Slow Horses полностью

Of them, one fell to the ground, landing perfectly in a puddle which hadn’t been there a moment ago. It swarmed, spread, and formed an inky stream to the gutter, hardly disturbed at all by the sounds of flight and fear and grief now gathering round it.

Now that he knew he was going to die, a sense of calm had settled upon Hassan. It was almost surreal, though surreal wasn’t quite the word. Transcendental, that was it. He had achieved an inner peace, the like of which he’d never known. When you got down to it, life was a rollercoaster. The details of the excitement escaped him now, but there must have been plenty of it, or this feeling of release wouldn’t be so welcome. He wouldn’t have to go through any of it again, whatever it had been. Dying seemed a small price to pay.

And if he could have remained in that state he might have cruised through his remaining hours, but every time he reached this point in the argument, when dying and price made their ugly meanings felt, his mind emptied of peace and calm and swarmed instead with panic. He was nineteen years old. He’d never been on an actual rollercoaster, let alone known life to be one. He’d had little of anything he had a right to expect. Had never stood in a spotlight, unreeling one-liners for an adoring crowd.

Larry, Moe and Curly.

Curly, Larry and Moe.

Who were these people, and why had they chosen him?

Here was the story: Hassan was a student who wanted to be a comedian. But the fact was, he’d probably end up doing something totally usual; utterly office-based. Business Studies, that was Hassan’s course. Business fucking Studies. It wasn’t entirely true to say that his father had chosen it for him, but it was true that his father had been a lot more supportive of this than he would have been of, say, drama. Hassan would have liked to study drama. But he’d have had to fund it himself, so where had the harm been in going with the flow? That way, he’d had the flat, and the car, and, well, something to fall back on. That was Business Studies: something to fall back on if the career in stand-up crashed and burned.

He wondered now how many people there were, including those not under threat of execution in a damp cellar, who were living their back-up plan; who were office drones or office cleaners, teachers, plumbers, shop assistants, IT mavens, priests and accountants only because rock and roll, football, movies and authordom hadn’t panned out. And decided that the answer was everyone. Everyone wanted a life less ordinary. And only a tiny minority ever got it, and even they probably didn’t appreciate it much.

So in a way, Hassan was sitting pretty. A life less ordinary was what he now had. Fame was waiting in the wings. Though it was true that he wasn’t appreciating it much, except during those transcendental moments of inner peace, when it was clear that the rollercoaster ride was over, and he could let go, let go, let go …

Larry, Moe and Curly.

Curly, Larry and Moe.

Who were these people, and why had they chosen him?

The horrible thing was, Hassan thought he knew.

He thought he knew.

In the pub near Slough House, at the same table River and Sid had shared earlier that day, Min Harper and Louisa Guy were drinking: tequila for him, vodka and bull for her. They were both on their third. The first two had been drunk in silence, or what passed for silence in a cityroad pub. In a far corner a TV buzzed, though neither glanced its way for fear of seeing a boy in a cellar; the day’s sole subject, which forced its way to the surface at last, like a bubble of air escaping from under a rock in a pond.

‘That poor kid.’

‘You think they’ll really do it?’

‘Off him?’

Off with his head, both thought, and winced at the unhappy phrasing.

‘Sorry.’

‘But do you think?’

‘Yes. Yes, I think they will.’

‘Me too.’

‘Because they haven’t—’

‘—made any demands. They’ve just said—’

‘—they’re going to kill him.’

Both set their glasses down, the dual ringing sending a brief halo into the air.

The Voice of Albion had gone public that evening, with an announcement on their website that Hassan Ahmed would be executed within thirty hours. 56 deaths on the tube, its argument ran, = 56 deaths in return. And there was more: the usual drivel about national identity and a war on the streets. The site was a single page, offering no proof of its claims, and there were thirteen other groups currently streaming the Hassan video, claiming responsibility, but the words Voice of Albion had been snatched by Ho from a Regent’s Park memo, so it seemed pretty clear who Five thought were responsible. But what was strange, said Ho, was that the website had first appeared only two weeks ago. And there were few other references to the group on the web.

But a name meant progress.

‘Now they know who he is, they’ll know where to look.’

‘They’ve probably known who he is for ages.’

‘They probably know a hell of a lot more than they’ve said.’