This was principally because he was having a piss: one of the top three moments of attention being elsewhere. Except he was being remarkably quiet, so was either pretending or was one of those types – which included Lech – who couldn’t urinate with a stranger nearby. So maybe he was ready for an incoming blow, and would twist aside the moment Lech launched his attack, leaving Lech with one of those cartoon wounds you get from punching a concrete wall: a throbbing boxing glove of a hand, pulsing in time to a muted trombone.
Also, Lech was more a strategy man, or had been back at the Park: gathering data, making observations; occasionally getting very particular about finicky details. Putting the anal into analyst. When someone needed punching, there were numbers he could call. It wasn’t about being a wuss; it was about playing to your strengths. And besides, if he’d got it wrong, and this guy was a civilian, punching him in the head wouldn’t go down well. A thing about Slough House, it wasn’t so much a last-chance saloon as an out-of-options off-licence. Any mistake you made would be your last inside the Service, and punching a shy stranger in the head in a public toilet probably counted.
So instead of getting physical, Lech said, ‘Busted.’
The man didn’t turn round. ‘… You what?’
‘I said, you’re busted.’
‘No idea what you’re talking about, mate. Do you mind? I’m trying to have a piss.’
‘You’re Park. You’re supposed to tail me without being spotted. But guess what? You’ve been spotted.’
The man in the mac either finished pissing or finished pretending he’d been pissing or gave up trying to piss altogether. He zipped up and turned, looking Lech in the eye. ‘Don’t know what your game is, but find someone else to play it with, yeah? Because keep bothering me, and you’ll end up head first down one of those, get me?’ He gestured towards the urinal behind him. ‘Head first,’ he repeated, and made hard shoulder contact as he headed for the door.
Reasonably convincing, Lech thought, and time was he’d have stepped aside and assumed he’d made a mistake, or at least allowed for the possibility. But that was back when his face was still the one he’d grown up with; before it resembled a five-year-old’s drawing of a railway junction.
ID, Service card, wallet and phone.
Pocket change and door keys too.
Fuck ’em.
‘You haven’t washed your hands,’ he said.
‘Piss off,’ said Black Mac, and Lech threw his punch.
It was an uppercut, without a huge amount of force behind it, and his target was the side of Black Mac’s head, offering the chance that his hand would come off worst. All in all, though, it wasn’t a bad punch, maybe a five out of ten, and could have been a seven or eight if it had made contact. As it was, he missed by a couple of centimetres, as Black Mac jerked his head aside, giving the distinct impression that being attacked by strangers was not entirely outside his range of experience. Better trained; in better nick. Or just better. You couldn’t rule it out.
Then he hit Lech twice in quick succession, both times in the stomach, and Lech staggered backwards, crashing through a cubicle door and only remaining upright by bracing himself against the walls with outstretched hands, essentially offering a full-body target for the next blow. Which, it turned out, was a real beauty; the kind you’d find yourself thinking about on waking for the next few months, and observing its anniversary by hiding your head under a pillow and weeping quietly.
Luckily for Lech it was Shirley delivering it, and Black Mac on the receiving end.
When River arrived the house was dark, like a line from a rock and roll song. He parked on the verge, noticing fresh ruts where another vehicle had lately stopped. Might be something, might be nothing, but instead of collecting the shopping from the back seat – he’d brought bread, cheese; a few other things Sid might like – he headed straight for the house, going round the back. The door was unlocked. Also, there was a hole in the glass – neatly engineered rather than hooligan breakage.
‘Sid?’
The empty house replied in its usual fashion.
‘Sid!’
Pointless, now, to essay stealth, so he charged through the hall, a memory of Rose’s complaint –
