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In the end, River Cartwright successfully completed a mission—a genuine triumph.
As Lamb heard the front door creak open, he glanced at the clock, narrowing his eyes in displeasure. Cartwright was slightly late, yet too early to have already reported to Lady Di at the Park. Lamb listened as his Joe settled at his desk and powered on his computer. There was no visit to the third floor to announce a victory or admit a defeat; the boy would first draft the report for review, then attend the briefing before sending it to the Park.
The mission didn't warrant the title, which was why Lamb tuned out Diana's voice on the phone after the initial minutes. Any request from her was suspect, particularly when it involved Slough House and specifically mentioned Cartwright. After making Judd's lackey disappear, sent into the heart of his empire to eliminate him, Lamb had more pressing concerns: Judd, Diana, and potentially others had declared open hostilities. The buried bodies Lamb knew about were no longer fresh enough; he was exposed. Slough House and its inhabitants were no longer secure. He knew it, and so did those who had dispatched that henchman to end him.
Dander and Longridge had handled the disposal of the body as Lamb instructed, following his strict orders to keep it discreet. He didn’t want Cartwright and Guy scrutinizing his every move, especially now that they seemed determined to cover for Standish. Lamb was reasonably sure that even the junkie and the gambler wouldn't risk dismissal again by disobeying a direct order, but he was equally certain that Cartwright had figured out what had happened.
The list of traits that made the Old Bastard's grandson a constant annoyance was long, but lately, what bothered Lamb the most was his unpredictability. Lamb could usually predict with pinpoint accuracy how his subordinates would react to situations, what they would understand, and what they wouldn't. Slough House had survived in part thanks to this particular talent of his. Cartwright was a wildcard: sometimes oblivious to what was obvious, while at other times Lamb sensed in his gaze an understanding of things he thought were beyond his grasp.
He was also irritated by the fact that since Standish had resigned, Cartwright didn't bother concealing his gaze anymore. He knew Lamb had already seen through it all long before he himself realized where his professional concern for his boss ended and another type of feeling began. He no longer cared to hide it, from himself or from Lamb. He let every attempt by Lamb to humiliate or ridicule him slide off, even when the means were so vile they made his colleagues flinch. The young Cartwright remained composed and continued to stare back. His gaze remained fixed, intense and sharp, almost like Lamb's, without the aid of glasses, in the dimly lit office with a desk lamp at the side that failed to shield it.
The ineptitude of those who had constructed Slough House was only matched by its unintended sadism. Despite being holed up in his third-floor office, Lamb could hear much of what his minions were saying and doing on the lower floors. This architectural quirk had ironically contributed to Slough House surviving for so long.
Due to the building's peculiar acoustics and the subpar quality of materials used, there were two specific vantage points that allowed him to constantly monitor his occupants. Catherine's office was within sight: when she had been his PA, Lamb could simply glance up to check her location, observe her activities, and assess the degree of vexation on her face.
Then there was the pen for breaking wild horses. Lamb always assigned the most challenging cases there, the ones he hoped to dispose of as swiftly as possible. Upon seeing his surname on the documents from the Park, Lamb decided to station David Cartwright's grandoson there. Due to an unkind twist of acoustics, from his perch on the third floor, Lamb could distinctly hear every sound emanating from that desk—whether it was as conspicuous as a particularly resigned sigh, the tapping of fingers on the desk, or a leg trembling on the floor. Truth be told, Cartwright was the inhabitant of that desk who quickly learned to differentiate between the beats of the broom on the ceiling summoning him upstairs and those urging him to cease sighing so fervently and endure his plight in silence.
Cartwright's typing rhythm on his report heightened Lamb's alertness another notch. He was typing slower than usual. The fingers on the keyboard lacked the cadence of someone eager to showcase their work and earn praise; instead, they moved in a syncopated manner, assessing and deliberating over each sentence, concentrating on what to exclude from his narrative, lingering over the selection of precise words to manipulate their nuances.
Don't be paranoid, Jackson Lamb mused, questioning whether his perceptions were heightened by guilt. Failing to fully heed Lady Di's instructions had been a lapse on his part, even though his time and energy were entirely focused on preparing for the impending attack on Slough House, which he knew was imminent. His attention was not infinite: when Diana explained she needed the golden boy to tail a Dog she suspected of selling confidential information outside the Park, Lamb's gaze and focus shifted from the phone on his desk, through Taverner's voice reverberating across the room, analyzing shadows in the corners of the filing cabinets and those lurking in the recesses of his mind. Cartwright noticed it immediately, but Lamb didn't mind if he observed his distraction. He preferred him to think he was disinterested rather than discerning his true thoughts.
Diana wanted young Cartwright because she couldn't trust one Dog to watch another, and because it was likely that one of her desk jockeys was involved in leaking information outside. Who better than an outcast for an off-the-books job that also allowed her to assess whether to eliminate potential traitors or blackmail them for greater profit?
Cartwright had asked a couple of questions that Lamb hadn't listened to. Diana had answered. Lamb had regained control of the call just in time to slam the receiver down on Second Desk's face, sending the boy out the door with a wave of his chubby hand. He only started worrying when he caught Cartwright's gaze as he turned on the threshold of his office, mouth slightly open, about to say something.
"You don't have a dog to walk? Get out of here."
Cartwright continued to stare at him for a moment, then closed his mouth. Lamb didn't detect annoyance or irritation in his gaze, but rather a quest for comprehension. He had noticed the subtle shift in Cartwright's expression when he realized Lamb had missed something crucial during that phone call.
Since it was an off-the-books assignment, Lamb wouldn't receive a comprehensive briefing beforehand. Calling Diana back for clarification was out of the question; Lamb couldn't afford to reveal any vulnerabilities. Now, he had no choice but to trust Cartwright's ability to execute a plan his boss hadn't fully grasped, to adapt if there were hidden dangers he had sensed but Lamb hadn't. Everything rested on Cartwright's shoulders now, and Lamb couldn't provide cover. Genuine worry crept into Lamb's thoughts.
The wait dragged on all afternoon and well into the evening. Lamb sat motionless, his eyes shifting between the armchair where Cartwright had been sitting and the landline phone. He retrieved his old cellphone from his pocket and placed it on the desk, staring at it intently. The last time he had made the mistake of ignoring one of his agents, the last time he had disregarded two calls from Standish, she had been kidnapped, Slough House had nearly been shut down, two of his operatives had almost died trying to free her, and someone had sent Judd's lackey to attempt to kill him. It was always the phone call he didn't pay attention to that came back to haunt him.
But now Cartwright was downstairs, typing up his report. It seemed like a modest success, judging from the absence of leg tremors and finger tapping. The slight delay was understandable, not alarming. Perhaps Cartwright's lack of enthusiasm stemmed from Lamb's stern tone when assigning him the mission. Lamb heard the printer activate with its usual electronic grumble, churning out a fairly concise report. Nothing alarming, at least not on the surface.
Except for a slight contradiction: Cartwright had taken the necessary time to write the report, yet he hadn't removed his coat. Despite hours of heavy rain outside, Lamb hadn't heard him shed his jacket or change, suggesting a curious calmness or perhaps urgency in Cartwright's demeanor. These contradictory cues kept Lamb's mind from easing. Was it guilt amplifying these minor inconsistencies?
Lamb discerned the sound of Cartwright's approach up the stairs, his familiar gait echoing through the building. He straightened in his chair, which creaked softly. As a result, Cartwright hesitated momentarily, the floor falling silent beneath his step. Both men were finely attuned to the symphony of sounds in Slough House, capable of deciphering each other's subtle signals at a glance. Lamb sensed Cartwright's unease, reflecting it in his own uncertainty. This time, Lamb was unsure of the issue at hand. He took a deep breath, preparing for what was to come.
Cartwright approached the desk, placing two printed sheets in front of Lamb before retreating from the cone of light cast by the lamp. Lamb picked up the clipped sheets, swiftly scanning the first few lines: a succinct summary of the anticipated information. Removing his shoes, he propped his feet on the desk, leaned back with his hands on his belly, and scrutinized Cartwright, who uncharacteristically remained silent. The absence of Cartwright's usual banter, coupled with his swift withdrawal from the light, intensified Lamb's growing unease and prompted him to take charge.
"So, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" Lamb prompted.
Cartwright nodded towards the report.
“Dog got your tongue?" Lamb chuckled half-heartedly at his own joke, sensing that the young man was concealing something significant; every word potentially a tell. Thus, Cartwright stood with hands in pockets, his gaze probing.
Deciding against direct confrontation, Lamb picked up the report once more and pretended to read, stating, "Let's check your homework before handing this in to the teacher, Cartwright. Have a seat."
Tilting his head as if engrossed in the pages, Lamb's eyes, behind the reflected light of his glasses, remained fixed on Cartwright without wavering. The boy's hair was almost dry, but his coat remained soaked. He must have been uncomfortable in it, yet hadn't bothered to remove it. His hands, too, were hidden in his pockets. Lamb took mental note: the boy had slid the sheet towards him while keeping his hand out of the light.
Turning towards Cartwright, Lamb noticed his suspicious gaze, prompting Cartwright to adjust his posture.
"Take your hands out of your pockets, Cartwright."
He complied, withdrawing his hands and crossing them over his chest, adopting a deliberately nonchalant pose. Not bad, thought Lamb.
Lamb focused on the boy's eyes, which blinked rapidly for a moment. He silently thanked Cartwright's tells, which he had long since learned to decipher.
"Show me your hands."
Cartwright complied again, without resistance. He seemed to anticipate that Lamb would sense something; he wasn't surprised. Lamb had grasped a loose thread, but whatever lay hidden within remained tightly knotted. Resigned, Lamb prepared to unravel the entire narrative from River's unspoken words, piecing together the story he hadn't wanted to hear but now had to deduce solely from the boy's demeanor. Cartwright placed his hands on the desk, palms pressing against the wood. Lamb sensed that the answer lay precisely where he was trying to hide, prompting him to stand up and swiftly grasp one Cartwright's hands.
When you dig into the ground searching for answers, you sometimes unearth buried skeletons, especially in the yard of a master gardener like David Cartwright.
River kept his hands still but closed his eyes instinctively and tensed his shoulders, bracing for impact. Lamb, old enough to recognize this reflex immediately, remembered dusty old schools where discipline was enforced by compelling students to keep their hands in the path of punishment, battling against the anticipation of pain and the instinctive urge to retreat.
Perhaps that was why David's nephew was always so reckless; through pain, he had been taught not to flinch in the face of danger.
Lamb sighed heavily as he straightened up. River remained still, his eyes widening in realization that he had inadvertently revealed another secret to Lamb that he had not intended to disclose that night, or ever. Slowly, Lamb lifted River's hands from the desk, positioned himself in front of him, and gently took them in his own. In a deliberately neutral tone, Lamb asked, "Ruler or belt?"
River's voice barely rose above a whisper. "Both."
"At school or at home?" It wasn't essential information for Lamb's purposes, but he sought to gather every shard of the boy's fractured psyche, hoping to decipher the distorted reflections of reality that had shaped him. On days when optimism crept in, he dared to believe he could eventually help River piece together the original image, assembling the fragments despite the cracks.
"Both."
Locking eyes with River, Lamb observed the boy's gaze fixed on their intertwined hands, shoulders tense. It wasn't the physical contact that unsettled him but the fear of Lamb's reaction when he exposed River's palms to the light. Pink abrasions were visible, likely from a thick rope that had left its mark through friction, judging by the grip River held.
Lamb needed more information. The excavation of truths had to continue, cautiously probing without disturbing more of the boy's buried secrets.
No digging if you paid attention. No need to do it if your foolish pride keeps you from reading a few pages of the report.
No, Lamb thought, pushing back against his inner voice. What he sought lay in what had slowed River's typing pace, what lingered in the margins of the papers, and inside the boy's mind. Lamb had to draw it out from him.
"Take off your coat," Lamb instructed.
River looked up, meeting Lamb's gaze with a glare that hinted at defiance, though masked by mortification.
He's studying me, waiting for my reaction Lamb thought, preparing himself to remain impassive. He sensed the intensity in River's eyes and steeled himself against any surprise.
Methodically, River folded his coat and placed it on the armchair. Beneath it, his sweatshirt was stained with dried blood on the chest, the hood clinging damply to his neck from the rain. Two distinct cuts on his left sleeve exposed part of River's arm.
Lamb examined each detail closely. River's nearly dry hair suggested he had sought shelter under the hood. The blood on his chest wasn't fresh; if it had come from a wound, River wouldn't be standing here. The cuts on his arm resembled knife wounds, yet there was no blood visible on the arm itself. Sensing Lamb's scrutiny, River bowed his head once more. He feared Lamb might uncover his secret through his eyes, his body language, or perhaps the bulge in his hoodie pocket.
Lamb picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and approached River. Using it as a makeshift cloth, he extracted the gun from River's pocket—the same gun that usually rested in Louisa's drawer, borrowed by Lamb after Min's death. He sniffed it and noted with relief that it hadn't been fired. Good.
He returned his focus to the scene before him. A patch of congealed blood marked the rain-soaked gray sweatshirt, reminiscent of Kandinsky's abstract artistry. Two cuts akin to Fontana's slashed through the sleeve. Everything appeared meticulously natural yet unnaturally coherent. The stain wasn't fresh blood from a wound but a dried pool absorbed into the fabric. The cuts seemed deliberate; too straight, too precise. It was a clean, detached job, not typical of River.
"Take off the hoodie. Fold it and set it aside," Lamb instructed calmly.
River complied, knowing Lamb wouldn't relent.
Underneath, the white T-shirt was visibly dirty, soaked more in the front than the back, tinged with pink as though water had diluted dried blood on the surface, now partly dry. Lamb felt an overwhelming urge to dive into the report, but he knew the answers lay right before him, etched on the boy's pale skin, not written on a blank page.
River remained fixated on the ground. Lamb lifted his chin, certain he would find what he sought, having once borne similar rope burns on his own hands many years ago. The evidence he sought was starkly visible in the vivid red abrasions on River's neck, which he had attempted to conceal by keeping his head bowed.
Lamb fought the urge to lash out; he suspected that any display of violence would summon forth the stoic little drummer boy, raised on finger slaps and hidden truths in the garden. Instead, he traced his fingers gently from the boy's chin to his cheek, a soft caress laden with emotional weight. It was a calculated move, an act of manipulation through kindness, as devastating as any betrayal not met with force but with compassion. River met Lamb's gaze with tear-filled eyes, his lower lip trembling.
Lamb maintained his touch on River's cheek, subtly shifting his fingers to stroke behind the boy's ear. In the quiet of London's night, only a distant siren and the ticking of Lamb's desk clock filled the space, punctuated by River's uneven breaths.
"If I were to move my hand to your nape right now, I imagine I would find a lump," Lamb murmured softly.
River's eyes widened slightly.
"Not a bad job. One of them is a true professional; I couldn't have done better, having to improvise. You can only tell because the other wasn't as skilled."
A tear teetered on the edge of River's lower lashes. Lamb reached out with his index finger and delicately caught it, freeing River from the emotional weight he had carried back to Slough House that night.
"What nonsense did you write in that report? They're trying to pin the death of the agent I was tailing on me? Damn it, Cartwright, why didn't you call me?"
River didn't break into tears, but he pressed his trembling lips together, his gaze a mixture of determination tinged with disappointment. Lamb cursed inwardly as he began to reconstruct the still incomplete picture.
River hadn't called because the trap wasn't for him, but for Lamb. Early on, he had realized that if they implicated Lamb in the murder, any communication would implicate him too.
River had abrasions on his palms. He had reacted swiftly, fighting to maintain a critical distance between the rope and his neck. He had anticipated the attack. Lamb had similar abrasions from years ago in Berlin, when he had decided that falling into a trap was the only way to uncover who had set it.
River had known he was walking into a trap, to the extent that they had to knock him unconscious and resort to plan B. Not faking his death after the murder they accused him of, but framing him for it.
That expression. The one he wore before he left.
The boy had seen the trap unfold through the nuances of Diana's words or silence on the phone call. As he turned away, he realized Lamb was left completely vulnerable this time, without anyone watching his back.
Lamb's grip on River's face tightened, transforming the gentle touch into a harsh grasp.
"What have you done, you damn fool? What have you done?!"
River wriggled free, slipping out of Lamb's hold. Lamb lunged for the desk, snatching up the papers and scanning them intently. It wasn't a mere report; it was a damning confession. Lamb tore it to shreds.
"Why the hell did you come back here, River?"
River was shrugging off his shirt, folding it neatly over his sweatshirt. The clock ticked indifferently as sirens and River's rapid breaths filled the room with urgency.
The boy approached and embraced him tightly, clinging desperately, seeking from that fleeting contact—skin against worn and soiled fabric—everything he had ever longed for, desired, but would never have dared to request, except with his eyes, inadvertently. His desperation drove him to grasp one final morsel, sensing what was to come. For once, he too knew.
That night, he shared Lamb's curse: foreseeing everything a moment before it unfolded. Lamb could have seen it hours earlier, but he had chosen distraction at that critical moment, glimpsing what was about to transpire yet unable to alter fate.
The siren abruptly silenced outside Slough House. The door shattered on the first strike, and River broke from the embrace, hands behind his head, kneeling before Lamb. It was a scene he had imagined countless times, under vastly different circumstances, conveying in a glance where desperation and desire intertwined.
As they breached the door, Lamb's survival instinct propelled him into action before rational thought could catch up. He seized the gun strategically placed there by River himself, not in the coat pockets but in the hoodie, and aimed it at the intruders. The boy had anticipated even this reflexive move, positioning himself in the line of fire at the door.
Thus, the agents discovered Lamb, gun trained on his loyal subordinate before them, stripped down to his clothes with evidence neatly folded on the armchair. A copy of his confession was printed and safely tucked in the back pocket of River's pants.
What they did not uncover was the USB key containing the audio recorded by River on his phone—a dialogue between the two professionals who framed him while he was unconscious for the murder of the Dog, and their subsequent phone call to their boss at the Park. It was discreetly stowed away in Lamb's pants pocket, slipped there by his protege just before he knelt.
River played his part with the finesse of a seasoned actor, cursing Lamb, the Park, Taverner, God. But as they dragged him away, the façade cracked. Tears streamed down his face, and he looked back at Lamb, pleading desperately:
"Remember my name. Just... remember my name."
"And who could forget it, dumbass?" remarked an officer standing beside Lamb.
As River was escorted out, he cast one final glance at his former boss through tear-filled eyes. It was a grimace of pain, regret, and a strange sense of triumph. River had claimed his Pyrrhic victory.
Lamb had never imagined a memory could haunt him more than that of the burning church.
That night was agonizing.
The Slow Horses were summoned first to Slough House, then to the Park, enduring relentless interrogations. Their genuine confusion and devastation were palpable, affirming their innocence. Despite this, the interrogators spared no effort to humiliate them.
Meanwhile, Lamb remained at Slough House as forensic teams meticulously combed through every corner, documenting every speck of dust, every trace of its once dirty existence. By morning, experts arrived to strip away the last remnants of twenty years of accumulated grime and faded glories. The Slow Horses found themselves in a sterile office reeking of disinfectant—a sight more repulsive in its newfound cleanliness than in its previous state of neglect.
As survivors looked around, they noticed the glaring absence of one more person. Louisa lashed out at Lamb, Marcus restraining her, and Ho was so distressed he called Standish. Even she couldn't provoke a response from Lamb, who seemed haunted by unseen specters.
When Catherine dared to utter River's name, Lamb's reaction was so intense that no one dared mention it again for months. Fear of Lamb's wrath or the discomfort of witnessing his potential grief kept them silent.
In the end, River Cartwright achieved a mission that was a true triumph.
Across the Park, his actions were viewed as treachery culminating in a disastrous final act that sealed his own fate. Only three individuals, those capable of unraveling the entire affair, grasped the magnitude of his overwhelming victory.
It was evident to Diana, who had schemed to dismantle Lamb and shutter Slough House, only to find herself restrained by a new leash on her biting ambitions.
It was clear to Lamb, who held the knowledge of a freshly buried secret by Diana—a leverage that would ensure the safety of him and his ragtag team until their retirement.
And it was apparent to River, now confined deep beneath the Park, accused of killing a Dog. Without sunlight, without contact with the outside world, and without a public trial or fair judgment, he possessed only the certainty of having outwitted Diana and Lamb, besting them at their own game. He had willingly become the newly buried body his boss needed—a pawn and a weapon in Lamb's hands to leverage against Diana and ensure his team's safety.
Choosing not to perish as a sacrificial lamb, River had instead surrendered himself as a hostage in the enemy's reign, safeguarding his elderly master and his derelict castle. A living dead, stripped of honor, respect, and freedom. His only request—not salvation or love, but remembrance. That his name alone, amid the countless others who had propelled Lamb forward before him, would not be forgotten.
"River."
"River... River... River..."
Seated on a bench in St. Giles Cripplegate, Lamb whispered River’s name with increasing softness, each syllable rolling off his tongue like beads on a rosary. Each repetition was a prayer, a plea to a higher power he knew didn't exist. He continued until the pain cracked his voice.