Slow Horses by Mick Herron Page B

have a surprise for you.’
    ‘I don’t want a surprise!’
    ‘Not even a new daddy?’
    ‘I hate him,’ River said, ‘and I hate you too.’
    They were the last words he’d say to her for two years.
    His grandmother had been first shocked, then kind, and fussed over him in the kitchen. As soon as her back was turned, he’d slipped out the back door to flee, but here was this man on his knees by a flowerbed; who for the longest time said nothing, but whose silence held River rooted. And in his memory, they at length had the following conversation, though in truth it might have happened at a different time, or possibly never, and was simply one of those episodes the mind constructs to retrospectively explain events that would otherwise remain haphazard.
    His grandfather said, ‘You must be River.’
    River didn’t reply.
    ‘Damned silly name. Still. Could have been worse.’
    River’s experiences at a number of schools suggested that the old man was wrong about this.
    ‘You mustn’t think badly of her.’
    Not knowing whether yes or no was required, River didn’t answer that either.
    ‘Blame myself. Don’t blame her. Least of all blame her mother. That would be your grandmother. The lady in the kitchen. She’s never spoken about us, has she?’
    That definitely didn’t need a reply.
    After a while his grandfather pursed his lips, and examined the patch of earth he was tending. River didn’t know what he was doing: planting flowers or digging up weeds—River had spent his life in flats. Flowers arrived in colourful wrapping, or sprouted in parks. If he could magic himself back to one of those flats now he’d do so, but magic was unavailable. The grandparents he’d encountered in stories were sometimes, not always, benign. There remained the possibility of murderous intent.
    ‘It’s easier with dogs,’ his grandfather continued.
    River didn’t like dogs, but decided to keep this information to himself, until he knew which way the wind was blowing.
    ‘You look at their paws. Did you know that?’
    This time, it seemed an answer was required.
    ‘No,’ River had said, after a gap of maybe three minutes.
    ‘No what?’
    ‘I didn’t know that.’
    ‘Didn’t know what?’
    ‘What you said. About dogs.’
    ‘You look at their paws. If you want to know how big they’re going to get.’ He began trowelling again, satisfied with River’s contribution. ‘Dogs grow into their feet. Children don’t. Their feet grow with them.’
    River watched soil dribble down the trowel’s edge. Something red and grey and squirming happened, briefly. A flick of the tool, and it was gone.
    ‘I don’t mean your mother grew bigger than we’d expected.’
    It had been a worm. It had been a worm, and now—if what River had heard was true—it was two worms, in two separate places. He wondered if the worm remembered being just one worm, and if that had been twice as good, or only half. There was no way you could answer such questions. You could learn biology, but that was all.
    ‘I meant we couldn’t know she was a bolter.’
    More trowelling.
    ‘Made a lot of bad decisions, your mother. Your name was the least of them. And you know what the worst thing is?’
    This too required a response, but the best River could manage was a shake of the head.
    ‘She hasn’t noticed yet.’ He was trowelling harder, as if there were something in the soil to be brought into the light. ‘We all make mistakes, River. Made a couple myself, and some have hurt other people. They’re the ones you shouldn’t get over. The ones you’re meant to learn from. But that’s not your mother’s way. She seems intent on making the same mistake over and over again, and that doesn’t help anyone. Least of all you.’ He gazed up at River. ‘But you mustn’t think badly of her. What I’m saying is, it’s in her nature.’
    It was in her nature, River thought now, as he waited for his grandfather to return from the bathroom. That was