It didn’t sound like River. Then again, it had been a long day and he was tired; distraught, too, by the memory of his trip to the village in his pyjama trousers. The lady from the shop, she claimed her name was Alice, had driven him home, chattering all the while as if this were normal. She had waited while he’d changed, and when he came down she’d boiled the kettle: “nice cup of tea,” the universal panacea. They had sat at the kitchen table eating a slice of cake, and he had asked her several trick questions, and she had fielded them all nicely. Even now he couldn’t be absolutely certain she was an imposter any more than he could prove he’d been slipped some memory-twisting drug. They wanted him askew from reality, that was their plan; wanted him declared harmless and senile, the better to squeeze him dry when the time came. And to that end they would make use of those who loved him, because that was how things worked on Spook Street. Your friends and neighbours were not to be trusted, but it was your family you had to fear.
“Grandad? Are you all right in there?”
The shape shifted; became hooded and intense. Whoever it was had raised a flattened palm to their brow and was peering through the mottled glass.
“What was your grandmother’s name?”
“. . . What?”
“Simple question.”
River, if that’s who it was, fell silent.
“Because if you can’t even—”
“Her name was Rose, Grandad. Your wife’s name was Rose. And your daughter, my mother, she’s Isobel.”
Which proved nothing. Any fool could do research.
The man banged on the door again. “Grandad? Are you okay?”
Let the enemy in. Pretend your guard is down. He wasn’t defenceless, as this imposter might yet discover to his cost.
He turned the latch and opened the door to the stranger on his doorstep. It was a creditable likeness. They had done their job well. If he was as fuddled as they thought, this man would pass as River Cartwright.
And this man was pushing on the door now, making David step back. He closed it behind him. “Cold out.”
“Where’ve you come from?”
“You know where I’ve come from.” He glanced down. “You need to put some slippers on.”
The O.B. looked down at his feet: socks only, on the cold tiles.
“Where are your slippers?”
He had thrown his slippers away, but didn’t want to admit this, because it would lead to more questions—why had he thrown them away; how had they got wet; why was he wandering in the rain with only slippers on his feet? To admit to confusion was to play into their hands. So he simply glared at the young man in a way that made it plain he would be questioned no more on this topic.
In return, he received a quizzical look; a head tilted to one side in a way that River himself had. “Did something happen today?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? You seem . . . confused.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
Once, he had sat in the Prime Minister’s office while First Desk briefed her on unexpected troop movements on the East German border, a brief later agreed to have had a calming effect on the PM in particular, on policy in general, during Westminster’s jumpiest week since October ’62. And which, very much to the point, had been written by Cartwright himself—he, David Cartwright, had taken a planing tool to history; had smoothed away a rough edge, and ensured that the lives of hundreds of thousands of people continued on their serene course instead of being capsized by the possibility of war. And that was just one day in his life. One day in a long life, crammed with incident: what made today so special? No lives had been ruptured, no navies sunk. He’d walked to the shops in his pyjama trousers, that was all. It could have happened to anyone.
“It’s cold in here.”
“I’m all right.”
“You should have the heating on.”
Heat dulls the senses, keeps you unwary.
The young man who was calling himself River walked into the kitchen, acting like he owned the place. He cast a professional eye over the surfaces, checking for signs of neglect—unwashed crockery, crops of mould. He’d be a long time looking. Rose Cartwright had run a tight ship, and her widowed husband did the same.
“Have you eaten, Grandfather?”
“Yes.”
He’d eaten cake. A cup of tea and a slice of cake, as prepared by the Alice woman. This man would know that already, of course. He’d have been fully briefed.
“Would you like me to run you a bath?”
“When have I ever needed you to do that?”
“Grandad, you look cold to the bone. And there’s no fire lit. How long have you been sitting without the heating on? I’ll run you a bath so you can warm yourself up, and then I’ll light a fire.”
“River never . . . ”
He lost his thread.
“I’m River.”
“Have you spoken to your mother lately?”
“She’s fine. She sends her love.”
She never does that, the O.B. thought.
“Why does your voice sound strange?”
“Slight cold, nothing to worry about. I’m not contagious. Now let’s get upstairs.”
