Real Tigers by Mick Herron Page A

wouldn’t there have been? She’d worked with him. And here was River, using his former friend’s condition to bluff his way back into the very place Spider had had him exiled from . . . It occurred to him that Spider might have seen the funny side of this. That this small act of treachery was more tribute than revenge.
    Thoughts for later.
    Thirty-five minutes.
    He said, “None at all, in fact. And no real chance of any occurring.”
    Taverner glanced away. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the reports,” she said vaguely.
    â€œThen you’ll know. It’s a vegetative state, his brain activity’s almost entirely dormant. A flicker here and there, but . . . And his organs, they’re not functioning on their own. Take him off the machines, and he’ll die in the time it takes a heart to stop beating.”
    â€œYou obviously have a point to make.”
    â€œWe talked about it once, the two of us. On one of those endurance courses, up on the Black Mountains?”
    She gave a brief nod.
    â€œLong story short—” River said.
    â€œGood idea.”
    â€œâ€”if he ever wound up plugged into a wall-socket, if that was all that was keeping him alive, he’d want to be switched off. That’s what he told me.”
    â€œThen that information will be on his personal file.”
    â€œI doubt he ever got round to making an official declaration. He was, what, twenty-four at the time? It wasn’t something he was planning for. But it was something he’d given thought to.”
    â€œIf he’d given it a little more thought, he might have noticed planning doesn’t come into it.” Thirty-four minutes. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”
    â€œI just wanted to speak to someone about it. How long is he going to be lying there before a decision is made?”
    She said, “You’re talking about letting him die.”
    â€œI’m not sure what the alternative is.”
    But a Lamb-like crack came to mind: They could re-skill him. Use him as a speed bump.
    She said, “Look, I don’t have time for this right now. Are you sure there’s no family? Weren’t there cousins?”
    â€œDon’t think so.”
    â€œBut anyway—it’s hardly a decision we can make standing on a bloody staircase.” She fixed him with a glare, but let it soften. “But I’ll look into it. You’re right. If there’s nobody else to take decisions, the Park will have to do it. Though I’d have thought the medical staff . . . ”
    â€œThey’re probably terrified of liability.”
    â€œGod. They’re not the only ones.” She looked at her watch again. “Is that it?”
    â€œ. . . Yes.”
    â€œYou’re not going to explain why you should be back on the hub? Why Slough House is a waste of your talents?”
    â€œNot right now.”
    â€œGood.” She paused. “You’ll be informed. About Webb, I mean. James. Whatever’s decided.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œBut don’t do this again. Turn up unannounced. Or you’ll end up downstairs.”
    This time there was no softening in her expression.
    Thirty-two minutes.
    â€œOff you toddle.”
    â€œThank you.”
    River walked back down the stairs, sure she was watching him every step of the way. But when he reached the bottom and looked back up, she’d gone.
    Thirty-one minutes.
    Now came the tricky bit.
    The man from the bridge was elsewhere now; in Postman’s Park, whose neat little garden was a popular lunch spot for local workers, mostly because of its shelter, the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice. The tiles on its walls were dedicated to those who’d given their lives in the attempt, sometimes futile, to rescue others, and recalled Leigh Pitt, who “saved a drowning boy from the canal . . . but sadly was unable to save himself,” and Mary Rogers, who