She leaves, not pausing to look up the remaining flight towards Lamb’s room, from which no noise issues. But he is there, one of his hands holding a cigarette, the other nursing a shot glass. The blind on his window is down, and the lamp by his desk, balanced on a pile of yellowing phone directories, casts the room’s only light, his cigarette tip apart. And in this self-imposed gloom, he is thinking, if he is thinking at all, of Vassily Rasnokov, who is either floating on a cold sea or preparing to slip into a life he’s been building for years; a life warmed up for him by a now-defunct scarecrow, whose body lies unclaimed in a vault somewhere in Greater London. Eyes closed, cigarette shedding its chrysalis of ash even as a smoky butterfly rises to the ceiling, Lamb barely breathes as he contemplates the future that awaits one who’s walked away from the spy trade: a carrel in a European library, say, or a stool on a beach bar under a Bahamian sun. Or a life of unrelieved ordinariness, in which the papertrails established by a now-dead understudy—the water bills and council tax debits, the credit cards and gym memberships, the electronic footprints, the economic handholds; each of them locking a life into place the way pegs hold down a tent—lead remorselessly to their only possible destination: in the end, whatever role you choose, you reach the end of the drama; the paperwork is shuffled into binbags, and the tent blows away. But the triumph lies in making the choice, rather than accepting the part you’re given. Lamb’s cigarette glows like a candle, briefly, and if his eyelids flicker, and his gaze appears fixed on the drab painting of a bridge which is his office’s sole decoration, that’s likely no more than chance; just as, if his lips move beneath their filtered burden, and their mumble sounds like Rosebud, he’s assuredly thinking of that team on the Holloway Road. But perhaps, in fact, he mumbles nothing at all, and his exit line remains unspoken. It’s possible the trembling of his lips is a quiet belch. Well, nobody’s perfect.
From the street below, a snatch of what might be music drifts upwards, though is more likely the accidental percussion of daily life: heel on pavement, tyre on a loose drain lid. Whatever it is, this theme penetrates Slough House for a moment, probably through that cardboard-patched window, and dances round in the dust-deckled air, attempting to get a party going. But this enterprise is doomed from the start, and lasts no longer than it takes a sudden draught to slam a door, after which the building—its creaky stairs and broken skirting boards—its rackety furniture and stained ceilings—its peeling paper and plasterwork—its bewildered wiring, its confused pipes—its ups and downs and highs and lows and all its debts and credits—slumps into its usual stupor, as the morning’s wax surrenders to the afternoon’s wane. And if, outside, the day carries on with its usual background business, inside it pauses for a drawn-out beat, and then drops like a curtain.
credits
Those of a mischievous mindset might seek to associate this book’s title with the current Apple TV+ series of Slow Horses, but my regular, sober-minded readers will recognise that the phrase has been bubbling away for a while, and was always intended to take its place on a cover. As for the actual actors involved, I couldn’t be more thrilled with the cast that’s been assembled, more delighted with the work they’re doing, or happier with the welcome Jo and I have always received on set. My thanks to all involved—cast, crew, production staff, drivers and fellow hangers-on—and especially to the writing team, whose company has long been a source of laughter and inspiration. If I named you all, these credits would roll and roll.
My thanks, too, to all at John Murray Press—and its brand new Baskerville imprint—who do so much to keep the show on the road, and all at Soho Press who got it up and running in the first place. And love and thanks, as ever, to Juliet and Micheline for all they do; to Jo, for everything she does; and to Tommy and Scout, for whatever they’re up to at the moment.
A reader recently emailed to inform me that a line I’d used in Slough House （“Home was where, when you went there, they had to let you in”） was more or less from a Robert Frost poem. “Anyone who has read Frost,” he solemnly assured me, “will pick this up right away.” Damn it . . . Caught red-handed. Before sentence is passed, I’d like many dozens of similar offences to be taken into consideration. I won’t list them all, but the line on page 128 that Lech Wicinski remembers his father quoting—that “everyone is more or less of Polish origin”—is from Iris Murdoch’s Nuns and Soldiers.