It would be fair to say that River Cartwright was in an uplit mood.
He was heading to Oxford the same day the Brains Trust was convening there in the safe house, though he couldn’t know that at the time. Of more interest to him was the simple state of being alive, and taking in the associated pleasures. Breathing, for example. Breathing was not something he’d take for granted again, or that was how it felt most mornings, when he woke and found himself doing just that: drawing in air, expelling it, his lungs doing their job unassisted, in a room empty of equipment designed to cope with the possibility that they might not. Waking up next to Sid, too. His new life was full of good things; moments he’d never call miracles, because once you did that you were hostage to a belief system, but stilclass="underline" pretty good. He’d been dead, or next worst thing; had spent nine days in a coma. Sid had also been dead; dead to him, and to everyone else, for longer than seemed feasible—and now they were back, and sharing this new chapter together. It shouldn’t surprise anyone, least of all himself, that he had these passages of joy to contend with. Just so long as he kept them quiet.
Good things weren’t the whole story, of course. There was still the occasional convulsion to deal with, meaning make sure nobody noticed—as far as the world was concerned, he was one hundred per cent fit. “The world” meant Regent’s Park. It was just a matter of time, then, before the powers above—before Doctor Desk, the Park’s chief medical officer—passed him ready for the workplace. Whether anyone was ever really ready for Slough House was one for philosophers rather than medics, but even so, what mattered was his physical condition, and occasional convulsion aside, he was fit, he was ready. The rest was paperwork. And having done all he could to chivvy that along, he was just killing time until the documents were signed and stamped.
Which was why he was in the car this morning: because movement beat staying still; it whisked up time, sent it spinning faster. River was heading to Oxford, to discuss the matter of his grandfather’s library, and the book it had contained which had gone missing before turning out not to exist; a puzzle which would either yield to straightforward explanation or wouldn’t. It didn’t much matter either way. But addressing it would keep him busy, and deposit him that much nearer his own actual life, which this time round he would handle with wisdom and finesse, as befitted someone who’d been given a second chance. Slough House was for keeps: The slow horses had heard that so often they’d been beaten hopeless by the knowledge, and barely questioned it any more. But River knew what he was capable of, and while it was true he’d had troubles with Diana Taverner, she was far too canny an operator to deprive herself of a talented agent out of what, pique? They could have a sit-down, or a stand-up. A face-to-face. However it came about, he’d make it work. The sky was still blue; the fields shading to green. As he drove towards Oxford, still uplit, he might not have a song in his heart but he had a radio that worked, and was playing “Solsbury Hill.” That would do for now.
A low-slung waddling creature in a cherry-coloured waistcoat was leading a middle-aged couple along the Barbican terrace, pausing every few yards to catalogue recent canine activity, but there was no one else in sight. Way overhead, a sliding noise was a window opening, too high to be a worry, but she glanced upwards anyway because this was the world Diana Taverner moved in, requiring alertness to the possibility of someone watching, of records being kept. Never was the only right moment to drop your guard.
The bricks—this was the Barbican; there were bricks everywhere, except where there was concrete or glass—were shining in the noonday sun, and weeds were flowering in crevices, adding yellow and purple notes to faded greys and reds. The sky was largely blue, barring a contrail growing puffier by the moment, like cotton wool dropped in water. The hands on her watch overlapped, precisely. The bulky shape approaching was her appointment. Late.
He was wheezing, and overdressed for the weather; his familiar greasy overcoat flapping around his thighs. Hardly out of character, but stilclass="underline" She found herself arching her eyebrows, shaking her head. “My God, Jackson. Do you never think about losing weight?”
“Yeah, once a week I take an extra-big dump.” He patted his stomach. “Keeps me in trim.”
“It keeps you in heart attack territory.”
“Potato potahto. What do you want?”
“Never been one for small talk, have you?”
“Nice weather, seen the news, up the Arsenal,” said Lamb. “Small talk’s just bullshit leaving the body.”
There was a bench next to one of the concrete flower beds that were there to add insult to injury. Whether by design or good fortune, it sat permanently in shade cast by one or other of the overhead towers, whose continuing existence arguably amounted to a victory for terrorism. When Lamb lowered himself onto one side Diana half expected it to tilt, but hadn’t taken into account that it was bolted to the ground. She sat, placing her tote bag between them, and when she looked up he was holding a lit cigarette, which he hadn’t been a moment ago. Lamb could peel an orange one-handed in his pocket, if doing so would save him having to offer you a segment.
She said, “There’s a rumour those things are bad for you.”
“And there’s statistics prove healthy people die. What’s your point?”
“Forget I spoke.”
“Already done.” He inhaled, exhaled, admired his own prowess, then said, “You look like you found a condom in your cornflakes, Diana. You going to tell me about it or just piss off back to the Park?”
Taverner was a great believer in what mediators call “deep listening,” whereby the person she was talking to, regardless of how violently they disapproved of what she was saying, would shut up and agree with her. Lamb was never likely to fill this role, but here and now—as regrettably so often—there was no one else to unload on. Or at least, no one she’d not have to fire afterwards. “It’s the Park that’s the problem.”
“You’re looking for somewhere new to bunk up, you can share with Ho. Though I warn you, he’s not the most refined of characters.” Lamb shook his head sadly, then farted.
“Finished?”
“Floor’s yours.”
“So I get a call from HR notifying me of a grievance being taken out. This is one of my favourite things, obviously, what with my being not very busy keeping the nation safe from terror attacks and stuff like that.”
“Someone’s made a complaint about you?” Lamb shrugged. “Find out who and either slap them silly or buy them a box of Smarties. You really need me to tell you that?”
“Except the grievance process allows for anonymity, so no one making their whines heard has to worry about getting wedgied in the changing rooms.”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, dropping into his plummiest voice. “Not having attended public school, I’ve no idea how these rituals work.”
“Yes, you were too busy having knife fights, I’m sure. Anyway—anyway. The nub of the matter is, it seems I have caused offence, owing to a, ah, threatening turn of phrase I habitually employ. The poor darling ‘doesn’t feel safe,’ apparently. Is worried I might be planning some kind of genocidal onslaught on the gender-fluid, on account of my tendency to refer to the boys and girls on the hub as precisely that, the boys and girls, instead of adopting some less heteronormative terminology more respectful of the range of sex-based identities that a diverse cohort might be expected to embrace.” She paused for breath. “Or something.”