Except that acts could shade into reality. When River remembered his childhood in this house, it was always bright summer, and never a cloud in the sky. So perhaps it had worked, the game the O.B. played; and all the clichés he espoused, or pretended to espouse, had left their mark on River. Sunshine in England, and fields stretching into the distance. When he’d become old enough to learn what his grandfather had really done with his life, and determined to do the same himself, those were the scenes he was thinking about, real or not. And the O.B. would have had an answer for that, too:
‘Am I going to live here now?’ he had asked that morning.
‘Yes. Can’t think what else to do with you.’
And now he came back into the room, more sprightly than the way he’d left it. It was on the tip of River’s tongue to ask if he was all right, but he put that tongue to better use, and sipped whisky instead.
His grandfather settled back in his armchair. ‘If Hobden’s on your radar, it’s political.’
‘I heard his name. Can’t remember the context. It rang a bell, that’s all.’
‘In your line of work, lying can be a matter of life and death. You’re going to have to practise, River. Speaking of which, what did you really do to your hand?’
‘Opened a flash-box without the code.’
‘Idiot activity. What was that about?’
‘I wanted to see if I could do it without getting burnt.’
‘Got your answer, didn’t you? Had it seen to?’
It was River’s left hand. If he’d used his right he’d have been quicker and perhaps not burnt himself at all, but he’d taken the pragmatic approach: if the box went off like a grenade, he’d rather lose the hand he didn’t favour. As it was, he’d doused the brief flame with bottled water. The box’s contents got wet, but were undamaged. He’d copied the computer’s files on to a new memory stick, then slid the laptop into the jiffy bag which, like the stick, he’d bought at the stationer’s near Slough House. All this on a bench by a children’s playground.
The hand wasn’t too bad; a bit red, a bit raw. If you wanted to carry a moral from the exercise, it would be that flash-boxes weren’t much cop. Though Spider had been only too happy to believe that Slough House lacked even that degree of technology.
If you wanted another moral, it would be to work out what you’re doing before you do it. The whole episode had been generated by his own slow-burning resentment: at having been sent on an idiot’s errand while Sid went out on an actual op; most of all, at being made Spider Webb’s errand boy … He hadn’t examined the stick’s contents yet. Just having the damn thing was an imprisonable offence.
‘It’s okay,’ he said to his grandfather. ‘A bit scorched. Nothing to worry about.’
‘There’s something on your mind, though.’
‘You know what I’ve been doing for the past month?’
‘Whatever it is, I doubt you’re supposed to tell me about it.’
‘I think you can be trusted. I’ve been reading mobile phone conversations.’
‘And this is beneath your talents.’
‘It’s a waste of time. They’re hoovered up from high-interest areas, mostly from near the more radical mosques, and the transcripts are generated by voice-recognition software. I’ve only been given those in English, but still, there are thousands of them. The software renders a lot of them gibberish but they’ve all got to be read, and graded as to levels of suspicion. One to ten. Ten being very suspicious. As of this afternoon, I’ve read eight hundred and forty-two of them. You know how many I’ve graded above one?’
His grandfather reached for the bottle.
River made a zero sign with finger and thumb.
His grandfather said, ‘I hope you’re not planning anything foolish, River.’
‘It’s beneath my abilities.’
‘It’s a hoop they’re making you jump through.’
‘I’ve jumped. I’ve jumped over and over again.’
‘They won’t keep you there forever.’
‘You think? What about, I don’t know, Catherine Standish? You think she’s a temporary assignment? Or Min Harper? He left a disk on a train. They’ve a whole club at the MoD of Hooray Henries who’ve left classified disks in taxis without having their lunch privileges revoked. But Harper’s never going back to Regent’s Park, is he? And neither am I.’
‘I don’t know these people, River.’
‘No. No.’ He brushed his brow with his hand, and the smell of ointment stung his nostrils. ‘Sorry. Frustrated, that’s all.’
