“It’s best not to think in terms of time.”
“Not the most inspiring response. I was told I should just quit.”
“Who by?”
“Friends. Others on the hub.” Her gaze shifted from Louisa. “I mean, that was back on day one. Day two. They haven’t been in touch since. None of them have.”
“They’re worried it’s catching, being a slow horse,” said Louisa. “They’re shielding.”
“They can screw themselves,” Ashley said, her flat tone suggesting she was describing an uncanny ability rather than indicating a course of action.
Louisa didn’t feel like offering an alternative point of view. The number of people she was still in touch with at Regent’s Park was zero. Less than, if you counted unanswered voicemails.
She looked round the office, which hadn’t changed in any essential since Ashley’s arrival. It wasn’t the kind of workspace you’d try to personalise, because if you were someone who liked to personalise your workspace you’d be somewhere else, and also because it was the kind of workspace that would actively resist such attempts. Pot plants would wilt before your eyes, and photographs of loved ones fade in their frames, familiar shapes becoming ghostly presences, then absences, then blanks. A bit like your friends on the hub, on hearing the news of your exile.
What Ashley’s personal space might look like, Louisa didn’t know. She was young, and had barely cut her teeth at the Park before running foul of Lamb, so hadn’t specialised yet; was what the Park called wet material, ready to be moulded into whatever form it chose. As things had fallen that would be down to Lamb now, so the odds were good she’d end up a shapeless mess. That aside, all Louisa knew was that Ashley had grown up in Stirling: this nugget from her personnel file, via Catherine. And, Louisa suspected, there was a little money in the background. That or some badly hammered plastic. Because Ashley dressed well, and trainee spooks enjoyed a starting salary apprentice chimney sweeps wouldn’t envy.
Ashley, meanwhile, appeared to be waiting for her to justify her presence, so she said, “You’ve swapped desks.”
“Yes, well. It’s not like it’s in use.”
Louisa thought better of replying. Another reason for not making an effort with a newcomer was that newcomers didn’t usually welcome it. This was temporary, that was their mantra. This couldn’t be happening to them, so would soon stop. Wrongs would be righted, the curtain would fall. When it rose again, everything would be just the way it was.
“Anyway,” Ashley said. “I’m going back to the Park.”
She tipped the handful of fruit and nuts into her mouth.
“Of course you are,” said Louisa. “See you tomorrow.”
She headed down the stairs. Passing Ho’s office, she didn’t bother calling a farewell, her mild guilt at having played him—again—not being enough to warrant an apology. The way she saw it, Ho would do something offensive within the next little while, and the books would be balanced again. Having a dick for a colleague means never having to say you’re sorry.
Lech Wicinski was waiting in the bus queue opposite; the only one not wearing a face mask, though from a distance he looked like he was. Louisa crossed the road to join him.
“Wimbledon,” he said.
“We’re doing code words now?”
“That’s where she lives. You drove in, right?”
She had driven in, yes.
“So let’s go.”
“If you’re under the impression this decisive crap comes off as macho, you’re way off beam,” she told him, but he shrugged.
Her car was near Fortune Park, and three minutes later they were in it and heading back towards Aldersgate Street, where both noticed, but neither commented on, Shirley Dander, entering Barbican tube station. Shirley, who saw them but pretended not to, wasn’t catching a train; was heading, rather, for the footbridge leading into the Barbican itself, where she followed the painted yellow line before dropping down to Whitecross Street. The food market had packed its bags, but she found the man she was after, who worked on one of the Thai stalls, in the pub on the corner. Shirley was one of his regulars, both for the food he provided during working hours and for the cocaine he supplied on demand, and the manner in which they greeted each other and shared five minutes’ gossip must have appeared, to a casual onlooker, like genuine friendship: they were good mates, these were brief times, but there were future meetings on the cards. When Shirley left, her wallet was lighter but her pocket reassuringly held a cellophane envelope, enough to keep her from hitting the ground for a few days to come, if she practised a little restraint.
Which might involve not taking any at work.
What are you on?
What’s it to you?
You’re at work. You work for the Service, for God’s sake . . .
Yeah, kind of. Not that the Service had noticed lately; as far as Regent’s Park was concerned, Shirley might as well be training mice to build catapults.
You’ve got a boss upstairs who’ll throw you out of your job without a thought if you give him an excuse.
Which showed how much Catherine Standish knew. If Lamb felt like throwing Shirley out of her job, he wouldn’t need an excuse.
The hit she’d taken earlier had worn off, leaving her feeling dumpy and out of sorts. The obvious fix for this was close to hand, but she didn’t feel ready to dip into that yet. You’ve been seriously lucky so far, and that won’t go on happening forever. Yeah yeah yeah. Until she got Miss Bossy out of her head, there was no point relaxing. Coke had been known to make those voices louder. Last thing she needed was a travelling chorus, pointing out her misdeeds every step she took.
So she spent the next two hours on cruise control. If the City was the Square Mile, to its east was the Hipster Hectare, and Shirley kind of liked hipsters, for not being afraid to look the way they did, and not being ashamed of their stupid opinions. But they were rarer than they once were, most of their ventures—cereal restaurants, beard oils—having proved the opposite of recession-proof, and she soon tired of the safari. The original plan had been to kill time in a bar or two and then dance her mood away, but already it felt like her mood would win, regardless of the bounty in her pocket and the freshly ironed tee on her back. Catherine bloody Standish. Not to mention Lech bloody Wicinski and Louisa bloody Guy. That pair were plotting something—a KGB colonel?—and the thought of being left out was grating on her. What had she done to be excluded? Okay, so what Lech had said about Old Street station might have been more or less true, inasmuch as, yes, she had coshed a civilian there and left him comatose in a public toilet, but that bare summary had hiphopped over that she’d done so to save Lech having his face smashed in. Which you’d think he’d show a little gratitude, even if a bit of hands-on remodelling might have improved his looks in the long run.
All she wanted was a piece of the action. It didn’t matter what it was about; they could keep her in the dark if they liked. But she wanted to be there when things were happening, because otherwise what was the point of it: the endless slogging through Lamb’s endless tasks? Which he only invented because he wasn’t actually allowed to torture them physically, that was Shirley’s take. Otherwise he’d have them all in the cellar on a daily basis.
The thought of hitting the dance floor felt hollow now, its moment past. It was time to head home instead, even if home was a cheerless apartment: its floors unswept, its sheets unlaundered, its kitchen frankly dangerous. At least it was somewhere to be. At least there was stuff to do there.