Spook Street полностью

The man stared at him for four seconds, weighing alternatives. Then said, “Look, I’ll call you back,” and put his phone away.

“Thank you,” said River.

A sidewind buffeted the train, and two windows slammed open again.

Louisa had said: Yeah, I wasn’t actually suggesting they’d have him murdered, though I can see you’ve put some thought into that.

But how could he, his grandfather’s son, not have done?

And what really worries me, River had wanted to tell her, is that he’s always loved telling stories. Even now, visits meant sitting in the O.B.’s study, sharing a drink and hearing secrets. That these had grown confused, frequently petering out down lanes that led nowhere, didn’t mean they were no longer secret, and the thought of the O.B. on his daily pilgrimage round the village—butcher, baker, post office lady—weaving for all the same webs he’d spun River, had kept him awake two nights on the trot. The locals thought his grandfather had been a big wheel in the Ministry of Transport, one of the wheels which kept all the others turning, and they’d think his tales of a covert past the fantasies of a failing mind. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t attract attention. David Cartwright was not a forgotten man round Regent’s Park: he had seen the Service through choppy waters; never his own hand on the tiller, but a light grip on the elbow of whoever was steering. It was he who’d picked the stars by which the Service read its maps. And now he was old, and old spies grew forgetful, and among the things they forgot was remembering what not to say. More covers were blown by the need for a friendly ear than were ever dismantled by opposition hoods. So elderly spies had an eye kept on them, in case they came unbuttoned, and maybe there were times—how could he not have thought about this?—when the Service reached out a gloved hand and eased an old spook’s passage from this life.

Better that, the thinking would go, than have a legend like David Cartwright unspool his memories in public, for the world and his or her civil partner to hear, and sell to the Sunday papers.

They’d send stoats first, to check the lie of the land.

And the O.B. kept a gun in his house which he no longer stored in a gun safe.

The train trundled on towards his destination. Different scenarios played out in his head—there were only so many ways a story could end.

It could happen very quickly, and there needn’t be anyone else involved. Help the old man into a bath. A quick tug on his ankles and it would be over.

Jesus Christ, would you listen to yourself?

But: That ever happens to me, he’d instructed River more than once, shoot me like a horse. He’d meant getting older than nature intended; losing his mind, losing his marbles. And he hadn’t been making a jest. Nothing more frightening, to someone who’d lived by his wits, than to be slowly losing them.

And there was a dilemma for you, River thought drily. Could you do what he wanted, even though it would destroy you? Or will your scruples, your love for him, your cowardice, keep you from doing the only real favour he’s ever asked, and condemn him to a living hell?

Maybe he should seek his mother’s advice.

Through the window, he could see trees splashing about in the wind. He had a ten-minute walk from the station, and was going to get wet. But it suited his mood.

The man opposite caught his eye, and looked away hurriedly. River stared back for a while, at the man’s reflection in the glass, but his thoughts were elsewhere: out among those cold swaying trees, in the unforgiving weather, in the dark.

When the doorbell rang the jangly noise went on longer than necessary, exploring the house, checking upstairs and down for occupants. David Cartwright was in his study, his usual chair, books stacked next to him. Topmost was Bleak House, through which he had been leafing lately; skating over the surface, because he no longer had the patience to submerge himself in detail. The more he did so, the more the characters came apart; their cover stories exposed as threadbare fictions.

The bell rang again.

River had a key, but rarely used it, which was his way of acknowledging his grandfather’s sovereignty. The O.B. had a fear of becoming a charity case; someone the neighbours checked on; popping a head round the door “to make sure you’re all right,” meaning not dead yet. He wasn’t dead yet. He rose and went into the hallway. Through the front door’s pebbled glass he could make out a shape backlit by the nearby streetlight, which was no longer flickering. This seemed significant, though he couldn’t think why.

Without approaching further, he said, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

He waited.

“. . . Grandad? It’s me, River.”