She nearly dropped the iron again.
“。 . . What’s it look like?”
What it looked like was some kind of art installation, thought Catherine Standish, though she supposed, if you clung to the details, it also looked like Shirley was trying to iron a T-shirt. It was that she was using her desk as an ironing board that was the problem, and that she hadn’t cleared the desk first, making it more assault course than smooth surface. And also, the iron was either leaking or had a full-on steam setting: Shirley seemed to be having a sauna at the same time as getting her household chores done, which was in turn the point at issue. Household chores? She was in her office.
“Shirley—”
“What?”
Not a polite What? either; more a challenge. The best way to deal with Shirley was to tread softly, everyone knew that. Shirley had issues. Catherine, who had issues of her own, was the last person to want to make her life difficult, but on the other hand, she couldn’t have Shirley making everyone else’s life difficult too. It probably didn’t matter much that Shirley was ironing a T-shirt in her office, but whatever she got up to in here, legitimate business or not, she shouldn’t be doing it high. And Shirley was high.
Not a moment to be treading softly, then. Sometimes you had to stamp.
“What are you on?”
“On? What sort of question’s that?”
“A straightforward one. You’re high, you think I can’t tell? What have you taken?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Shirley, you’re at work. You work for the Service, for God’s sake. You’ve got a boss upstairs who’ll throw you out of your job without a thought if you give him an excuse.”
Job? He’d throw her out of a window.
“He won’t notice. He’s probably drunk. Besides, I took some cough mixture, that’s all. I’ve a bad throat. You can’t be too careful.”
Shirley was saying all this holding the iron at chest height, which in her case wasn’t that high, but still. With steam pouring from it, she looked like she was standing behind a special effect.
But her eyes were pinholes. If that was cough mixture, there’d be big demand for it.
Catherine said, “And why ironing, anyway? Why aren’t you doing that at home?”
“Saves time.”
“You’re not supposed to be saving time, you’re—oh, I can’t stand this. Put that away. Drink some water or whatever it is you do to bring yourself down. And do not take any more . . . cough medicine.”
“You should loosen up,” Shirley told her. “You’re too uptight. You’ll give yourself a seizure.”
“It’s not so long ago you assaulted a fundraiser in the street. And then there’s the man in the toilet at the tube station—”
“That was Lech.”
“Lech was there. There’s a difference.”
“I get blamed for everything!”
“Not without reason. And do you really think ironing on a desk is going to work?”
“I was doing fine till you butted in.”
“You’re doing lots of things, Shirley. But trust me, ‘fine’ is not among them.” Catherine realised she’d adopted a posture she was always warning herself against: arms folded, brow knitted. Damn. But she couldn’t stop now: “Like I said, you’ve got a history of doing the wrong thing. And yet you’re still with us. Which means you’ve been seriously lucky so far, and that won’t go on happening forever.”
“I’ve been lucky? Being in Slough House is lucky?”
“You know exactly what I mean. So put a lid on it. If I send you home, I’ll have to tell Lamb why. And that’ll mean you don’t get to come back.”
“Like this is where I fucking want to be!”
“Your choice.” Catherine left, her heart beating rapidly. When she’d heard that metallic crunch, she’d almost thought it a gunshot—a buried terror: guns had been fired in Slough House before. She was glad, mostly, that Lamb hadn’t stirred, but this wasn’t a source of long-term comfort. When Lamb failed to be furious now, he might be planning incandescence later. And Shirley was so far beyond last chances, her suitcase should be packed.
“What’s going on?” Lech called as she passed Louisa’s room.
“Shirley,” Catherine said.
“。 . . Figures.”
Louisa, irritated by the interruptions, said, “Counting down from ten now.”