She blinked, and her vision blurred. She blinked again, and it returned.
On her way home, she’d buy another bottle. Meanwhile, there was a funeral to get through. She hoped that would happen without Jackson Lamb causing any gross moments.
And she hoped River didn’t jump into any graves.
Which didn’t seem likely, but Lamb had a point.
All kinds of outlandish shit went on.
The funeral was in Hampstead. St. Leonard’s was a discreet brick building in a quiet close: services on alternate Sundays, though the alert might notice that these seldom came to pass. Perhaps this was a sign of dwindling congregations; perhaps an indication that the powers-that-be considered this particular enclave well served already, and that other, less moneyed areas might benefit more from the Church’s resources. But it was true that, if regular services were not on the menu, St. Len’s put on a lovely funeral. The graveyard at its rear was a calm oasis; each corner with its own tree, its own bench. Sitting there, you could forget there was a city mere streets away. You could bask in the quiet company of the dead.
And if it seemed strange that most of the buried had no obvious local connection, there were few to keep track of such oddities. Funerals are private affairs, and never more so than at The Spooks’ Chapel, where many cover stories had been laid to rest, and last words said over careers that had blossomed in dark corners, some so successfully that even close friends and family remained unaware of their true nature. But, as Jackson Lamb had been known to remark, suits’ bodies were easier to find than those of joes, and messy ends didn’t lead to tidy burials. So inside the chapel, on the west wall, were plaques to the memory of those who hadn’t made their way home, a display some called The Last Dead Letter Drop. The names on the plaques weren’t always those their owners had been born with, but there was a case for saying that the name you died with carried more weight. The identity you never let go of; that, in the end, let go of you instead.
Though of course, thought River, the O.B.’s identity had slipped away from him before he gave up breathing.
His mother at his side, he walked among the gravestones towards a freshly dug hole. It was cold, because how could it be anything else? And the ground was hard, which meant someone had had a job of it; clearing a space for David Cartwright. Did you tip gravediggers? River couldn’t recall the subject coming up.
Isobel’s grip on his arm tightened. “I know you think I hated him.”
“Well, yes. But only because you told me you hated him.”
“It was complicated.”
River knew how complicated it was. His mother, though, didn’t know he knew that, or he didn’t think she did. That was how complicated it was: people not knowing how much other people knew they knew. It was possible that other families were like this; ones without spies in them.
He said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“He’d lost his mind, hadn’t he?”
“There were . . . glimpses of him. Right to the end.” This was a lie. The last sight he’d had of his grandfather—the man, not the shell—had been months ago.
And he wasn’t sure why he didn’t say as much. His mother didn’t need her feelings tiptoed round. She hadn’t spoken to her father in years. When she’d called him the Old Bastard, she’d meant precisely that. It was River who’d diluted the words; doused their spite with affection.
On the other hand, since learning what had driven father and daughter apart, he was less inclined to blame his mother. Things had happened to Isobel that had been part of a game she hadn’t known she’d been drafted into. She had lost her heart, and borne a son, to Frank Harkness, an American spook, though “lost her heart” was a kind way of phrasing it. In reality Harkness had stolen it, then traded it back to David Cartwright for various favours. Had he not done so, River’s life would have taken a very different course—he’d have been a soldier in another man’s army—so he supposed he couldn’t complain that things had worked out as they had, but he was aware that the bargain had been a foul one, and Isobel’s heart had not been returned intact. Certainly it never opened in her father’s direction again. It probably explained why River himself had always felt his mother’s absence, even on those occasions when she was present. Like now, approaching the O.B.’s grave.
It was next to Rose’s, of course, on whom the earth had settled. They stopped beside it, and Isobel placed the lily on the headstone.
“A lily for Rose,” she said, and again River had the feeling he was an audience for a rehearsed moment.
