The bricks—this was the Barbican; there were bricks everywhere, except where there was concrete or glass—were shining in the noonday sun, and weeds were flowering in crevices, adding yellow and purple notes to faded greys and reds. The sky was largely blue, barring a contrail growing puffier by the moment, like cotton wool dropped in water. The hands on her watch overlapped, precisely. The bulky shape approaching was her appointment. Late.
He was wheezing, and overdressed for the weather; his familiar greasy overcoat flapping around his thighs. Hardly out of character, but still: She found herself arching her eyebrows, shaking her head. “My God, Jackson. Do you never think about losing weight?”
“Yeah, once a week I take an extra-big dump.” He patted his stomach. “Keeps me in trim.”
“It keeps you in heart attack territory.”
“Potato potahto. What do you want?”
“Never been one for small talk, have you?”
“Nice weather, seen the news, up the Arsenal,” said Lamb. “Small talk’s just bullshit leaving the body.”
There was a bench next to one of the concrete flower beds that were there to add insult to injury. Whether by design or good fortune, it sat permanently in shade cast by one or other of the overhead towers, whose continuing existence arguably amounted to a victory for terrorism. When Lamb lowered himself onto one side Diana half expected it to tilt, but hadn’t taken into account that it was bolted to the ground. She sat, placing her tote bag between them, and when she looked up he was holding a lit cigarette, which he hadn’t been a moment ago. Lamb could peel an orange one-handed in his pocket, if doing so would save him having to offer you a segment.
She said, “There’s a rumour those things are bad for you.”
“And there’s statistics prove healthy people die. What’s your point?”
“Forget I spoke.”
“Already done.” He inhaled, exhaled, admired his own prowess, then said, “You look like you found a condom in your cornflakes, Diana. You going to tell me about it or just piss off back to the Park?”
Taverner was a great believer in what mediators call “deep listening,” whereby the person she was talking to, regardless of how violently they disapproved of what she was saying, would shut up and agree with her. Lamb was never likely to fill this role, but here and now—as regrettably so often—there was no one else to unload on. Or at least, no one she’d not have to fire afterwards. “It’s the Park that’s the problem.”
“You’re looking for somewhere new to bunk up, you can share with Ho. Though I warn you, he’s not the most refined of characters.” Lamb shook his head sadly, then farted.
“Finished?”
“Floor’s yours.”
“So I get a call from HR notifying me of a grievance being taken out. This is one of my favourite things, obviously, what with my being not very busy keeping the nation safe from terror attacks and stuff like that.”
“Someone’s made a complaint about you?” Lamb shrugged. “Find out who and either slap them silly or buy them a box of Smarties. You really need me to tell you that?”
“Except the grievance process allows for anonymity, so no one making their whines heard has to worry about getting wedgied in the changing rooms.”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, dropping into his plummiest voice. “Not having attended public school, I’ve no idea how these rituals work.”
“Yes, you were too busy having knife fights, I’m sure. Anyway—
Lamb said, “Intolerable.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I meant you.”
“Of course you did.” She held a hand out, palm flat, and with a sigh suggesting he’d just been informed of the death of a loved one, Lamb fished a cigarette from somewhere, presented it to her, and lit it. “Boys and girls,” she said. “That’s what they’ve always been called, they have always been called the boys and girls, regardless of their age, their gender identity or their sexual leanings. I don’t care about any of those things, why would I? So long as they do their job, that’s all I ask. Do their job, and not bother me with their millennial whimpering.”
“It’s touching, the bond you share with them,” said Lamb. “I hardly know whether to cry or tug myself off.”
“And the thanks I get, the respect they should be showing, instead of that I’m accused of acting like some . . . heartless bitch.”
