Spook Street

by Mick Herron

  “Yep. Thanks, Louisa. For, you know. Listening.”

  “Well. We should stick together.” And then, in case he thought she meant the pair of them, added, “Slough House, I mean. Nobody else is looking out for us.” She paused. “I miss Catherine.”

  “So do I.”

  “Do you think Lamb does?”

  “. . . Seriously?”

  “He’s not been much in evidence since she quit.”

  River said, “He misses having an alcoholic around. He got a lot of mileage out of that.” He finished his beer and stood. “I have to go. I’ll just make the next train.”

  “I hope he’s okay.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t think this is something he’s likely to get better from.”

  “Maybe not. But, you know. He’s not necessarily going to start reciting his memoirs on the village green.”

  “That’s not what really worries me.”

  “What does?”

  River said, “That someone’ll come to the door and he’ll shoot them.”

  From the train window River looked out on London’s dark edges and thought about his mother.

  He didn’t do this often. They spoke on the phone occasionally, usually while she was abroad—this gave her licence to broadcast how much she missed him, how he should “pop on a plane” to Antibes, Cap Ferrat, Santa Monica, Gstaad, where they could hunker down for some mother/son time. All safe in the knowledge it wasn’t going to happen. When she was in-country, on the other hand, River found out about it afterwards, or not at all. I was so busy, darling, not a minute to myself. You know I was desperate to see you. But this had long ceased to distress him. When they were together, it felt more like an audience, as if he were a cub reporter summoned to the presence of a fading movie star. The pictures had got small. He was simply there to bear witness to that fact.

  And the Isobel Dunstable commanding such attention was a long cry from the young woman who’d dumped him on his grandparents’ doorstep when he was seven, and taken off for two years with a man whose name he couldn’t remember. He wasn’t confident she could, either. But her mercurial twenties were way behind her, and in her respectable widowhood, while she might admit to the occasional youthful indiscretion, she was hardly going to put her hand up to a period of anarchy. Which didn’t mean she’d re-established friendly terms with her father. In some ancient era—before River’s appearance in the world—they’d had what Rose had called “a falling out.” She was big on understatement, his grandmother, but not one for betraying confidences. The details weren’t hers to provide, she’d told him. And neither combatant was offering clues.

  The last time he’d seen them together had been at Rose’s funeral, where they hadn’t exchanged a word that he’d observed—and he had observed. River Cartwright, junior spook. He had missed the original Cold War by some years. This one would do until the next came along.

  He wondered if his mother should know what state the Old Bastard was in, and which of them he’d be betraying most by divulging it.

  The carriage was heavy with wet overcoat smells, and every time a train passed in the opposite direction the windows slapped open. Meanwhile, the man opposite River was explaining to his mobile phone, at some volume, how quickly he had assimilated the implications of the recent changes to Stamp Duty. That everyone hadn’t yet banded together and hanged him by his braces was testament to the forbearance of the British commuter.

  His grandfather thought about her often, he knew. He would ask River, carefully offhand, “whether he’d heard from his mother”—never using “Isobel,” as if this would presume a deeper acquaintance than they shared. And when River answered that she was fine, as far as he knew, “That’s good then,” David would say, or something like. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  But the Old Bastard himself was not fine. What River had told Louisa was only a small part of the truth, the worst of which was that on a recent visit, the old man hadn’t known him. So carefully had he carried this off that it wasn’t until he’d been there half an hour that River realised. His grandfather was covering his lapse like a pro: echoing statements River had made; offering bland follow-ups that concealed his ignorance. The O.B. had never been a joe. But he had lived his life among them, and knew how to adapt.

  River often stayed over mid-week, but he’d headed back to London on that occasion. The thought of his grandfather lying awake all night, terrified of the stranger in the spare room, was more than he could bear.

  The financial guru opposite was growing more pleased with himself by the minute. He was more or less River’s age but about a thousand times his net worth, going by shirt and shoes. Still, money wasn’t everything: River leaned across, tapped him on the knee, and said, “Would you mind finishing your call now?” His tone was polite, but his eyes weren’t.

  The man blinked, then said, “What did you say?”

  River repeated his request, but this time it wasn’t a request.

  The man stared at him for four seconds, weighing alternatives. Then said, “Look, I’ll call you back,” and put his phone away.

  “Thank you,” said River.

  A sidewind buffeted the train, and two windows slammed open again.

  Louisa had said: Yeah, I wasn’t actually suggesting they’d have him murdered, though I can see you’ve put some thought into that.

  But how could he, his grandfather’s son, not have done?

  And what really worries me, River had wanted to tell her, is that he’s always loved telling stories. Even now, visits meant sitting in the O.B.’s study, sharing a drink and hearing secrets. That these had grown confused, frequently petering out down lanes that led nowhere, didn’t mean they were no longer secret, and the thought of the O.B. on his daily pilgrimage round the village—butcher, baker, post office lady—weaving for all the same webs he’d spun River, had kept him awake two nights on the trot. The locals thought his grandfather had been a big wheel in the Ministry of Transport, one of the wheels which kept all the others turning, and they’d think his tales of a covert past the fantasies of a failing mind. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t attract attention. David Cartwright was not a forgotten man round Regent’s Park: he had seen the Service through choppy waters; never his own hand on the tiller, but a light grip on the elbow of whoever was steering. It was he who’d picked the stars by which the Service read its maps. And now he was old, and old spies grew forgetful, and among the things they forgot was remembering what not to say. More covers were blown by the need for a friendly ear than were ever dismantled by opposition hoods. So elderly spies had an eye kept on them, in case they came unbuttoned, and maybe there were times—how could he not have thought about this?—when the Service reached out a gloved hand and eased an old spook’s passage from this life.

  Better that, the thinking would go, than have a legend like David Cartwright unspool his memories in public, for the world and his or her civil partner to hear, and sell to the Sunday papers.

  They’d send stoats first, to check the lie of the land.

  And the O.B. kept a gun in his house which he no longer stored in a gun safe.

  The train trundled on towards his destination. Different scenarios played out in his head—there were only so many ways a story could end.

  It could happen very quickly, and there needn’t be anyone else involved. Help the old man into a bath. A quick tug on his ankles and it would be over.

  Jesus Christ, would you listen to yourself?

  But: That ever happens to me, he’d instructed River more than once, shoot me like a horse. He’d meant getting older than nature intended; losing his mind, losing his marbles. And he hadn’t been making a jest. Nothing more frightening, to someone who’d lived by his wits, than to be slowly losing them.

  And there was a dilemma for you, River thought drily. Could you do what he wanted, even though it would destroy you? O
r will your scruples, your love for him, your cowardice, keep you from doing the only real favour he’s ever asked, and condemn him to a living hell?

  Maybe he should seek his mother’s advice.

  Through the window, he could see trees splashing about in the wind. He had a ten-minute walk from the station, and was going to get wet. But it suited his mood.

  The man opposite caught his eye, and looked away hurriedly. River stared back for a while, at the man’s reflection in the glass, but his thoughts were elsewhere: out among those cold swaying trees, in the unforgiving weather, in the dark.

  When the doorbell rang the jangly noise went on longer than necessary, exploring the house, checking upstairs and down for occupants. David Cartwright was in his study, his usual chair, books stacked next to him. Topmost was Bleak House, through which he had been leafing lately; skating over the surface, because he no longer had the patience to submerge himself in detail. The more he did so, the more the characters came apart; their cover stories exposed as threadbare fictions.

  The bell rang again.

  River had a key, but rarely used it, which was his way of acknowledging his grandfather’s sovereignty. The O.B. had a fear of becoming a charity case; someone the neighbours checked on; popping a head round the door “to make sure you’re all right,” meaning not dead yet. He wasn’t dead yet. He rose and went into the hallway. Through the front door’s pebbled glass he could make out a shape backlit by the nearby streetlight, which was no longer flickering. This seemed significant, though he couldn’t think why.

  Without approaching further, he said, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me.”

  He waited.

  “. . . Grandad? It’s me, River.”

  It didn’t sound like River. Then again, it had been a long day and he was tired; distraught, too, by the memory of his trip to the village in his pyjama trousers. The lady from the shop, she claimed her name was Alice, had driven him home, chattering all the while as if this were normal. She had waited while he’d changed, and when he came down she’d boiled the kettle: “nice cup of tea,” the universal panacea. They had sat at the kitchen table eating a slice of cake, and he had asked her several trick questions, and she had fielded them all nicely. Even now he couldn’t be absolutely certain she was an imposter any more than he could prove he’d been slipped some memory-twisting drug. They wanted him askew from reality, that was their plan; wanted him declared harmless and senile, the better to squeeze him dry when the time came. And to that end they would make use of those who loved him, because that was how things worked on Spook Street. Your friends and neighbours were not to be trusted, but it was your family you had to fear.

  “Grandad? Are you all right in there?”

  The shape shifted; became hooded and intense. Whoever it was had raised a flattened palm to their brow and was peering through the mottled glass.

  “What was your grandmother’s name?”

  “. . . What?”

  “Simple question.”

  River, if that’s who it was, fell silent.

  “Because if you can’t even—”

  “Her name was Rose, Grandad. Your wife’s name was Rose. And your daughter, my mother, she’s Isobel.”

  Which proved nothing. Any fool could do research.

  The man banged on the door again. “Grandad? Are you okay?”

  Let the enemy in. Pretend your guard is down. He wasn’t defenceless, as this imposter might yet discover to his cost.

  He turned the latch and opened the door to the stranger on his doorstep. It was a creditable likeness. They had done their job well. If he was as fuddled as they thought, this man would pass as River Cartwright.

  And this man was pushing on the door now, making David step back. He closed it behind him. “Cold out.”

  “Where’ve you come from?”

  “You know where I’ve come from.” He glanced down. “You need to put some slippers on.”

  The O.B. looked down at his feet: socks only, on the cold tiles.

  “Where are your slippers?”

  He had thrown his slippers away, but didn’t want to admit this, because it would lead to more questions—why had he thrown them away; how had they got wet; why was he wandering in the rain with only slippers on his feet? To admit to confusion was to play into their hands. So he simply glared at the young man in a way that made it plain he would be questioned no more on this topic.

  In return, he received a quizzical look; a head tilted to one side in a way that River himself had. “Did something happen today?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? You seem . . . confused.”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped.

  Once, he had sat in the Prime Minister’s office while First Desk briefed her on unexpected troop movements on the East German border, a brief later agreed to have had a calming effect on the PM in particular, on policy in general, during Westminster’s jumpiest week since October ’62. And which, very much to the point, had been written by Cartwright himself—he, David Cartwright, had taken a planing tool to history; had smoothed away a rough edge, and ensured that the lives of hundreds of thousands of people continued on their serene course instead of being capsized by the possibility of war. And that was just one day in his life. One day in a long life, crammed with incident: what made today so special? No lives had been ruptured, no navies sunk. He’d walked to the shops in his pyjama trousers, that was all. It could have happened to anyone.

  “It’s cold in here.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You should have the heating on.”

  Heat dulls the senses, keeps you unwary.

  The young man who was calling himself River walked into the kitchen, acting like he owned the place. He cast a professional eye over the surfaces, checking for signs of neglect—unwashed crockery, crops of mould. He’d be a long time looking. Rose Cartwright had run a tight ship, and her widowed husband did the same.

  “Have you eaten, Grandfather?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d eaten cake. A cup of tea and a slice of cake, as prepared by the Alice woman. This man would know that already, of course. He’d have been fully briefed.

  “Would you like me to run you a bath?”

  “When have I ever needed you to do that?”

  “Grandad, you look cold to the bone. And there’s no fire lit. How long have you been sitting without the heating on? I’ll run you a bath so you can warm yourself up, and then I’ll light a fire.”

  “River never . . . ”

  He lost his thread.

  “I’m River.”

  “Have you spoken to your mother lately?”

  “She’s fine. She sends her love.”

  She never does that, the O.B. thought.

  “Why does your voice sound strange?”

  “Slight cold, nothing to worry about. I’m not contagious. Now let’s get upstairs.”

  And this was not his grandson. Not the River he had first met in the garden; a scruffy-haired boy, T-shirted and unhappy. Isobel was already motoring down the lane with her latest unsuitable beau: that was the last they’d see of her for two years.

  He’d been on his knees, with a trowel. He could remember their conversation as if it had been yesterday:

  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.

  He had always treated River as an equal, never condescended to him.

  Am I going to live here now?

  Yes. Can’t think what else to do with you.

  It turned out it was as easy as that to allow someone into your life.

  River Cartwright had been bone of his bone, the warm glow of his heart, since the boy was seven. And would they dare send an impost
er to his home if the real River was at liberty, or even alive?

  “Grandfather?”

  “. . . What?”

  “Shall I run you a bath?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, why not do that.”

  “Good. I think that would be best.”

  “You go on up,” David Cartwright told this stranger. “I just need to fetch something from the study.”

  Because he was not as defenceless as they seemed to think.

  A mobile phone vibrating on a hard surface sounds like a fart. That this was not an unusual sound in Jackson Lamb’s bedroom, or indeed his vicinity, might have been why it failed to rouse him immediately: his surfacing was a slow, painful experience, like that of a whale being tugged to shore. When at last he emerged, tarred and feathered by sleep, the phone escaped his grasp like a sliver of soap, forcing him to lean over the side of the bed and fumble about on the floor.

  Mission accomplished, he answered with a single word: “Fuck?”

  Twenty seconds later he said, “Fuck,” and disconnected.

  For a while after that he lay in the dark, which stank like a wrestling ring. The room’s torpor suggested he’d turned the heating on at some point, and forgotten to turn it off at another. He wore boxers, one sock and a tie, which was inexorably knotted at the point it became impossible to loop over his head, and well short of that at which he’d be able to wriggle the rest of his body through it. Still, at least he’d made some attempt to get undressed: life was on an upward curve. Or had been, until the phone call.

  He said “Fuck” again, and hauled himself out of bed.

  Breakfast was two pints of tapwater and four Nurofen. Shaving was out of the question, but he released himself from yesterday’s tie with the kitchen scissors and found a fresh suit, which meant one that had been in his actual wardrobe, if not on a hanger. Locating his shoes was another ten minutes’ work. In the end, the missing one turned up outside his front door, though when he tried to wedge his foot inside, it seemed to have shrunk overnight. Closer examination revealed a sock still in occupation. Scrunching this into a ball, he crammed it into a pocket; then, shod at last, though in unlaced shoes, clomped out to his car, wiped the mouse droppings from the driver’s seat, and set off for Kent.