Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(47)

So she spent the next two hours on cruise control. If the City was the Square Mile, to its east was the Hipster Hectare, and Shirley kind of liked hipsters, for not being afraid to look the way they did, and not being ashamed of their stupid opinions. But they were rarer than they once were, most of their ventures—cereal restaurants, beard oils—having proved the opposite of recession-proof, and she soon tired of the safari. The original plan had been to kill time in a bar or two and then dance her mood away, but already it felt like her mood would win, regardless of the bounty in her pocket and the freshly ironed tee on her back. Catherine bloody Standish. Not to mention Lech bloody Wicinski and Louisa bloody Guy. That pair were plotting something—a KGB colonel?—and the thought of being left out was grating on her. What had she done to be excluded? Okay, so what Lech had said about Old Street station might have been more or less true, inasmuch as, yes, she had coshed a civilian there and left him comatose in a public toilet, but that bare summary had hiphopped over that she’d done so to save Lech having his face smashed in. Which you’d think he’d show a little gratitude, even if a bit of hands-on remodelling might have improved his looks in the long run.

All she wanted was a piece of the action. It didn’t matter what it was about; they could keep her in the dark if they liked. But she wanted to be there when things were happening, because otherwise what was the point of it: the endless slogging through Lamb’s endless tasks? Which he only invented because he wasn’t actually allowed to torture them physically, that was Shirley’s take. Otherwise he’d have them all in the cellar on a daily basis.

The thought of hitting the dance floor felt hollow now, its moment past. It was time to head home instead, even if home was a cheerless apartment: its floors unswept, its sheets unlaundered, its kitchen frankly dangerous. At least it was somewhere to be. At least there was stuff to do there.

She finished her drink—her fourth, maybe, but counting was for babies—and left the bar to find herself not far from Shoreditch High. Mentally, she plotted her journey home: tube-wise she’d be better off starting from Slough House. And if she went that way she could pop into her office and collect her iron, before one of her colleagues walked off with it.

Darkness had settled on London’s streets, and probably elsewhere too, but it had a particular flavour here; the shadows congregating overhead, their whispered plotting barely audible. Shirley headed back the way she’d come: up onto the Barbican walkways. Lights were on in the towers, evidence of lives lived elsewhere. She wondered what it was like, being one of the people you passed at a distance; glimpsed once, then seen no more. Crossing the footbridge, she saw that Slough House’s lights were mostly off, though Roddy Ho was still in his room, doubtless pursuing some online fancy. She’d nip in, collect her iron. Catherine would be gone, and there’d be no reprise of the afternoon’s lecture.

The stairs were a little unsteady, but that was Slough House for you. Always shifting underfoot.

In her room, she grabbed her iron; on the way out, she paused on the landing, hearing voices from Ho’s office.

Did he have company?

He didn’t, but only in the technical sense that there was nobody in the room with him. Taking the larger perspective, Roddy was surrounded by admirers, though that was barely worth the footnote: if the Rodster wanted crowds, crowds happened. Charisma was the word. He should link to an online dictionary, email the definition to Mr. Lightning. Not that he believed what Wicinski had said about a twenty-second victory margin, but it was as well to keep a rival in his place. Mr. Lightning might have them gasping in awe on the hub, exclaiming fork! and sheet! every time he flexed his digits, but if he thought he was a match for the Rodinator, he had brutal lessons coming. As for Wicinski, a lesser man might be tempted to seek revenge and cancel his direct debits, but the more enlightened soul would rise above the insult, and pass by on the other side.

Because, Roderick Ho reminded himself, there comes a time when you accept your maturity. Graduate from fresh-faced acolyte to wise mentor, at whose feet new generations gather, eager to collect the pearls that drop from your lips. The puppy becomes the full-grown hound; the cub becomes the lion. Which, in a nutshell, was why he was in a Zoom room now, with women digitally queued before him, each of them seeking the aid, the salvation, only Roddy could bestow.

Help me, Hobi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.

How many times had he heard that?

(Six.)

But it had to be said, this latest attempt lacked what you might call feeling. Didn’t do justice to herself or, especially, him.

Roddy allowed the slightest of frowns, the merest flicker of disappointment, to cross his worldly features.

“Let’s try that again.”

“Why, what was wrong with it?”

What was wrong with it was, he’d just told her to try it again. Had this woman never been mentored before?

He said, “It lacked . . . gravitas.”

“Yeah, well, it’s spelt wrong. It should be Obi-Wan. You’ve got Hobi-Wan.”

Her fellow hopefuls watched mutely from their little windows, one or two shaking their heads, as well they might. It was round one of the audition process—early days—but you had to live the part, and if you were Princess Leia, you didn’t answer back to Hobi-Wan.

But then, sad truth, Roddy wasn’t working with the cream of the crop. Of the eight would-be Princess Leias, six were overweight and this one downright bolshy, and even if any were capable of delivering their key line with the sincerity he was looking for, the gold-bikini round was going to see most of them hitting light-speed on their way out. They’d be in a galaxy far, far away before you could say I have a bad feeling about this.