“No,” Catherine assured him. “You’ve never lived here.”
He’d woken an hour ago and clambered out of bed, and getting dressed had caused him no problems, because he hadn’t undressed in the first place. She’d felt bad about this—it had been an act of cruelty, allowing him to crawl under the covers fully clothed, only his shoes discarded—but in the end, not bad enough to attempt to undress him. And they were her covers. And it hadn’t been her idea to start with.
“I need somewhere he’ll be safe,” River had said. “With someone I trust.”
Which was a nice touch, but then he’d had an entire journey to rehearse his case; she had about three minutes to put up her defences.
“River—I’m happy you trust me. Really. But you can’t just leave him here!”
What does he eat? she wanted to ask. Do I need to walk him? Impossible to construct a coherent counter-argument with idiot questions forming in her mind.
“Someone tried to kill him, Catherine.”
“That’s supposed to motivate me? What if the killer comes here? River—”
“Don’t worry. That won’t be happening.”
Something in the way he said this precluded her asking the obvious.
But what was worst about this conversation, what had been really horrible, was the way it was conducted: in furious whispers with the old man in the room, confused fear on his face. She didn’t need this. Not today. Not on a bleak January morning with the whole city mired in shocked grief; a beautiful excuse for drowning her own and everyone else’s sorrows.
“Please, Catherine.”
“Who wanted him dead?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
“Why don’t you take him to the Park?”
River didn’t answer.
“Oh God,” she said, joining his dots.
So now here she was, and here was the O.B. too, and already the integrity of the safe house was compromised because it had taken Lamb all of five minutes to work out where to find him, and while Lamb was smarter than most people, his wasn’t the only brain on Spook Street.
Though not all spook brains worked the way they used to.
“Where’s he gone?”
“Where’s who gone, David?”
Because she couldn’t call him Mr. Cartwright: not in these circumstances.
“That boy, that young man.”
“. . . River?”
“What sort of a name is that?”
She’d often wondered . . . “He’s not here. But he’ll be back. I promise.” I hope.
“I think he might be up to something,” David Cartwright said.
She had poached him two eggs, and arranged them on toast, and he had eaten hungrily and then drunk three cups of tea, though he’d spilt the third. Now he was in her sitting room, straight-backed on a comfy chair, as if allowing himself to sink into it would compromise his principles. He was still struggling with his grandson: both his name, and the fact of his existence.
“He’s not up to anything, David. He’s just had to run an errand.”
“Used to know someone called River. About so high.”
The old man placed a palm level with his chest, though as he remained sitting, it was difficult to judge precisely what height he was remembering River to be.
Either way, it was a while ago. “That’s the same River,” Catherine said gently. “He grew up.”
“Used to know his mother.”
These weren’t waters Catherine wanted to swim in. “Do you have everything you need? Would you like more to eat?”
Listen to yourself, she admonished. She sounded like her own mother: deflecting the threat of emotion with offers of sustenance.
She said, “His mother, River’s mother—that was your daughter. She was called Isobel.” Too late, she realised she’d slipped into the wrong tense. “That’s what she’s called, I mean. She’s called Isobel.”
A tear was rolling down the old man’s cheek. “I don’t have a daughter.”
“You do, you know.”
“No. She told me so. I’m no longer your daughter. She told me that.”
And this was why you offered food, she thought. This was why you deflected emotion: because there was no helping this level of hurt. There was nowhere either of them could go in this conversation.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked again. “Or are you quite happy?”
A ridiculous question in the circumstances, but it lit something in his eyes. “Happy,” he said.
“. . . Yes?”
“Grumpy. Sneezy. Doc.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought.
“Dopey. Bashful. Grumpy. And that’s all seven.” He tapped his temple. “Nothing wrong with the old memory banks.”
She didn’t point out his error. She didn’t do anything. It was like taking a glimpse down a set of cellar stairs, she thought, and becoming suddenly aware of the steep darkness awaiting you. It didn’t really matter how careful you were in your descent.
“Where’s River?” he asked again.
“He went to France,” she said, invention momentarily beyond her. She was sure that’s where he’d gone: she’d found the rail ticket in his pocket.
“France? He can’t have gone to France!”
“It’s not far. He’ll be back soon.”
“No no no.” He’d grown agitated. “France. Out of the question.”
“It’s not dangerous, David. It’s only over the channel.”
