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JK Coe is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, the whole package then refashioned in the shape of a surly, uncommunicative twat.
Lamb wasn’t a fan of bright colours, and claimed they made him nauseous, and also violent.
Slough House was a branch of the Service, certainly, but “arm” was pitching it strong. As was “finger,” come to that; fingers could be on the button or on the pulse. Fingernails, now: those, you clipped, discarded, and never wanted to see again. So Slough House was a fingernail of the Service: a fair step from Regent’s Park geographically, and on another planet in most other ways. Slough House was where you ended up when all the bright avenues were closed to you. It was where they sent you when they wanted you to go away, but didn’t want to sack you in case you got litigious about it. And
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When the cat was away, Lamb had been known to remark, the mice started farting about with notions of democratic freedom. Then the cat returned in a tank.
Can’t wait to be back out there, my boy. Life’s better with a trowel in your hand.
“That ever happens to me,” he’d instructed River more than once, “shoot me like a horse.”
Dammit, that was the name they gave them, there at Slough House. The slow horses. Treading on a young man’s toes, that was; reminding him of the balls-up he’d made of things.
And no amount of Kevlar offered protection from a woman’s disappointment.
no amount of Kevlar offered protection from a woman’s disappointment.
But it was best the boy was taught to be on his guard, because once the stoats had you in their sights it was the devil’s own job shaking them off.
Slough House might be a better fit, we think. Fewer . . . alarms.
In the weeks and months following his ordeal, Coe had tired of most things. Food lost flavour, and alcohol served to make him throw up long before he’d achieved any kind of anaesthetised state. If he’d had ready access to weed or stronger he’d have given it a shot, but acquiring illegal substances demanded social interaction; interaction with people he could imagine providing . . . “alarms.” He couldn’t read for long without becoming furious. Music was all that was left. Coe had never played the piano in his life, and it was a toss-up as to whether his fingers were going in the right direction
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From across the room, River Cartwright watched him dispassionately. If he’d learned anything as a slow horse, it was that there was no helping some people—sometimes, you had to let them drown. Which was what it looked like JK Coe was doing: not waving but drowning, scrabbling for purchase on a desk that was never going to keep him afloat. Whichever shore he was poling for, he’d either make it or...
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AFM. Anger Fucking Management. Twice a week, in Shoreditch.
“Well, duh.”
“Who’s he think he is, Elton John?”
Dankness is its signature odour, with notes of stale flatulence and mouldy bread.
But nothing stayed still. It was like moving from one room to another: you’d been there, and now you were here. Sooner or later, you closed the door between.
thinking about the O.B., a term she’d heard River use—Old Bastard: a term of affection in this case.
Nothing more frightening, to someone who’d lived by his wits, than to be slowly losing them.
A mobile phone vibrating on a hard surface sounds like a fart.
“You’re Lamb,” she told him. “Thanks,” he said. “This time of night, I’m plagued by doubts.”
Emma Flyte was the new Head Dog, in charge of the Service’s internal police squad. The Dogs sniffed out all manner of heresies, from the sale of secrets to injudicious sexual encounters: the honeytrap was older than chess, but stupidity was even older. So the Dogs were used to a long leash, roaming whatever corridors they chose, but were currently in the doghouse themselves: Dame Ingrid Tearney, erstwhile head of the Service, had used their offices to further her own interests, and while initiative was frequently applauded, getting caught exercising it was not. Emma Flyte, an ex-police
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“So you’re the boss of the famous Slough House,” Flyte said. “Isn’t that where they keep the rejects?” “They don’t like to be called that.” “So what do you call them?” “Rejects,” said Lamb.
As he brushed past, she wrinkled her nose and said, “Have you showered lately?” “Tempting offer,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s appropriate right now. Apart from anything else, one of my team just died.”
“No, really,” Emma Flyte murmured to his back. “You had me at ‘fuck.’”
We may not be getting anywhere, the subtext read, but at least we’ve had very little sleep.
And as a result of all this change, of course, most things remained the same.
as a result of all this change, of course, most things remained the same.
An amateur error? Pointless to ask: when it comes to suicide bombers, everyone’s a first-timer.
Any questions? Good. Off you fuck.”
Nothing more dangerous than a believer.” Because believers were always on a quest, for one Holy Grail or another. And quests were fuelled by the blood of anyone who happened to get in the way.
An analogue man in a digital world. Whether that was obsolescence or survival trait, time would tell.
And one thing joes learn quickly is that those who write the rules rarely suffer their weight.
