And that lump of concrete, she belatedly realised, had been a fragment of the Berlin Wall. Hence its presence in the O.B.’s study. Much of his life had been dedicated to bringing that wall down, or that was how it appeared in retrospect. Perhaps it had simply been dedicated to fighting those who’d put it up, the wall itself being no more than a marker of which side he’d been on. Given a different birthplace, he might have been equally happy resisting the values of the West. Either way, at the end of the long road travelled, that chunk had come to rest on his bookshelf, symbolic of a temporary victory. Because history was cyclical, of course, and more walls would be built, and there’d always be those who hoped it would be better on one side than the other, and die attempting to find out. And in the longer run those walls would fall too, along with the despots who’d built them, crushed by the bricks they’d stacked so high. Walls couldn’t last. All the same, Sid wished she’d slipped that concrete lump into her pocket while she’d had the chance. There’d be something equally cyclical about using it to smash Jim’s face in.
Though its weight in her pocket would have alerted him, of course. They were assuming Sid was weak, and unlikely to defend herself, but Jim would have noticed if she’d tried to smuggle a brick out in her jacket.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked at last.
‘We’ve told you,’ said Jim. ‘To the hospital.’
‘No, really. Where are you taking me?’
He said, ‘Trust me. It amounts to the same thing in the end.’
Jane dipped the headlights to allow an oncoming car to pass undazzled, and cranked them up again once the lane ahead was clear. Sid caught a glimpse of a lone tree in a field, its limbs a crazy tangle of malice, and then it was gone.
And the end, whatever it might be, drew nearer.
From across the water drifted the sound of an old man mumbling in song, the same words, same cadence, as if he were caught in a loop of prayer. It stirred a memory in Diana that she couldn’t pin down as she walked the towpath towards Islington, where the canal disappeared into a tunnel. It had rained, only briefly, but enough to disturb hidden odours that sweetened the evening air. Houseboats lined the path, some of them floating plinths for what, in the shadows, seemed Heath Robinson contraptions designed to prepare their vessels for flight, but which would disassemble in ordinary daylight into bicycles and watering cans, recycling bins, seedling trays. From houses on the other side the occasional noises of family life filtered out: voices and snatches of music. But, a solitary runner apart, the towpath was empty. Diana was heading for the farthest bench, the one just this side of the tunnel. On it waited Jackson Lamb.
From this approach he looked like an exhausted tramp, and for a moment she wondered if he were the source of that mumbled prayer. His shoes were scuffed lumps, the hems of his trousers frayed, and his overcoat might have been stitched from the tattered sail of a pirate ship. And she had little doubt that the odour of cigarettes and Scotch would grow apparent the nearer she came, interrupting the softer smells the rain had released; little doubt, too, that for all his repose he knew damn well she was approaching, had been aware of her since she set foot on the towpath. And for half a second she had a troubling glimpse of another Lamb inside the shell of this one; one who had posed for the image in front of her, and whose carefully composed decrepitude was a sculptor’s trick.
Best to take the offensive. Best not to be anywhere near him, in fact, but he’d sent a damaged telegram in the form of a trainee spook, and she’d had little choice but to heed his summons.
‘You fractured my agent’s arm,’ she said, taking a place on the bench as far from him as possible.
He opened his eyes. ‘I warned you not to fuck with my joes.’
‘A twenty-three-year-old woman, for God’s sake!’
‘Yeah, I’d have done the same to a forty-year-old man. This is what a feminist looks like.’ He studied her. ‘Moving on. “I might have made a mistake.” Your words. And guess what? My death count’s rising faster than the PM’s dick at a convent school prize day. So. Want to explain the nature of your mistake? Or should I take a stab at it myself?’
He shifted as he spoke, and for an uncomfortable moment, she wondered if he were reaching for a blade.
But no. Not Jackson Lamb’s style.
She said, ‘Making mistakes is something every First Desk does, it goes with the territory. But whatever’s going on with your old crew, that’s landed out of nowhere. Nothing to do with current operations. So best thing all round would be if you just leave things to me, to the Park.’ She felt her eyelid tremble, and hoped he didn’t notice. ‘I gather you’ve gone dark. That’s sensible. Stay that way until I give the all-clear, and the rest of your team will be fine.’
‘That’s a relief. Do I get a kiss night night now?’
‘You need to trust me on this, Jackson.’
