Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(61)

Leaving, she ran into a grey-headed woman who was backing through the door carrying a yoga mat. She dropped it when they collided, and the pair mutely watched as it unrolled, releasing visible dust into the air. Then looked at each other.

“My fault.”

“Uh-huh.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Ellie Parsons,” she said. “Panic attacks.”

“Shirley Dander,” Shirley replied. “Substance abuse,” and pushed through the door.

She showered in her room. According to the computer-generated schedule pushed beneath her door there was a group session in half an hour at which her presence was “expected.” Yeah, she thought, scrubbing a hole in the misted mirror. Except her presence had other ideas; she’d send her absence along as a proxy. Hope this suits. Judging by the mirror, it would have to: her reflection wasn’t taking any crap. Her last act of freedom had been a buzz cut, which was what she generally went for when on a war footing. No way was this baby attending any session she didn’t want to.

In black jeans and grey hoodie, her usual trainers, she set out for a walk round the grounds. The woman at reception gave her a smile, which was a plus, but also said something about “twenty minutes,” which Shirley took to be a reminder about the group session. Everyone on bucket seats, sharing bad moments. Seriously: fuck. Shirley had no problem with people seeking help, but also had no problem, end of. The fact that she hadn’t punched anyone yet proved her self-control, right?

The San nestled in a dip between hills, its tree-lined driveway a gentle slope ending in a gravelled expanse in front of the house, which was redbrick, with blue and white woodwork round windows and gables, and a big copper beech behind. It had been a farmhouse in a previous existence, the brochure explained, but those days were long gone. For obvious reasons, there was a certain amount of security: a wall blocked any view of the building from the road, and the gates were controlled from within the house—there was an intercom, and a camera, and you presumably had to have good reason for entering, along with the right ID. There were no guards in evidence, but she had that sense of an unseen presence which came with surveillance, though also with habitual cocaine use. She guessed there’d be more cameras among the trees; maybe someone observing her on a screen right now, admiring her buzz cut.

That said, it wasn’t a fort. The outer wall ended a few hundred yards from the main gate, melding with a row of stables before giving way to a wooded area, separated from the road by a ditch and coloured wire, which looked designed to deter foxes or badgers rather than marauding humans, some of whom would probably have the nous to step over it. And she’d seen from her window that part of the estate’s boundary was a lake, which she doubted was croc-infested. The San might not invite casual wanderers, but if you had a mind to leave—or arrive—there wasn’t a lot to prevent you. She could walk out, make her way to the nearest station, steal a ride and be in London in however long the train took: couple of days, maximum. She’d be back in the clubs before her buzz cut lost its edge.

And then what?

Last night, she’d tried to remember the precise details of Monday evening, and found most of it shrouded in blurry matter. There’d been argy-bargy with Roddy Ho—had he thrown a computer at her?—and then they’d been in a car in Wimbledon, she couldn’t recall why, except that it had something to do with Louisa and Lech. And then the fight with the bus; she’d had a damn good reason for that, but attempts to recall it broke into a welter of shattered plastic and changing lights. Nothing stayed still long enough for Shirley to get a fix on. But that was what happened with memories: more memories piled on top of them, and it got so you couldn’t tell one from the other.

People keep getting hurt. People keep dying. We have to look out for one another.

Catherine’s words, but what did she know? She hadn’t even been there for most of Shirley’s deaths.

You’re doing lots of things, Shirley. But trust me, “fine” is not among them.

Whatever.

But it was true things hadn’t been great lately. She could remember that much: things hadn’t been great.

She was in the stableyard now, if you still called it that when the horses had bolted. It felt like an empty room. Four stables either side, with those wooden half-door arrangements, all hanging open. She looked inside one. It was dark and damp. The wooden shutters on its far wall, which presumably opened onto the road, were closed. She wondered what it must have been like for the horse, stuck in here, looking out on passing cars, but didn’t wonder long. It was a little too familiar.

For some unfathomable reason, she wanted to cry.

A staircase ran alongside the outer side-wall of the farthermost stable, leading to a hayloft or tack room or something—a tack room was a thing, wasn’t it? Whatever it was its door was locked, but she sat on the thigh-high wall of the landing a while, gazing down the road. No traffic. A wind was scuffling about in the woods to her right. She couldn’t actually see it, but she could see what it was doing.

And when that got old she descended the stairs and wandered into the wood. Tears weren’t her thing: she hadn’t cried when Marcus was shot. The night River took that toxic payload, she’d gone dancing. Why would stuff catch up with her now? You’re doing lots of things. It hadn’t rained lately; the ground was snappy with twigs. But “fine” is not among them. Maybe Catherine had a point. Maybe she had a stupid point. Maybe Shirley should stay here a while, keep her head down, wait for the bad shit to pass. It wouldn’t take forever. Who knew: she might get to like it. Few weeks’ R&R, and if she kept up with the exercise regime, she’d go home fit as a star’s body double.