Мик Херрон - Real Tigers

Duffy slammed his other hand against the wall, and leaned forward so his forehead was almost touching River’s. “You want to know why I’m having trouble believing this fairy story, Cartwright?”

“Look at my phone.”

“It’s because if any of it even remotely happened, you know where you’d be now? Back at your desk, doing your job. Having reported all these . . . unusual events to your boss, who’d have passed them up the line exactly the way it says in the protocols. Because if you’d done anything different, Cartwright, you’d have knowingly endangered the life of your fellow . . . What is it they call you over there?”

River could smell Duffy’s breath. Could feel the heat of the sweat forming on his brow.

“Can’t hear you.”

“You know what they call us.”

And then he was doubling over in pain, that familiar terrible pain men learn early and never forget. In a minute or two, it would get worse. But for the moment the impact of Duffy’s knee into his testicles wiped out all thought of his future.

Duffy stepped away, and River fell to the floor.

Diana Taverneranswered on the third ring and said, “What do you want?”

“No, really,” said Lamb. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

He’d called her mobile, though he knew she’d be at her desk—she had that level of devotion to duty at least partly fired by fear that someone would move into her office if she left it for long.

“Been meaning to call you, actually,” she said. “Finance are querying your latest expense sheet. How come you clock up so much in travel costs when you barely leave your room?”

“How come Finance are passing their queries on to you?”

“Because her high-and-mighty Dameness has decreed that all and any manner of crap be redirected my way.” A pause followed, just long enough for her to be lighting a cigarette if that weren’t a shootable offence at the Park. “She wants to underline how indispensable I am, which means she thinks she’s found a way of dispensing with me.”

Because he wasn’t at the Park, and because nobody got shot at Slough House without his permission, Lamb lit a cigarette. “You sound quite relaxed about it.”

“She’ll have to get up earlier than she thinks she has,” Taverner said, which would have sounded cryptic from anyone else, but was reasonably lucid for her. “So. These expense sheets.”

“Don’t push me, Diana. I have hostages, remember?”

“They’re not your hostages, Jackson. They’re your staff.”

“You say potato,” said Lamb. “Anyway, I don’t have as many as I used to. A birdy tells me you’ve got one of mine in your lock-up.”

“That would be River Cartwright.”

“Yes, but don’t blame me. I think his mother was a hippy.”

“Smoke a lot of dope while he was in the womb, did she? That might explain today’s dipshit behaviour. And I thought he was one of your cleverer boys.”

“Mind like a razor,” Lamb agreed. “Disposable. Anyway, when you’ve finished ticking him off, pack him back this way, would you? I’ve thought of three different ways of making his life hell, and I’m itching to put them into practice.”

That he was itching was beyond doubt. His pencil being out of reach he’d grabbed a plastic ruler, and was sawing away at the gaps between the toes on his right foot, a task made easier now the fabric of his sock had given way.

“Yeah, right.” Taverner gave her throaty chuckle, famous for making the old boys on the Oversight Committee stand to attention. “You might need to practise your latest . . . wheezes on someone else.”

“‘Wheezes’?”

“This isn’t one of your daily misdemeanours, Lamb. Cartwright attempted to steal, or photograph, a Scott-level document, leaking which would have caused serious embarrassment to both the Service and the government. We’re not going to send him back to you with a slapped wrist. Anyway, it’s out of my hands. He’s with the Dogs. And when they’re finished with him, they’ll hand him over to the Met.”

Lamb took a long drag on his cigarette, noisily enough that Taverner knew what he was doing. He said, “Scott-level? You’re still playing Thunderbirds over there?”

“Yes, but don’t blame me. Unquote. Tearney thinks they’re astronauts.” Her chuckle floated into Lamb’s room once more, mixing with the cloud he’d just breathed out. “And if you think I don’t know when you’re processing, you’re sadly wrong. You’ve no idea what your boy was up to, have you?”

“Well, I’ve got a birthday this year. Perhaps he was looking for that special gift.”

“I’ll get those expense details emailed over. You might want to give them some more thought.”

“Diana?”

This time, it was more than a chuckle. This time it was an outright laugh. “Oh dear. Sounds like you’re about to make a plea.”

Lamb said, “Cartwright’s not my only joe gone walkabout. If there’s anything happening I need to know about, you’d best email those details too. Save me having to come over there and ask you myself.”

He hung up, and gave his foot one last vicious tweak with the ruler, which split in half with a noise like a gunshot.

This being Slough House, and Lamb being Lamb, nobody came to find out if that’s what it had been.

When hecould see again, all he could see was the floor. He spat, and then he could see the floor and some spit, and then his vision went wavy again, and then it came back.

So now you know, a small voice in the back of his head told him, what it’s like to be kneed in the balls by an expert.

It’s surprising how even the most basic of skills can become, in the hands of an artist, a minor masterpiece.

“I’m waiting,” another voice said. This one wasn’t in his head; it existed in the rest of the world too.

River hauled himself into a squatting position where the pain didn’t exactly subside, but allowed him to think that it might one day do so, and took a deep breath, half-scared that doing so would rupture something important. He looked for his voice, and found it a little farther away than usual. “Slow. Horses. They call us. The slow. Horses.” Even to himself, he sounded like a nonagenarian refugee. “And you know. What they call. You?”

“Everyone knows what they call us,” Duffy said. “They call us the Dogs.”

“No. They call the Dogs. The Dogs. They call you. A useless prick.”

“And yet you’re the one lying on the floor.”

“You ever. Try that. Outside your own backyard,” River said. “We’ll see who ends up. On the floor.”

It was getting easier again, this old talent of his: making words come out of his mouth. He looked up, and found Duffy looking straight back down at him.

“Maybe we can check that out,” he said. “But not anytime soon. You’re going to be busy for a while yet.”

“Standish,” said River. “They have Catherine Standish.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not like we were doing anything with her. And you’re going to have one hell of a job persuading anyone she’s worth the PM’s vetting file.” Duffy ran his left index finger over the knuckles of his right hand. “Now get to your feet, and let’s try again.”

Queasily, River managed to stand.

Duffy said, “Who were you planning on selling it to?”

River said, “They have Catherine Standish. Check my phone, you moron.”

This time, Duffy hit him in the stomach.

•••

“Sorry aboutthis,” the soldier began.

He didn’t look sorry.

“But we’re out of milk.”

He put the mug of tea he was carrying on the bedside table.

“Room service?” Catherine said.