Мик Херрон - Real Tigers

Louisa leaned in again. “This is an important mission we’re on. It’s Scott-level. Okay?”

“. . . Scott level?”

River said, “Not on the phone. Let us in, we’ll explain everything.”

There was a pause, a not-quite-silence, during which the speaker’s breathing was translated into the same electronic-dustbin whisper. And then the click of a connection being broken.

And then another, louder, grating noise, as the wheel-shaped handle on the concrete block behind them, released from its hidden locking mechanism, shifted upwards an inch or two.

Lamb gazedwith dismay at fields on both sides of the motorway; thankfully disappearing into gloom now, they still covered more of the near distance than was acceptable. Dotted among them were houses; sometimes in small bunches of four or five; more often set by themselves, surrounded by open spaces.

“You’d better be right about this,” he told Ho. “If you’ve dragged me into this godforsaken wilderness on a fancy goose chase, you can say goodbye to your annual bonus.”

This particular stretch of godforsaken wilderness was six lanes wide and medium-busy.

Ho said, “I get an annual bonus?”

“No. Weren’t you listening?” Lamb was visibly toying with lighting another cigarette, though possibly even he had started to notice that the air in the car was barely this side of toxic. “God, look at it. There are folk living out here have probably never seen a taxi.”

This depressed him enough that he went ahead and lit his cigarette anyway.

“It’s the kids I feel sorry for,” he went on, words he’d almost certainly never used before in a single sentence. “Growing up miles from civilisation. Learn to hot-wire a car, or you’re stuck here till they plant you.”

“I can hot-wire a car.”

“Huh. I always assumed it was Longridge had the criminal youth,” said Lamb. “Not to resort to stereotypes or anything. But he is, well . . . ” He paused. “You know.”

“. . . Black?”

“From the East End. Jesus, you immigrants are quick with the racist jibes, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Where’d you learn to hot-wire, anyway? I thought all you did was exercise your wrists.” Lamb supplied a demonstrative gesture, halfway between working a keyboard and milking a cow, then leered. “One way or the other.”

“The internet’s full of information,” Ho said. “That makes me an expert at lots of things.”

“It’s full of pornography too,” Lamb observed. “Doesn’t make you Casanova. What’s your thingamajig say?”

Ho checked his satnav. “Exit after next.”

“Good. And I hope you’ve been working on a plan.” Lamb collapsed back into a Toad of Toad Hall slump. “Because I haven’t.”

Ho grinned nervously, caught sight of Lamb’s face in the mirror, and stopped.

It wassomehow inevitable, Louisa thought, that the dustbin-voice, decoded, would belong to a man who looked like a broomstick: one of those straight-up straight-down bodies on whom elbows, wrists and knees look painful, as if grafted on in the aftermath of tragedy. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt buttoned to the neck over brown corduroy trousers, and was compensating for the thinness of his pale red hair by growing a moustache. It was impossible to tell how long he’d been working on this, and nearly as difficult to refrain from suggesting he stop. Even to Louisa’s mind, and men weren’t currently anywhere near the top of the list of things she cared about, the sparse carroty wisps on this one’s upper lip seemed like an act of self-harm.

His name, he’d told them, once they’d opened the airlock-type hatchway and climbed down the metal ladder to the air-conditioned facility beneath, was Douglas.

“First name or last?” she asked, as the hatchway door swung shut above them, and locked itself in response to a switch Douglas threw.

“First.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not going to tell you my last name.”

“. . . Okay.”

“Can’t be too careful,” he explained.

Which was true enough, but it would be unkind to point out that that particular ship had sailed, where Douglas was concerned.

The room was large and bright, most of its visible surfaces one type of shiny metal or another. Against one wall was a work console, its swivel chair bobbling jauntily now Douglas had vacated it, and the panel of monitors he’d been looking at were evidently CCTV, because Louisa recognised on one screen the chamber they’d just left. Others showed various angles of the wasteground outside, already looking gloomier than ten minutes ago; others still must have been internal, and displayed doors, corridors, and several warehouse-like spaces filled with industrial-sized shelving, on which were ranged rows of packing crates, boxes, and what looked like miles of paperwork in box files and cardboard folders. Among them, no doubt, the Grey Books. She wondered how the cataloguing worked—without a system, they could pick through that lot from now until Christmas, and never find what they were looking for.

Still, at least she’d be cool . . . Louisa couldn’t help what she did next: she raised her arms, aeroplane mode, and allowed refrigerated air to creep under her blouse and stroke her skin.

Douglas was watching her. “Your hair really has changed colour, you know,” he told her.

“It was deliberate.”

“Disguise, sort of thing?”

“Yes,” she said. “That sort of thing.”

River said, “How big’s your team down here?”

Douglas gave him a superior look which fit him about as well as his moustache. “That’s classified.”

“Classified,” said River. “Gotcha.” He paused. “Can I see your Service card?”

“My what?”

“Your Service card. To verify your security rating.”

“. . . I don’t have a Service card.”

“Right.”

“I’m not Service. You already know that.”

“Right,” River said. “But see, that’s where the whole classified thing gets complicated. Because my security rating’s higher than yours. You know, because you haven’t got one.”

“I’ve been vetted,” Douglas said.

“That’s obvious,” Louisa began, but ran so smoothly into her next sentence that River’s warning glance was unnecessary. “You’re in charge of this facility, you’ve got a lot of . . . equipment, there’s no way you got here without undergoing pretty vigorous assessment.” She tugged at her blouse again, allowing more air to circulate. “But we get ridden pretty hard too, Douglas, which is how come we’re cleared for the serious stuff. You know, the full-on hardcore action . . . Do you know what I mean, Douglas?”

Douglas cleared his throat. “Ungh. I mean, I think so.”

River seemed to having an allergic reaction to the chilled air: he’d put finger and thumb to his nose, and was squeezing hard.

“That’s good, Douglas.” Louisa released her blouse, and ran a hand through her hair. “So that puts us on the same side, doesn’t it?”

“. . . Um, yes. I guess so.”

“That’s lovely. How many others are down here with you, Douglas?”

“Er . . . right now? Or usually?”

“Right now.”

“None.”

“How about usually?” River asked.

“Well, usually . . . none.”

“None,” said River.

“Except there’s a walk-through once a week. My boss does a sweep, makes sure everything’s how it should be.” He raised a finger to his upper lip, checking on his moustache’s progress. “The rest of the time, we’re on our own.”

“We?” said Louisa.

“Me and Max.” Douglas coloured slightly. “It’s what I call my computer.”

“You’ve given your computer a name,” Louisa said, without inflection.