On the next landing, he pauses again. One of the rooms here is Roderick Ho’s, and Ho’s whereabouts, activities, hopes, dreams and desires have only ever concerned Lamb when Lamb is busy thwarting one or other of them. So it doesn’t matter to him that Ho is currently explaining to Kim—his girlfriend—that he was unable to carry out the favour she wanted because of something that came up at work; or that, when she petulantly suggests that he has misrepresented his talents to her—that he is, in short, little more than an unreliable fantasist—Ho’s response, babes, is to close his eyes and replay in his mind what never happened: his sudden emergence from his hiding place, his overpowering of the lone gunman, his bringing Marcus back to life . . . Little light finds its way through his closed lids, though some small part of a tear squeezes out. But no matter.
The other room is Marcus and Shirley’s, now Shirley’s alone. It smells fresh, because a painter has been, but the painter has plied his trade very much in the ethos of Slough House, which is to say, with little enthusiasm and less care. It is true that the wall behind what was Marcus’s desk is now whiter than it has been in years, but only the middle section has been repainted, leaving even the most casual onlooker to wonder what has been painted over, and even to imagine that this freshness hides an undercoat of dubious quality. Something not quite eradicable, of a morbidly stuccoed texture, and lingering effect.
But Lamb won’t spend his days staring at this wall. That will fall to Shirley Dander, who is out clubbing now; has hit the dance floor unfashionably early, and to everyone watching appears to be celebrating something marvelous; flailing her limbs in an uncoordinated mess of ecstasy, just violent enough to prevent anyone getting close, and piercing her fraudulent joy. She is a dervish tonight, a priestess in her own brand-new religion, and the object of her adoration is fury. For Shirley is not managing her anger; she is allowing it to take root, and will nurture it within, and when the time is ripe, will cut it loose.
Lamb knows none of this, of course. But he can guess. He can guess.
A final dog-legged set of stairs. Now he is at the back door, which sticks—it always sticks—as if reluctant to see him leave, but leave he does, with a grunt and a roll of the shoulder. Locking it behind him, he stands in the mildewed yard, looking up for the few brave stars London has to offer. But none are shining on Slough House. Instead, a feeble light stains the window of his own office, some storeys above; a light kept mostly in check by the ever-drawn blinds, but managing still to press itself against the grimy glass. For a moment, Lamb is transfixed by what his room—his lair—his life—looks like from the outside, but this passes. Then, with his collar turned up, he leaves the yard, and no one sees him go.
My long-time publisher is Soho Press. I’m glad about that. If Joss Whedon created a publishing house, it would be Soho Press. The folk there are smart, keen, funny, insanely knowledgeable about really pointless stuff, supportive, caring, snappy dressers, and almost certainly concealing dark, terrible secrets in their complicated pasts. So thank you Abby Koski, Amara Hoshijo, Carin Siegfried, Daniel Ehrenhaft, Janine Agro, Juliet Grames, Kevin Murphy, Mark Doten, Meredith Barnes, Paul Oliver, Rachel Kowal, Rudy Martinez, and especially Bronwen Hruska. Bronwen: when you’re not around, they sometimes refer to you as “Mama Bear.” I just thought you should know this.
Back in the UK, my editor Mark Richards pointed me in the direction of the dazzle ship—literally; we were standing on a rooftop at the time—and I’m grateful to him for that and much else. Thanks too to the whole of the John Murray team. Yassine Belkacemi is a star.
Juliet Burton has been my literary minder for longer than either of us care to dwell on, and when not scrutinising small print has kept me up to speed with
And thank you for various forms of support to Alan Judd, Chris Edwards, Daphne Wright, Helen Giltrow, Jamie Laurenson, MSJ, Nick Smith, Sarah Hilary, Will Smith, my mum, my siblings, their partners and their offspring.
Those hoping to find HMS President on the Victoria Embankment will be disappointed, as it disappeared from its berth a day or so after I finished
MH
Oxford, May 2016
