Real Tigers полностью

River said, “I know all that. You think I don’t? He’s a backstabbing bastard, no question. I sometimes wonder if I’m only there to see if he’s dead yet.”

“That’s a punchline, not a reason.”

Now was the moment to leave, he thought; back to the safety of his room. He could ease into his chair, dose himself with aspirin, and hope they’d iron out his wrinkles before he was called upon to do anything energetic. But he couldn’t, not while she was refusing to look at him. He’d always thought her borderline difficult, by which he meant she didn’t take crap. Which in turn, he realised, meant he shouldn’t offer her any.

“No . . . Yes, okay. It’s not a reason.”

“So why do you do it?”

“I talk to him. About this.” This being Slough House. They both knew that. “About what it’s like, day after day . . . About the gap between where we were and where we’ve ended up.” He let that hover for a while. She didn’t reply. He said, “I doubt he hears me. But if he does, he’ll get it. I mean, Christ. You think this is bad? He can’t even see out the window.”

She redirected her gaze at last, and subjected him to a full quarter-minute’s silence.

“So anyway,” he said at last. “It’s not like I cheer him up. Other way round, if anything.”

He wasn’t entirely sure that was the whole truth of it, but it felt as near as he could get.

After a while, Louisa said, “Got any painkillers?”

“I’ve got some aspirin. Want some?”

She shook her head, reached into her drawer, and tossed a packet at him. “Try those. They’re stronger.”

He caught it. “Thanks.”

She looked back at her screen.

River returned to his office.

Marcus left the Boris Bike at the baths and caught the underground back, and even the tube stalling at Farringdon—signalling problems: these were often caused by heat, when they weren’t caused by cold, or by things being wet, or dry—couldn’t ruin his mood. He circled Smithfield, popped into an Italian deli for a chicken baguette, then headed up to Slough House, ringing home to tell Cassie he’d be late, he had a work thing on—an established code.

“You haven’t had one of those for a while.”

She didn’t know about Slough House. She knew he’d been transferred, but not what that meant. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell her.

“Yeah, well. It’s not the kind of thing you schedule far in advance.”

“Be careful.”

“Always. Kiss the kids for me.”

He felt coordinated—one up on the world. This morning’s blues were someone else’s soundtrack.

Sometimes, sitting at his desk, Shirley grumbling at her keyboard next to him, Marcus would zone out, reliving former glories with the crash squad. “Kicking doors down” was how Shirley referred to it. Which was accurate, up to a point, but left out how you never knew what was going to be on the other side, pointing a gun or strapped in a Semtex vest. In fairy tales, when you were offered a choice of doors, there was generally a tiger behind one of them. That was why it was best to kick them down. Even the thought of it made his muscles tense, and his grip on the baguette tightened—Way to go, he thought. Turn up with a peace offering that he’d mangled into paste. But with luck, Shirley would be too hungry to care.

Which was what he was thinking when he realised he’d been coasting on automatic; that instead of rounding the alley to the back of Slough House, he’d just entered the bookie’s again, where the roulette machine still wore its demonic grin, daring him to take one step further—to come on in and kick its door down.

Marcus could still feel the weight of his wallet in his jeans pocket, its new thickness filling him with confidence that his world had turned a corner.

Okay, you bastard, he thought. Bring it on.

Molly Doran said, “My my. Two in one day.”

“Yeah, Cartwright said he’d spoken to you.”

“And how is the young man? He’s back at . . . ‘Slough House’?”

“Walking a bit crooked, but he’s okay.”

“How unexpected. I imagined he’d have had rather a business of it, explaining this morning’s antics.”

Shirley was bored already. “He has a knack for getting off lightly. Anyway, reason I called—”

“Not simply a social call, then.”

Well, duh. Who did that?

But Molly Doran was a kidder, it seemed. “I’m sorry. The novelty of encountering two of Jackson’s protégés has made me rather skittish. Do carry on.”

“It’s about some files.”

“Oh dear. Are we going round this particular mulberry bush again? Perhaps Jackson could just call me himself and explain what he’s up to.”

“No, he doesn’t do that. Anyway, this isn’t about him, it’s just a general query. About information storage?”

“You know, I always encourage junior officers to approach me if they have questions, but only in the certain knowledge that they’re not actually going to do so. Couldn’t you address your problems to the, ah, Queens of the Database?”

“Yeah, they’re not that helpful? It’s a simple question. I just need to know where the Grey Books are.”

“The Grey Books?”

“The whackjob dossiers. The nutcase notes.”