I am really, really digging the Slough House novels of Mick Herron. Yes, I know I came to them late! Better late than never, though, right? A bunch of British spies who’ve somehow messed up get assigned to the drudgery of the Slough House branch, where they get to do boring busywork and nothing of any import…until they stumble across some perfidy that maybe — just maybe! — they can rectify. But remember — these people are screw-ups, so it’s not gonna be easy…
I also dig the AppleTV+ show based on the books, which does a terrific job adapting the twists and turns and mordant hilarity of Herron’s prose into action.
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So here's the first chapter of this story! At the end of the post you can fin the playlist and Pinterest board I made for inspiration :) Also, you can follow me on AO3. Hope you like it and thank you for reading!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/62440984
Chapter 1 - The Useless Brigade
The door to Slough House stuck, as if unwilling to let anyone in—or out. Ashley Green gave it a shove with her shoulder, her breath puffing into the icy January morning, and stepped into the gloom. The hallway smelled faintly of damp carpet and stale coffee, and the radiator clunked somewhere deep in the building, working half-heartedly to combat the chill.
Ashley wasn’t sure what she’d expected—perhaps something slightly more like Regent’s Park, with its slick surfaces and silent corridors. On the outside, the building seemed to repel attention, its soot-streaked facade and sagging frame blending into the city’s indifference. On the inside, it was a labyrinth punctuated by the faded gray and yellow of its walls —it seemed perfectly suited to its reputation: the graveyard for MI5’s misfits and screw-ups. A place where all hopes of a stellar career go to die.
The email had been clear: she was to report to 126 Aldersgate Street. No fanfare, no context, just a destination that confirmed her fears. She was now one of the Slow Horses, a member of this forgotten corner of the Service. And today, she was to meet her new boss—Jackson Lamb, the infamous spook whose reputation teetered between legend and infamy. The thought of meeting him left her equal parts terrified and thrilled.
The staircase creaked under her boots. At the top, a half-open door loomed like a dare. The building was eerily silent. It was nearing eight in the morning, and Ashley felt left alone with Slough House’s ghosts and, on the other side of that door, a predator who might either dismiss her or eat her alive.
Ashley was tall, though not strikingly so, with long brown hair tied back loosely. Her face wasn’t beautiful in a way that turned heads, but there was something in her eyes—sharp, magnetic as if she saw more than she let on—that made others take notice. People had always said she had presence, and she'd learned to use it well, though it felt thoroughly useless here.
Another creak. The staircase seemed ready to collapse under her weight. Several doors lined the hallway at each landing, half-closed and uninviting. Ashley tightened her grip on her bag strap and pulled her coat closer, the chill creeping up her spine was less about the draft and more about the stillness.
Below, the city was waking up. Workers were filing into bus stops and Tube stations, bundled in heavy coats and scarves, bracing against the cold wave predicted to last another five days. The same forecasters had described the past summer as record-breaking, both in heat and misery—something Ashley could confirm firsthand.
Ashley hesitated, torn between stepping into the lion’s den or walking away from this miserable building altogether. Before she could decide, the door below swung open with a loud thud, as if shoved by brute force.
At the foot of the stairs stood a slim, neatly dressed woman. Catherine Standish carried an air of calm professionalism that felt entirely out of place.
“You must be Ashley Green.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Catherine.”
Behind her, the door remained ajar, letting in a cold draft. A man in headphones and a red puff jacket brushed past without a word or glance, heading right. Muffled guitar riffs trailed in his wake. Ashley raised an eyebrow.
“That’s Roddy,” Catherine offered as if his odd behavior needed no further explanation. “Ho, our technology expert.”
Ashley caught a glimpse of his office—an untidy cubby hole with a grimy window. Ho was already hunched over his computer, nearly buried beneath a tower of pizza boxes and energy drink cans. The setup was impressive: dual monitors, cables everywhere, and a mini fridge tucked to one side. It looked less like a lion’s den and more like a mole’s. Ho glanced her way, muttering something about newbies before returning to his screen.
The weight in her voice made it clear who he was. The ruler of this grim little kingdom. The grave keeper.
Ashley considered asking when the others arrived, but the words stuck in her throat. Before she could muster a question, the door to the main office swung open.
A man leaned against the frame, a cigarette burning in his fingers. The spirals of smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.
He was disheveled in a way that suggested not a hard day’s work but a permanent state of disrepair: greasy hair, an untucked shirt, and the faint reek of nicotine mixed with sweat and something sour.
“Green, Ashley,” he said, dragging her name out as though it were a bad smell. Jackson Lamb glanced over her shoulder as if hoping she wasn’t alone. “No entourage? No brass band to announce the arrival of MI5’s fallen star?”
Ashley straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze. “No brass band,” she said, voice even. “Just me.”
“Good,” Lamb said. “They’d only get lost trying to find this dump. Let’s have a look at the new disappointment." Without sparing her another glance, he barked over his shoulder, “Standish, tea.”
✴
The air in the office was thick with cigarette smoke and a vaguely meaty odor—like something left too long in a fridge.
“Close the door.”
Lamb dropped into his chair with a groan, gesturing for Ashley to take the seat opposite. The chair wobbled as she lowered herself into it. He leaned back and reached for a packet of biscuits on his desk.
“So, Green,” he said, pulling one out and biting into it noisily. “You decided to play whistleblower, and now here you are. Tired of your halo yet?”
She met his gaze steadily. “It was the right thing to do.”
Lamb chuckled, crumbs falling onto his shirt. “Right thing to do. Always works out, doesn’t it? Look around.” He made an exaggerated show of studying the office—the monitor propped up on a tower of old phone books, the corkboard cluttered with yellowing receipts and discount coupons, the dark corners where the light seemed to give up. “This is where doing ‘the right thing’ lands you.”
He picked up a battered file and tossed it onto the desk between them, scattering a few sheets of paper. Brushing crumbs off his belly, Lamb casually picked at his teeth, remnants of the biscuit still clinging to his grin.
“Thrilling stuff. Cross-referencing documents for inconsistencies and uploading them to The Park’s system. Should take you, oh, a year or two? No need to rush.” His smile widened, like a crocodile savoring a particularly tender gazelle.
Ashley picked up the file without a word, her fingers brushing the fraying edges of the folder. “Anything else?” she asked, coolly.
Lamb leaned forward, his eyes slightly narrowing. A crumb clung stubbornly to the corner of his mouth. The olfactory and visual cues were beginning to turn her stomach, so she focused on the corkboard behind him.
“Yeah. This isn’t a place for saviors, Green. You keep your head down, do what you’re told, and maybe—maybe—you’ll stay out of trouble. Otherwise, well...” He let the words hang, his smirk carrying the rest.
Ashley stood, the file in hand, and reached for the doorknob, but the door swung inward. Catherine appeared cup in hand, her expression carefully neutral. Without a word, she crossed the room and placed the tea on Lamb’s desk.
“Don’t strain yourself, Lamb,” she said dryly, glancing at him as he rummaged in his bottom drawer. Predictably, he emerged with a bottle of brandy, holding it aloft like a trophy.
“What? You don’t approve of my vintage?” Lamb muttered, unscrewing the cap with a smirk. “I’d offer you a glass, but we both know you prefer tea with a splash of moral superiority.”
Catherine didn’t rise to the bait, instead turning to Ashley with a small, reassuring smile. “Come on,” she said gently, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll show you around before he starts on his second drink.”
Ashley followed, grateful for the kindness in Catherine’s tone. As they stepped into the dim landing, Catherine added, “The offices aren’t much, but neither are the coworkers. You’ll fit in just fine.” There was warmth in her voice, a quiet encouragement that made Ashley’s grip on the file relax.
“That’s the first smart thing Standish has ever said,” Lamb called from behind them, his voice carrying effortlessly. He was already pouring a generous measure of brandy into his tea. “You’ll fit right in. Welcome to MI-fucking-useless.”
✴
Catherine was explaining where the few and far-between comforts were stashed, but Ashley’s mind began to wander. She nodded politely, though her attention splintered, her father’s voice rising unbidden in her memory. You don’t get a bright future by making the easy decisions, he used to say. Thanks, Dad. Absolutely true and utterly useless advice.
“There isn’t much,” Catherine continued, her voice calm and even. “I try to keep milk and tea stocked. There’s a coffee maker if you prefer that. You can always bring whatever you need.” Her tone carried a faint note of apology, as though the lack of luxuries reflected poorly on her.
Ashley blinked back to the present and managed a smile. “Thank you,” she said, infusing her words with as much sincerity as she could muster. Catherine’s steady presence, her graying hair, and understanding eyes radiated reliability. The kind of person you’d want in a crisis. Ashley waved the brown folder in her hand. “I’ll start right away—best not to delay the inevitable.”
By eight-thirty, the building began to stir. One by one, its inhabitants trudged up the stairs, their movements heavy with resignation. By the time they reached the middle landing, their attention shifted to her—a new figure at the desk.
The first to arrive was a woman with sharp cheekbones and an appraising gaze. She paused briefly, extended a curt handshake, and offered a perfunctory hello before vanishing into the office on the left. Louisa, Ashley thought, seemed determined to keep to herself.
Ashley glanced around her desk. “New” wasn’t the right word—it was her first time here, yes, but the desk itself was well-worn, its surface scored with scratches and faint coffee rings. Everything about the space felt old, dusty, or both. The walls were a faded yellow-gray, and the air carried the scent of cigarettes, damp clothes, and apathy. Only a weak stream of sunlight managed to brighten a patch of floor. She sighed and opened the file, her resignation mirrored in the room around her.
The stairs groaned again. Two figures appeared in the doorway: a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin, exuding quiet steadiness, and a woman with a buzz cut who practically vibrated with restless energy.
“I’m Marcus,” the man said, his voice neutral, measured. He seemed solid, almost deliberately unremarkable.
The woman, by contrast, was a flurry of motion. Within a minute, she’d been to the kitchen, filled a cup with water, conjured a bag of Haribo, and plopped noisily into a chair across from Ashley.
“Shirley,” she announced, studying Ashley with an air of undisguised curiosity.
“Ashley,” she replied, offering a polite smile. Shirley seemed to weigh her next move before simply offering the bag. Ashley declined, and Shirley shrugged.
“Welcome to…” Shirley paused theatrically. “The slow horses, I guess.”
“Thanks.”
“C’mon, Shirl,” Marcus called from his desk. “Let people settle in before grilling them.”
Ashley decided she’d had enough introductions for one morning. She hadn’t expected warmth, but the bleakness of Slough House was undeniable. They all looked, frankly, miserable.
Downstairs, the door slammed. Ashley barely moved—surely just another Slow Horse trudging in for their daily dose of misery.
A pungent blend of nicotine and brandy announced Lamb had reappeared at the landing. He thumped the floor three times. Heads popped up, a silent code triggering automatic responses. Ashley moved toward the door, joining the others in a loose semi-circle.
Lamb turned around as if addressing a wide audience, gesturing toward Ashley with a flourish. “Ladies and gents," he said in a booming voice "meet Ashley Green, the former golden child of Regent’s Park. Yes, the one who thought tattling on her boss was a good career move. Turns out it wasn’t.”
Ashley stood still, letting his words land. She felt their stares, curiosity sharpened by the scent of blood in the water.
“She’s your new colleague,” Lamb continued. “Assuming she survives her first week. This place has a way of...chewing up idealists.”
Ashley’s jaw tightened, but she kept her voice calm. “I’m here to do my job.”
“Admirable,” Lamb said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Keep up that attitude—or whatever motivational nonsense they’re peddling these days. Now, get to work.”
Turning back to her desk, Ashley avoided the eyes of her new colleagues. As she sat down, the faint scuff of movement caught her attention. A man entered quietly, dropping a backpack by his desk. He settled into the seat by the window, his fair hair catching the weak light. For a moment, he studied her, his brow furrowed, as though trying to solve a puzzle.
Used to exchanging the bare minimum of pleasantries before retreating into her work, Ashley’s social battery was already running low. But something about the moment pushed her to make an effort.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “Lamb go easy on you?”
“Sure,” she said dryly. “He’s a real mentor type.”
A faint grin crossed his face. “I’m River. Welcome to the Slow Horses.”
Ashley raised an eyebrow. “That’s the second time today I’ve been branded one. I thought it was more of a process. You know, to become one.”
“What came first: the fuck-up or the slow horse?” he asked, the grin widening briefly. “I remember you. Training.”
“And I remember you.” She studied his features—sandy blond hair, a sharp nose, the boyish look he hadn’t quite outgrown. He hadn’t changed much since their training days, far more exciting and dangerous.
River tilted his head, his expression curious. She’d been quick on her feet, sharp, clearly bound for the top. He remembered the quiet resentment she’d drawn from some in the group—particularly Webb, whose strategies oscillated between undermining her confidence and trying to charm her. Neither had worked.
“You were with Tactics. Same group as Webb.”
Ashley’s mouth tightened. “You were Spider’s mate, right?”
“Not anymore.”
“Figures.”
✴
The rest of the morning, Ashley endured the not-so-subtle stares of the others trudging up and down the stairs, each seemingly inventing reasons to glimpse the new animal at the zoo.
Shirley eventually returned, flopping into a chair with all the grace of a toppled sack of potatoes. She studied Ashley with a sharp, restless energy., like someone perpetually on edge.
“So, what’d you do?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “Nick the Chief’s lunch? Sleep with his wife?”
Ashley gestured toward Lamb’s office. “Blew the whistle on a high-ranking officer. Acted the hero. Same thing, really.”
Shirley snorted, glancing at River, who pretended to be deeply engrossed in his screen.
“Acting the hero,” Shirley said, leaning back, “is kind of a running joke around here.”
Later, during a break, Ashley stood by the coffee maker, stirring her tea absently. She tried to keep her thoughts neutral—no anger, no sadness, just a shade of gray resignation. But Ashley Green wasn’t the type to resign. I’m practicing resilience, she told herself, though the concept felt hollow. And optimism, when possible.
Still, the creeping sense of uselessness refused to budge. How the hell did I end up here? It wasn’t arrogance—no one was immune to being sent to Slough House—but it was hard to ignore the sheer number of people who seemed utterly drained of purpose. How many were exiled here for questioning orders or refusing to play MI5’s game of backstabbing and ladder climbing?
Or maybe, she considered grimly, it wasn’t about morals. Just a gathering of fuck-ups who never really had it in them.
She was startled out of her thoughts by River quietly making his tea. He seemed oddly at ease in Slough House, yet Ashley could sense an undercurrent of resistance. Whether he was just fighting the urge to quit and go work private, or the desire to set fire to the files, desks and all, she didn’t know yet. But although he might be a Slow Horse, he hadn’t given up—not entirely.
Despite herself, Ashley found it comforting. If he hadn’t, maybe she didn’t have to give up either.
She’d heard snippets about his family ties to the Service—something about a legendary grandfather. The specifics escaped her, but his name sparked a memory: a younger River, earnest and sharp-eyed, eager to master every drill.
During a weekend training exercise, they’d been thrown together in the same team—a mismatched group bound by little more than circumstance. By unspoken consensus, River had taken the role of the man on the ground—sharp-eyed and willing to take risks. Ashley, naturally, became the tactical brain. Meanwhile, Spider Webb had appointed himself leader, his overconfidence exhausting everyone around him.
The exercise had gone well, earning praise from the assessors and even a rare nod of approval from Lady Di. Ashley had allowed herself a fleeting sense of accomplishment.
But it hadn’t been flawless. Someone had faltered during surveillance—rookie nerves—and River’s microphone placement had failed when the target removed their jacket as the day warmed. That left them scrambling to regain audio for several tense minutes, while the mark wandered off for a cappuccino, making small talk with a passerby.
Later, Ashley had taken responsibility before the tribunal. “I didn’t account for the weather, ma’am. Tactical oversight,” she’d said, standing tall.
Taverner’s sharp gaze had flicked to River before returning to Ashley. “Placement was the real issue,” she’d remarked, her tone cutting. “But fine. You’ve passed. Off you go.”
River hadn’t had time to thank her. Webb had clapped him on the back, yelling, “Beers!” before dragging him off to the nearest pub. Ashley, meanwhile, had made a hasty retreat, offering a half-hearted goodbye that River probably hadn’t even heard.
Their paths had rarely crossed after that weekend. The Service had pulled them into different corners, leaving little chance to build on their brief camaraderie. Still, Ashley remembered the understanding they’d shared during training: the quiet belief that they could be more than just names on a roster.
She shook her head imperceptibly. Memory lane isn’t much of a shortcut.
“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “Spider Webb.”
River’s faint smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He poured a spoonful of sugar into his tea. “Let me guess—he’s somehow involved in why you’re here?”
“Not directly,” Ashley replied. “But Lynton and Webb were thick as thieves. And Spider may no longer be in the Service, but I hear he’s done well for himself.”
River’s smile faded. “He always does. Seems to get ahead every time someone else takes the hit.”
Ashley’s lips quirked. “Funny how that works. He didn’t deserve what happened to him, but ambition without backbone has its limits.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” River said. After a pause, he added, “Lynton’s the one you… ratted out?”
Ashley stiffened slightly but nodded. “Yes. No loyalty to the Service, but apparently, that wasn’t my problem.”
“I always thought you were…” River hesitated, gesturing vaguely at the grim little kitchen. “Not destined for this.”
Ashley’s expression softened. “Ah yes, we were all young and destined for greatness,” she said wryly. “Weren’t you the son of a legend?”
“Grandson,” River corrected.
Ashley nodded, catching the quiet sadness in his eyes. He’d been promising once, too. That energy might have dulled, but she could still see the remnants of it. And River thought that, despite everything, Ashley still had that steady, unflinching presence that commanded attention without demanding it.
It felt almost absurd to think so here, in Slough House, a vacuum for any sense of community. Affection or acknowledgment vanished under the weight of endless gray tasks. Even saving a boy from live-streamed execution hadn’t made a real difference, nor had uncovering a network of sleeping agents while losing one of their own. Slough House wasn’t sinking, but it was riddled with holes, adrift in a cold sea. Survival was slow and miserable. Still, River could tell Ashley grasped the difference between losing a job and losing your purpose.
“Maybe we’ll survive this place,” Ashley said, rinsing her spoon and setting it back on the counter. “You know, hopeful and all that.”
“Maybe,” River replied, his voice quieter now.
She returned to her desk with an emerging sense of resolve, leaving River with the faint impression that she was still in the fight—and maybe, just maybe, they both were.
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Slough House by Mick Herron (Slough House #7) @JohnMurrays
'An immense, brilliant book in a fantastic and beautifully written series.'
Slough House by Mick Herron (Slough House #7) @JohnMurrays
Source: Review copyPublication: 04 February 2021 from John Murray PressPP: 320ISBN-13: 978-1529378641
My thanks to John Murray for an advance copy of this book for review
Kill us? They’ve never needed to kill us,’ said Lamb. ‘I mean, look at us. What would be the point?’
A year after a calamitous blunder by the Russian secret service left a British citizen dead from novichok poisoning, Diana…
Finished another Slough House book for the @palatinelibrary Winter Reading Program. I already fulfilled my goal, but I want to help the library hit its 5,000-book goal to help the Little City Foundation. #whatiamreading #realtigers #mickherron #sloughhouse #slowhorses #spyfiction (at Palatine, Illinois)
Finished my first book for the @palatinelibrary Winter Reading Program. Fans on the @spybrary Facebook group have raved about Mick Herron's Slough House series, so I figured this was a good opportunity to dig in. The fans were right. This book is dynamite! I've already started the second, "Dead Lions." #slowhorses #mickherron #sloughhouse #spyfiction #spynovels (at Palatine, Illinois)
