After the pub, Catherine alone returned to Slough House. It was approaching the violet hour, and traffic was dusty and boisterous: Crossing the road she spent three minutes on the median strip while cars, vans, buses and a trio of wide, expensive motorbikes kicked up a northbound fuss. Looking at Slough House’s windows, she thought them dark and wretched. Why did thoughts like that occur?
Over the road at last, and round the back, and up the stairs. Lamb was in his room, his door open, his feet malevolently planted on his desk, his attention fixed on the landing even if his gaze was aimed elsewhere. Lamb could look at a ceiling the way an artist studied a canvas. You knew that whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t a blank empty space.
“All fucked up in bed, are they?”
“They’ve gone home, yes.”
“Yeah, right. But you can’t keep away.”
Any more than he could. She entered his room, leaving the door standing wide; she brushed the visitor’s chair on which ash had settled, and pulled it across to the desk so she could sit facing him. The smell of alcohol was in the air: It might have followed her across the road, except, of course, it hadn’t; it had been waiting here. A finger-smeared glass sat on the desktop, a healthy measure weighing it down. Healthy might not be the word. Lamb was holding a cigarette, which counted as one of his vital signs; a surer indication than a heartbeat that he was still among the living. It was unlit.
River once described Lamb as a coiled sponge. That was his current mode. At any moment, without warning, he might not do anything.
She said, “This isn’t like you.”
“What isn’t?”
“Not to care when Taverner’s up to something.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care much when anyone’s up to something. Or when they’re not.” He’d found a match, and struck it expertly against his thumbnail. The head broke off and fizzed into the air like a model comet. “I thought you’d have noticed that by now.”
“You care when a joe’s in trouble.”
“These Brain Salad bed-blockers are not my joes.”
“Why not give Taverner a call? Let her know whatever she’s planning is no longer as secret as she thinks it is.”
“Sloth, apathy, lack of interest . . . A whole misogyny of reasons.”
She couldn’t help herself. “Miscellany.”
“Piss off, woman.”
She shook her head wearily. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Then I’m in good company. Even Graham Norton’s not as funny as I think I am. And he’s a regular fucking caution.”
She stood long enough to grind out the very small fire that had begun to take hold of the carpet, then resumed her chair. “You think it’s a good idea to let Taverner run another off-the-books op? Given that the last one nearly got River and Sid killed?”
“No, I think it’s a good idea to notice that when Taverner runs an off-the-books op, people nearly get killed.” He struck another match, off the desk this time, and successfully lit his cigarette. “Except when they actually get killed. So no, what I think should happen is everyone should do what I told them to do in the first place, and fold their fucking arms. Then whatever goes tits up’ll be someone else’s grief.”
“You think they’re useless.”
“And you think they can redeem themselves. But only because you’ve not been keeping score.”
“All they want is to keep some old spooks out of harm’s way.”
“Yeah, what could go wrong?” He reached for his glass and drained about half its contents. It didn’t seem that he found any pleasure in the action, or dismissed any pain.
She said, “Just now, over the road. Discussing what to do. For once they were all on the same side. Do you know how good that felt? You rot in here all day long, drinking that and smoking those, and you don’t care that they all feel like they’re in purgatory. I swear, I worry Shirley will self-harm just to ease the boredom. At least just now, they looked like they were alive.”
“Get back to me when their game of cops and robbers has run its course. If they’re all still looking the same, I’ll owe you a drink.”
“That sounds like you, Jackson. Pick the one debt you’ll never have to repay.”
She didn’t even know why she said that. It wasn’t true. Lamb looked every inch a man who’d been paying off a debt for longer than she’d known him. It was just that he’d never explained to her—to anyone—what that debt was, or how he’d acquired it.
He didn’t reply. Standing to leave, she shunted her chair back into place. If she could have re-dusted it with ashes, she’d have done so. Sometimes it was best to leave no trace of your presence behind.
Before she was out of the office, he spoke. She could tell without turning that he wasn’t looking at her; had assumed his default position, feet on desk, head pointed towards ceiling. His glass would be full again, and soon would be empty once more. There was no defining Lamb by how he viewed a glass and its contents. Whether half full or half empty, soon enough it would be its opposite.
He said, his voice devoid of apparent feeling, “Here we fucking go again.”
“Yes.”
