Diana Taverner was waiting on the South Bank, not far from the Globe. Legend had it there was a streak of pigeon shit, a plastic transfer, affixed to the bench she occupied, effectively reserving it for her own use. Given that the bench sat on a small patch unmonitored by CCTV, and was thus one of the few places in the city where you could kiss your lover, adjust your underwear or pick your nose without someone making notes, this was a valuable resource, but Sid found she was no longer sure about such facts; whether they were rumours in the service of a myth Taverner spread about herself, or part of the Park’s carefully maintained reality, with props supplied by the Tricks and Toys department. In the end, you could never be sure where a story originated, only where it ended up: trapped between the pages of a book, like a pressed flower or an ancient bus ticket. Moving carefully, the way you might approach an uncaged tiger, Sid reached the bench and sat.
Behind them, the usual parade unfurled: visitors and residents, heroes and trolls.
After a second or two Taverner turned and assessed Sid in a way that might easily seem rude—actually, there was no “seem” about it—but also contained something of ownership, as if Taverner were checking an item of personal property, recently loaned to someone unreliable. Sid had to resist the impulse to stick her tongue out, or at least she hoped she’d resisted that impulse. There were occasions when she wasn’t sure whether she was having a thought or acting upon it, as if her injury had left her with blurred borders. River could be studiously non-reactive at such moments, when she might have said out loud something she’d meant just to think, but then again, he’d presumably not react if she hadn’t actually spoken. These were the rabbit holes she navigated daily.
Taverner said, “You’re looking . . . well.”
“For someone who’s been shot in the head, you mean.”
“You should learn how to accept a compliment. Trust me, there’ll come a time they’ll stop being offered.”
When Taverner invited you to trust her, count your spoons. And if you didn’t bring spoons, check she hasn’t planted one on you, to have you arrested for theft later.
Sid looked about. The sky was clear and blue, and summer added glint and sparkle to multiple surfaces: car windscreens on the opposite bank, the railings on bridges, and the many small corners the river wears from moment to moment. She said, “This is where you bring people when you don’t want anyone to know you’re meeting them. Which, by the way, calls into question the security of the location. If even I know about it, I mean.”
“Oh, if I’m meeting anyone here they’re by definition unimportant, don’t worry your damaged little head about that. Now, small talk. You and Cartwright are an item, I gather.”
“By ‘gather,’ you mean it’s on file.”
“And how is he? We were dreadfully worried.”
“Yes, my turn to offer advice? When you use that phrase, that you’re
“Quite the spitfire, aren’t we? I seem to remember you as being more . . . pliable. Or is this a side effect?”
“Of being shot in the head? It’s too small a test group to say. But if you’re volunteering to swell the ranks, I’ll hold your jacket.”
“Let’s get back on track before we both say something you’ll regret. You were telling me about Cartwright.”
“He’s fine. Better than fine. We’re just waiting for the all-clear.”
“Yes. Good. That’s not happening.”
This with an equal stress on every word, the way she might address an infant or a shop assistant, the better to ensure no ambiguity slipped through her net.
Sid waited a beat, then said, “He’s fully recovered.”
“If you say so. But he’s not fit for active duty. Never will be.”
“He’s not a field agent—”
“It’s a technical term, and it covers Slough House. Let’s not beat about the bush. Cartwright isn’t coming back. His next medical report will draw a line under his career. After that, he’ll need another path to tread.”
The scene still glittered in the summer sun, but its dazzle was all hollow now, bright with empty promise.
“Also, to be clear, his injury was not incurred in the line of duty. Just because you’re poisoned by a pair of Moscow hoods doesn’t mean you were doing your job at the time. Cartwright was out of hours and off the books. If he’s hoping for an active service payout, he’s barking up someone else’s tree.”
“If you think River joined the Service for the benefits, you don’t know him one bit.”
