the box went off like a grenade, he’d rather lose the hand he didn’t favour. As it was, he’d doused the brief flame with bottled water. The box’s contents got wet, but were undamaged. He’d copied the computer’s files on to a new memory stick, then slid the laptop into the jiffy bag which, like the stick, he’d bought at the stationer’s near Slough House. All this on a bench by a children’s playground.
The hand wasn’t too bad; a bit red, a bit raw. If you wanted to carry a moral from the exercise, it would be that flash-boxes weren’t much cop. Though Spider had been only too happy to believe that Slough House lacked even that degree of technology.
If you wanted another moral, it would be to work out what you’re doing before you do it. The whole episode had been generated by his own slow-burning resentment: at having been sent on an idiot’s errand while Sid went out on an actual op; most of all, at being made Spider Webb’s errand boy … He hadn’t examined the stick’s contents yet. Just having the damn thing was an imprisonable offence.
‘It’s okay,’ he said to his grandfather. ‘A bit scorched. Nothing to worry about.’
‘There’s something on your mind, though.’
‘You know what I’ve been doing for the past month?’
‘Whatever it is, I doubt you’re supposed to tell me about it.’
‘I think
you can be trusted. I’ve been reading mobile phone conversations.’
‘And this is beneath your talents.’
‘It’s a waste of time. They’re hoovered up from high-interest areas, mostly from near the more radical mosques, and the transcripts are generated by voice-recognition software. I’ve only been given those in English, but still, there are thousands of them. The software renders a lot of them gibberish but they’ve all got to be read, and graded as to levels of suspicion. One to ten. Ten being very suspicious. As of this afternoon, I’ve read eight hundred and forty-two of them. You know how many I’ve graded above one?’
His grandfather reached for the bottle.
River made a zero sign with finger and thumb.
His grandfather said, ‘I hope you’re not planning anything foolish, River.’
‘It’s beneath my abilities.’
‘It’s a hoop they’re making you jump through.’
‘I’ve jumped. I’ve jumped over and over again.’
‘They won’t keep you there forever.’
‘You think? What about, I don’t know, Catherine Standish? You think she’s a temporary assignment? Or Min Harper? He left a disk on a train. They’ve a whole club at the MoD of Hooray Henries who’ve left classified disks in taxis without having their lunch privileges revoked. But Harper’s never going back to Regent’s Park, is he? And neither am I.’
‘I don’t know these people, River.’
‘No. No.’ He brushed his brow with his hand, and the smell of ointment stung his nostrils. ‘Sorry. Frustrated, that’s all.’
The O.B. refilled his glass. More whisky was the last thing River needed, but he didn’t demur. He was aware that none of this was easy for his grandfather; suspected that what Jackson Lamb had told him months ago was true: that River would have been out on his ear if not for the O.B. Without this connection, River wouldn’t have been a slow horse, he’d have been melted down for glue. And maybe Lamb was right, too, that this dull, grinding scut-work was intended to make him give up and walk away—and would that be such a bad thing? He wasn’t yet thirty. Time enough to pick up the pieces and have a career that might even, who knows, earn some money.
Except even while that thought was forming, it was packing its bags and heading west. If River had inherited anything from the man sitting with him, it was this obstinate sense that you should see the course you’d chosen to its end.
His grandfather now said, ‘Hobden. You’re not running a game on him, are you?’
‘No,’ River said. ‘His name came up, that’s all.’
‘He used to have pull. He was never an asset, nothing like that—too damn fond of blowing his trumpet—but he had the ear of some important people.’
River said something forgettable about the mighty having fallen.
‘There’s a reason that got to be a cliché. When a Robert Hobden pisses on his chips in public, it doesn’t get forgotten.’ The O.B. didn’t often descend to crudity. He meant River to pay attention. ‘The kind of club he belonged to can’t be seen to change its mind about kicking you out. But remember this, River. Hobden wasn’t excommunicated because of his beliefs. It was because there are certain beliefs you’re supposed to keep under wraps if you want to dine at High Table.’
‘Meaning what he believed in came as no surprise to those around him.’
‘Of course it didn’t.’ River’s grandfather leant back in his chair for the first time since his bathroom excursion. A distant look filmed his eyes, and River had the impression he was looking into the past, when he’d fished in similar waters. ‘So you be careful if you’re thinking about going off reservation. The company Hobden kept before his fall from grace is a lot less savoury than the type he’s mixed with since.’
‘I’m not running a game. I’m not going off reservation.’ Did every occupation come with its own language? ‘And Hobden’s of no interest. Don’t worry, old man. I’m not heading for trouble.’
‘Call me that again and you will be.’ Sensing a natural end to the conversation, River started making the movements you make when you’re ready to leave, but his grandfather hadn’t finished. ‘And I don’t worry. Well, I do, but there’s precious little point in it. You’ll do what you’re going to do, and nothing I say’ll steer you on to any other course.’
River felt a pang. ‘You know I always listen—’
‘It’s not a complaint, River. You’re your mother’s son, that’s all.’ He gave a low chuckle at whatever expression washed across River’s face. ‘You think you get it from me, don’t you? I wish I could claim the credit.’
‘You raised me,’ River said. ‘You and Rose.’
‘But she had you till you were seven. She could have taught the Jesuits a thing or two. Heard from her lately?’
This last thrown in casually, as if they were discussing a former colleague.
River said, ‘Couple of months ago. She called from Barcelona to remind me I’d missed her birthday.’
The O.B. threw his head back, and laughed with genuine amusement. ‘There you go, boy. That’s how you do it. Set your own agenda.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ River told him.
The old man caught his elbow as River bent to kiss his cheek goodbye. ‘Be more than careful, lad. You don’t deserve Slough House. But make a mess trying to break out, and nothing anyone says will save your career.’
Which was as close as his grandfather had ever come to admitting he’d put a word in after the King’s Cross fiasco.
‘I’ll be careful,’ he repeated, and left to catch his train.
He was still thinking about that the following morning. I’ll be careful. How many times did you hear that, immediately before somebody had an accident? I’ll be careful. But there was nothing careful about the memory stick in his pocket; nothing accidental about its being in his possession. The only careful thing he’d done so far was not look at it.
Doing that would make him privy to information closed to Sid Baker; probably even to Spider Webb. It would give him an edge, make him feel a full-fledged spook again. But it could also get him banged up. What was the word the O.B. had used? Excommunicated … There are certain beliefs you should keep under wraps if you want to dine at High Table. River was a long way from High Table, but there was further to fall. And if he got caught with the stick in his possession, he’d fall all right.
Though if that happened, everyone would assume he’d read what was on the stick anyway …
His thoughts chased backwards and forwards. A guilty conscience was the worst thing to be wearing. Climbing the stairs at Slough House, he had to fix his expression into whatever it usually was, this time of the morning: When you need to act natural, don’t think about what you’re doing. An old lesson. Think about anything else. Think about the last book you read. He couldn’t remember the last book he’d read. But whether the effort of trying to do so made him look less or more natural he never found out, because no one was interested in River’s state of mind that morning.
Roderick Ho’s office door was open, so River saw from the landing that everyone was gathered there: an unprecedented event. But at least they weren’t talking to each other. Instead, all were staring at Ho’s monitor, the largest in the building. ‘What is it?’ River asked, but hardly needed to. Stepping inside he could make out, over Ho’s shoulder, a badly lit cellar, an orange-clad figure on a chair with a hood over its head. Gloved hands held up an English newspaper, which was shaking. This made sense. Nobody ever sat in a badly lit cellar holding the day’s newspaper for a camera without feeling fear.
‘Hostage,’ said Sid Baker, without looking away from the screen.
River stopped himself from saying I can see that. ‘Who is it? Who are they?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘What do we know?’
Sid said, ‘They’re going to cut his head off.’
Chapter 5
Not everyone had been in Ho’s office when River got there. How had he failed
to register Jackson Lamb’s absence? Before long this was rectified: a heavy thump on the stair; a loud growling noise which could only have emanated from a stomach. Lamb could move quietly when he wanted, but when he didn’t, you knew he was coming. And now he didn’t so much enter Ho’s office as take possession of it; breathing heavily, saying nothing. On the monitor, the same absence of event: a gloved, hooded boy in an orange jumpsuit, holding the English newspaper with its back page showing. It took a moment for River to register that he’d reached that conclusion—that the figure was a boy.
A thought interrupted by Lamb. ‘It’s not nine o’clock and you’re watching torture porn?’
Struan Loy said, ‘When would be a good time to watch—’
‘Shut up,’ Sid Baker told him.
Lamb nodded. ‘That’s a plan. Shut up, Loy. This live?’
‘Coming over as a live feed,’ Ho said.
‘There’s a difference?’
‘Do you really want to hear about it?’
‘Good point. But that’s today’s paper.’ Lamb nodded again, approving his own deductive brilliance. ‘So if it’s not live, it’s not far off. How’d you pick it up?’
‘From the blogs,’ Sid said. ‘It appeared about four.’
‘Any prologue?’
‘They say they’re going to cut his head off.’
‘They?’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Grabs the attention, though.’
‘Have they said what they want?’
Sid said, ‘They want to cut his head off.’
‘When?’
‘Forty-eight hours.’
‘Why forty-eight?’ asked Lamb. ‘Why not seventy-two? Three days, is that so much to ask?’
Nobody dared ask what his problem was. He told them anyway.
‘It’s always one day or three. You get twenty-four hours, or seventy-two. Not forty-eight. You know what I already hate about these tossers?’
‘They can’t count?’ River suggested.
‘They’ve no sense of tradition,’ Lamb said. ‘I don’t suppose they’ve said who the little blind mouse is, either?’
Roderick Ho said, ‘The beheading threat came over the blogs, along with the link. And the deadline. No other info. And there’s no volume on the feed.’