But for now it’s here in Slough House, and as it moves, as it swells, it gathers up all traces of the day and cradles them in its smoky fingers, squeezing them for the secrets they contain. It listens to the conversations that took place within these walls, all faded to whispers now, inaudible to human ears, and gorges on them. From behind a radiator in Shirley Dander’s office it collects the memory of her unfolding a wrap of paper and snorting its contents through a five-pound note. ‘Back to zero,’ Shirley said aloud once she was done, and though dusk has no understanding of the words – has no vocabulary at all – it takes her tone of defiant regret and adds it to its purse. In Roderick Ho’s empty room it finds nothing, but on the next floor there are moments of interest, items to ponder. Louisa Guy has left a trace of scent behind: dusk has no sense of smell, but there’s a familiarity of intent here, a lingering sense of purpose it recognises. Dusk has seen a lot of action in its time. It appreciates the efforts that go into such occasions.
And in the companion office it dawdles longer, savouring the remnants of the day. It can still hear River Cartwright’s recent phone call, a call consisting of one word only, River?, before the connection disappeared, leaving River grasping at a vacant space. Sid? he might have said; a word is only a noise, and easily lost amid other sensations: for example, River’s understanding that any protection Lamb might offer will last only while he’s a slow horse. For Lamb will go to any lengths to protect a joe, but would watch in mild amusement if the rest of the world hanged itself. This may not be true – there are corners in Lamb’s life River has no knowledge of – but for the moment, at least, it seems that resignation is no longer an option; a conclusion that tarries in the room after River has taken leave. J. K. Coe, too, has long departed, but before doing so stood a while, seeming to smile as dusk peered out from a hole in the carpet. Dusk, unused to such greetings, wonders whether Coe has mistaken it for its older brother night. Perhaps an introduction is in order. But Coe has gone before that can happen, which is maybe just as well, for those who meet the night on equal terms are rarely left unbruised by the encounter.
There are more stairs, and dusk has already climbed them. In Catherine Standish’s room, it now remembers, it lay beneath a filing cabinet while Diana Taverner described Catherine’s former boss’s final moments; how Jackson Lamb murdered Charles Partner in his bathtub; a sanctioned murder, but a murder all the same; one which precipitated Lamb’s exile, and gifted him Slough House. The life Catherine now leads is built on the proceeds of Jackson Lamb’s crime. Diana Taverner just thought she should know that. And once Taverner had left, dusk waited for Catherine to weep, or shout, or rage, but it heard nothing; and when time came for it to creep from its hiding places, it found the room empty, and Catherine Standish gone.
So at last dusk comes to Jackson Lamb’s office, where, of course, it’s already waiting. And finds there is nothing to find there, for Jackson Lamb carries his own darkness with him, and is careful not to leave any lying in unregarded corners. All that remains of his recent presence, spillage of whisky and ash aside, is a soiled and rotten handkerchief hanging off the lip of a bin. Dusk considers this, and adds it to its knowledge of the day; knowledge it will abandon soon, for this is the rule, in London and elsewhere: everything that happens – good and bad – dusk clocks, absorbs, then mostly forgets. For if dusk remembered everything the weight would nail it in place, keeping it from its eternal search for its twin, the dawn, which it has never met. Always, it’s halfway behind, or halfway ahead. It’s never known which.
Meanwhile, dusk’s older brother night, which has hovered overhead this past hour, is beginning to lose its balance, beginning to fall. Soon everything will be different again, the same as it always is. Dusk has a last look round, but its vision is failing, its hearing dim. It has been everywhere, seen everything. It is time to go. It has already left. In its wake, in the dark, Slough House slumbers, Slough House snores.
But mostly, Slough House waits.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
HUGE THANKS, AS EVER, to my friends at John Murray in London, and at Soho Press in New York, especially Mark Richards, Yassine Belkacemi, Emma Petfield and Becky Walsh over here, and Bronwen Hruska, Juliet Grames and Paul Oliver over there. And to Juliet Burton, of course, for keeping everything on track.
Some while ago, I was lucky enough to be present while Helen Giltrow and Steph Broadribb discussed Mr Tom Hiddleston. I hope I haven’t misrepresented their views. And questions asked by Mark Billingham, Sarah Hilary and Will Smith suggested some avenues I’m gratefully pursuing in this novel and the next. My thanks to all.
I’m grateful, too, to various readers for their enthusiasm, support, and gentle correction of error. Aakash Chakrabarty and David Craggs have been especially helpful, but all the many emailers, however brief their messages, lighten the days. And I’m indepted to the staff at Summertown Library in Oxford for tolerating my near-daily presence as I mooch around their shelves, shuffle through their DVDs, read their newspapers and use their computers. It’ll surprise them to learn that I do occasionally get some work done.
The rules of ‘Yellow Car’, as cited by Louisa in chapter 7, were laid down by Mr John Finnemore in his delightful Radio 4 series Cabin Pressure. Thanks to him, I’ve been playing Yellow Car since about 2014. It doesn’t seem likely that I’ll ever stop.
MH
Oxford
September 2017