I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
thank you for all the love on the other fics!!
i was inspired by this edit by @im-being-so-normal-about-this.
💬 2 🔁 9 ❤️ 19 · Decided to try my hand at editing…
(Song is Like Him by Tyler, the Creator)
You found him on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from his shower, towel bunched in his hands, staring at the wall. His chest rose and fell, breath shuddering through him. His pulse still ticked high from the adrenaline rush earlier. It hadn’t settled since the truck crashed into the car. Since Patrice had killed two Dogs, and almost killed you and Flyte in the process. Since he met his dad, and his dad had tried to kill him.
You watched him scrub a hand over his face.
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” he said, tossing his wet towel onto the floor.
“Do you want to sleep? Or eat?”
“Sure.”
“Which one, River?” He shrugged. You bent to pick up the towel.
“Leave it,” his hand rose and fell, like it was too heavy for his arm. You reached for the towel anyway. “I said, leave it.”
“Fuck me, okay Lamb.”
River pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. The ache in him seemed so much deeper than his bones.
Sid and Marcus, Sid and Marcus, images of their still bodies, blood pooling under their heads—he pushed them away. Min—Min, it had been so long since he’d thought about Min; silly Min, forgetful Min, dead Min. He hadn’t seen Min’s body, but he’d read the report and the images came to him in his sleep: Min’s crushed body begging him for help until he woke up in a sweat, looking down at you.
You, whose body had crumpled, folded in on itself, blood pooling under the side of your face in the middle of the road. How long until it was permanent? How long until you became a face he knew only in dreams?
Frank had singled you out when he was led away, and River hadn’t let the creeping dread at the pit of his stomach overwhelm him then, but now he felt it cresting over the hill and swallowing him whole. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
When he looked up, the room was empty.
“Fuck.”
The door was ajar. As he peered through the crack he could just make out you in the kitchen. The pain you still felt was obvious in the way you braced your hips against the countertop.
In the pocket of the jeans he’d discarded on the clothing chair his phone buzz-buzz-buzzed. He let the ringing die out, which it did for a moment, and then resumed.
“What?”
“You talk to the Old Devil like that?” Jackson’s voice slid down out of the phone, and against his will, River felt some of the tension leave him.
“No.”
“Where is he, by the way?”
“My guest room.”
“Ah,” Lamb exhaled. “Alright.”
River waited but Lamb seemed unwilling to elaborate. “Is that it?”
“What, you don’t like talking to me?” River let his silence speak for itself. “Alright, fuck me, fine. Taverner called. About Frank.”
River closed the bedroom door with a gentle click. “What about him?”
“Got your attention now, haven’t I?”
“Lamb.”
“She’s letting him go. Can’t hold him.”
“What? What do you mean, there’s proof—he—he tried to kill me in front of the Dogs—I—”
He could feel a familiar tightness invade his throat. Clawing at it, he went to the window, peeking out of the blinds. Three people were on the street below, all waiting queueing the chippy. One of them wore a leather coat. One of them had grey hair. One of them stood in shadows and was obscured from plain sight.
“Yeah, I hear ‘ya, I hear ‘ya.” River heard a faint murmur in the background. “She said—well it doesn’t fucking matter what she said. What she meant was that we’re compromised. MI5 is. And we have to let him go.”
“Lamb, what if he comes after them again?”
“He won’t,” Lamb said, and promptly hung up.
Observing the figures in the street for a while longer, River’s mind ran wild. Another man, walking with purpose, strode down the street, and he was distracted by thoughts of Marcus. Kind Marcus, flawed Marcus, dead Marcus.
Something smashed in the kitchen. He was bursting through the door and across the living room before you could even begin to pick up the pieces of the bowl.
“What happened? Where is he?”
“Still asleep,” you said. “It’s been a long day for him. And I smashed a bowl, so… that’s great.”
“What? Who—what?”
“He’s where you left him, Riv,” you placed a warm hand on his arm. “He’s in the guest room.”
Gulping down shallow breaths he looked into every corner of the room and out of the window, twice. Only then did his gasping panic wane. He watched as you picked up the larger pieces of the bowl, dropping them into the sink. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” you said. “I was never very fond of this one.”
“No,” he reached out, pulling you away from the mess on the floor and into his chest. “I’m sorry.”
Wanting to avoid the inevitable, you pressed deeper into him, nuzzling your forehead into the crook of his neck. “You can pick up your towel next time, how about that?”
The stress that Lamb’s call wrought began to unwind in your arms.
“Taverner is letting Frank go.” He regretted saying the words as soon as they left him. Under his tender hands, you tensed. Trying to soothe you, he smoothed a hand up your back to press between your shoulder blades.
“Did she say why?”
“Lamb said something about MI5 being compromised. Didn’t elaborate.”
“Mm,” you pressed your lips to the junction between his collarbone and clavicle. “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel it’s fucking stupid.”
His large, warm hands settled on the back of your head, pulling you away from his neck to look you in the eye. “How do you feel?”
“If he comes near you, I’ll kill him.”
“He won’t. Lamb—he won’t. Don’t…”
Your hand moved to undo the crease between his brows. “Don’t what, my love?”
“Don’t put yourself in danger for me.”
“I do what I like, thank you very much.” The ringtone of the phone which he’d left abandoned on your bed broke the relative quiet of the flat, sharp and piercing. “Please get that. My head is killing me.”
His thumb traced down the edge of the bruise and flattened against your cheek in order to manoeuvre your unbruised cheek towards him. “Whatever you want.”
River checked out the window. The phone continued to ring. The three men from earlier had moved on, to where River didn’t know. His phone screen went dark as the call went to voicemail. Then, it rang again. Same number. Unsaved.
The unknown number stared at him as it rang out. It persisted longer than he was comfortable.
“Yes?”
“Christ,” Frank chuckled. “You sound just like him.”
River’s blood ran cold. “Fuck off, Frank.”
“Easy, kid. You’re my one call.”
“Fuck off!” River hung up and hurled his phone across the bedroom, knocking a photograph from the wall.
“What was that? River?”
“Nothing,” he called back. “Just bumped something, sorry.”
Collapsing to the floor, he swiped at the tears which he found streaked his cheeks. “Fucking stop,” he whispered to himself.
Your soft knock at the door had him turning his back. “I’m fine, seriously,” his voice was thick with the unbidden tears, “dropped my phone.”
“River.”
Your hands passed over his shoulders, turning him around and letting him bury his head in your shoulder. River’s fists tightened, the soft wool of your jumper caught tight as he held you against him.
“Was it him?”
River said nothing and that was answer enough.
Later, when you’d fed him and checked in on a sleeping David, the two of you slumped on the couch. He turned the TV on, Sky News showing footage from the wreckage you’d stumbled away from earlier. Keeping the sound off, you stared at the rolling headlines at the bottom of the screen, only pieces of it catching your eye: unknown terrorist, four dead, rubbish truck.
The weight of River’s head settled in your lap. His shaky breath fanning against your leg. Turning his face until it was almost entirely pressed into your thigh he let his eyes close.
“I don’t know what to do with all of it. Just the—the weight of it, y’know.”
Your hand carded through his hair, tugging lightly on the strands. “Give some to me.”
“Darling—”
“I’m serious, River.”
His hand reached down to curl around your ankle. “It doesn’t scare you off?” I don’t?
“None of it does.” No, you don’t. “I love you, River.”
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
mostly slow horse shenanigans + some x gn!reader fluff
a little drabble while i’m working on getting chapter two of moscow rules out + i’m refusing to cross tag it, so check out chapter one here, or keep updated with the masterlist here <3
“What’s got you bouncing off the walls?” Louisa watched River over the brim of her mug. Her tea, once warm, was now cold and slightly stale after a morning of sitting, untouched, next to her keyboard. She couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when River was vibrating in his chair and checking the clock every two minutes.
“Nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
He fiddled with the pencil pot on his desk, glancing up at the clock once more. “Do you think it’s got the right time?”
“Got somewhere else to be, Cartwright?”
“No. Maybe.” He took a pencil out and put it back in again. “How quickly do you think I could get to King’s Cross?”
“What do you need to go there for?”
“Jesus, Louisa–”
“Circle line from Barbican station would take you directly.” She leaned away from her desk. “Won’t tell you how long it will take unless you tell me why you’re going, though.”
“That’s what Google Maps are for,” he said.
Shirley leaned over the back of his chair, turning off the monitor.
“Oh—what the fuck?” She sat on the edge of River’s desk. He looked between the two of them. “What?”
“We just want to know,” Shirley said, “what stupid fucking plan you have this time.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid.” Louisa tried to smile in a way she hoped was reassuring. "Whatever it is." When she’d brought up confronting River to Shirley and Marcus, they had both assumed she’d be good cop. She didn't want to admit that they were right.
“You’ll go too easy on him,” Marcus had said.
“So I’ll go hard.” Shirley crossed her arms, and ignored the fork she knocked off the table.
Thinking back now, she wasn’t sure if it had been the best idea to involve Shirley.
River checked the clock once more and stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “Right, well. Good chat. I have to go, so.” He waved awkwardly and launched himself out the door.
Shirley moved to follow. “Wait,” Louisa said. “Give him a minute.”
Heading to the station. Walked right past me. Smiling. Louisa showed Marcus’s texts to Shirley, and the two of them headed to join Marcus on the street.
River bounded up the left side of the escalator, sighing heavily at tourists who took too long to get out of his way. “Excuse me,” he grated out, shouldering past a large backpack that hung off one shoulder of a man standing in the middle of the step. “Fucking tourists.”
In his haste, he didn’t see Shirley, Louisa, and Marcus running up the escalator to his right.
Speeding through the station, he bumped into several people, but kept going, ignoring frowns cast in his direction. Eyes firmly on the Arrivals board, he dodged and weaved as best he could before coming to a firm stop. Platform 4. He took off in its direction, leaving his breathless colleagues behind.
“Where is he going?” Shirley swiped at her brow.
“I’m not leaving the city tonight,” Marcus peeled the sweaty collar of his t-shirt away from his collarbone between forefinger and thumb. “I need a shower.”
“Yeah,” Shirley nodded. “You do.”
“Shut up.”
“Come on,” Louisa surged onwards, following the crowd desperate to board the train before the newly arrived had the time to get off.
They ran through King’s Cross Station, occasionally catching the tail end of River’s jacket, or the brightness of his hair as he surfaced above the masses. Eventually, they saw the top of his head still, and the crowd divided around him, all united with their singular aim.
“Why has he stopped?” Shirley’s hand curled around Louisa’s wrist, pulling her backwards towards the ticket machines. “Marcus?”
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Marcus stood on tiptoe.
As the crowd thinned, and the last of the travellers made their way through the barricade, the Slow Horses saw what density had stopped them from before.
You.
River’s chin tucked in the crook of your neck, arms crossed over your back as he tugged you further and further into himself. You were laughing, smiling, as you held him just as tight.
“You’re so warm!” They heard you exclaim.
River said something, low enough to only be heard by you. The corners of your eyes crinkled as you carded a hand through the soft, short hair on the back of his head. When he pulled back to look you in the eyes, Louisa found herself overwhelmed by the softness in his gaze; the way tension seeped from his shoulders the longer he held you.
“I didn’t know River was seeing someone,” Shirley said.
“Makes sense, actually.” Marcus leaned against the side of the ticket machine.
“Shut up, no it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Louisa let their arguing fade into the background as she watched River slowly peel himself off you, and pick up your bag. He wrapped a comfortable arm around your shoulders and led you out of the station, pressing kisses to the side of your face as the two of you left. You made eye contact with her, and she found herself smiling at you, even when Shirley and Marcus ducked their heads and tried to cover their faces with the collars of their jackets.
"Well that was stupid."
"Did they see us?"
"Are you stupid?"
They watched the two of you go, watched you slip deeper under River's arm, watched your hand disappear under the back of his jacket, watched him slow down to turn his gaze to you as your talked.
"I think we got away with it."
It was in the doorway that River turned around to flip them off.
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
“Whatcha looking at?” River jerked in his chair, hitting his knee and cursing.
When he turned his head he jerked again, his nose just missing the soft skin of your cheek. You were bent at the waist trying to get a good look at the video playing on his monitor. His eyes trailed down to where your shirt had ridden up and exposed a sliver of skin all the way across your back. Taking a sharp breath, he dragged his eyes away from it and back to the footage on screen.
“Nothing,” he turned off the screen. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Right…” River bit his lip, praying you wouldn’t ask too many follow up questions. “Tea?”
He blinked owlishly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks.”
You nodded once and squeezed his shoulder. The brief heat of your hand lingered and River swore he could still smell the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air. Shaking his head, he pushed the thought away. Wishful thinking. He was too proud to admit that he had gone through an aisle at Superdrug opening all the caps and sniffing them until he’d found the exact match. It was in his cupboard at home, the seal broken but the bottle unused.
“Good work weirdo.” Shirley leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t sound suspicious at all.”
“Shut up.” He reached his hand to cover where yours had been and squeezed again, trying to mimic its firm press.
In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. He knew it was the same model in your kitchen. You had been the person to recommend it to Catherine after Coe had destroyed the last one by throwing it at Patrice. You had also helped choose the sofa in Lamb’s office, the colour of the walls, even the wood stain. River could see pieces of you in every room of Slough House. Not only did it make it hard to get through the day without thinking about you, or being near you, or being with you, it also made his motivation to return to the Park vanish into thin air. How could he want to spend his life there, when he could spend it here, surrounded by you?
“Hey.” He looked up. You had a cup of tea in each hand and a packet of biscuits under your arm. “Fire escape?”
It was self-indulgence really, that influenced you to coax him outside and away from the immediate surroundings of Slough House. The day had started off grey and cloudy, but as the morning continued on, the sun broke through the clouds. Now, approaching high noon, the fire escape had become a sun spot; one which—unless you were quick to claim it for yourself—would soon be taken over by someone else. Where the self-indulgence came in was two-fold: first, to be alone with River, second, to watch his hair become strawberry blond in the sun.
“You going to share those biscuits then?”
You tilted your head at him, a crooked smile brightening up your face. The brilliance of it dazzled him and he blinked.
“I might,” you said. “Depends how nice you are to me.”
“I’m always nice to you,” he protested.
“Yes.” You couldn’t tease him. As fun as it was to watch him work himself into knots trying to prove himself to you, his face was just too earnest to truely poke fun.
Opening the packet, you took one out and handed it to him, hoping that his fingers would brush against yours as he took it, chasing the exhilarating flip-flop of your stomach that happened every time he entered the room. Your finger imprinted in the chocolate of the digestive. “Sorry, I’ll get you another.”
“No,” he said. “No, that’s fine, really.”
“But my finger was in it.”
“I happen to like your fingers.”
Your mouth opened slightly and there it was, that flip-flop.
“Not in a weird way,” he scrambled. “In a normal way.”
“Is there a normal way to say you like my fingers?”
He groaned, leaning his head back against the railing. The vast expanse of his throat was bared to you, and you could see the flush rising underneath his collar. His adam's apple bobbed.
“You can’t hide from me now,” you said, reaching out a hand and brushing it along his shoulder. You drew broad sweeps over and over, thumb occasionally brushing the side of his neck.
He wondered about the possibility of getting a hug, a really good hug, if he asked just right; like the one you’d given him when he came back to Slough House after Frank was arrested. He’d made it halfway up the staircase to Lamb’s office before you came cluttering down and threw your arms around his neck. “Don’t do that again,” you’d said, clutching him tighter. His arms had spanned across your back, pulling you firmly against him. “I won’t,” he’d murmured into your hair. Neither of you had let go until the clean-up team had come for Marcus.
The back of your hand brushed his cheek. “What are you thinking about?”
Placing his broad palm over your hand, he moved it until it was flattened against the side of his face. He nuzzled the pulse point in your wrist, pressing a kiss against it and smiling when he felt it jump under his lips.
“You,” he said. “Just you.”
The door above you was flung open, but neither of you moved. “When the two of you are done flirting,” Lamb drawled. “I need the analysis on that video, Cartwright.”
The door shut again.
“River?”
“Mm.” His eyes still half closed, he brushed the tip of his nose across your palm.
“What is the video you’re watching?”
He snorted, pulling back just enough to meet your eye: “Lamb thinks Taverner tripped up a staircase, but there’s no direct footage of it. Wants me to check every angle.”
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
It had taken you a while to realise that River couldn’t tell you were flirting. If you were being honest with yourself it was also probably because you weren’t sure what could be counted as flirting, and what could be dismissed as friendly.
Three fresh cups of tea a day set on his desk in passing, two too many times being caught gazing at him over the top of your monitor, and one time when Shirley caught you biting your lip as he put on his jacket and wretched theatrically.
“That’s right,” she’d said as you shushed her. “Stare at him long enough and maybe he’ll read your thoughts.”
She was judgemental, which you’d expected, as you settled into the snug at the pub she’d suggested. The whole team was turning up at some point, but she’d dragged you out of Slough House first to get the low down: “Cartwright? Fucking Cartwright?”
“That’s the goal.”
“Eugh—that’s disgusting.” She sucked on the straw of her gin and tonic aggressively.
“He’s not Roddy,” you countered. The stained grain of the table in front of you, sticky with beer the servers hadn’t had the time to wipe off and rings of dried condensation became a welcome distraction from her sudden laser focus. You traced the still-wet rings made by your glass with the tip of your pointer finger.
“Yeah. Thank fuck for that at least.”
Gripping your chin between forefinger and thumb she tilted your head until your eyes met. “Is it terminal?”
“Fuck off.” Shoving her hand away you slumped deep into the crook of the booth. “He doesn’t even know I’m trying to flirt with him.”
“Who doesn’t?” Louisa slipped into the booth beside Shirley.
River stood at the end of the table awkwardly. He placed his hands in the pockets of his coat, then the back pockets of his trousers. “You’re flirting with someone?” His hands moved again, tracing the edge of the table.
Glancing between the two of you as you stared at each other, Shirley snorted.
“Go get the next round, River,” Louisa said.
“But—”
“Go.”
The three of you watched him leave, waiting until he was swallowed by the crowds of gilet-clad financiers that were also ending the workday in the pub.
“It’s River.” Unwrapping her scarf, Louisa looked at you.
“How do you know?”
“I do share an office with the two of you.”
“Not that they’d notice,” Shirley muttered.
“I’m sorry, Lou,” you pressed the glass to the side of your hot cheek.
“Oh I don’t mind,” she said. “Just, if you’re going to do something about it, can you do it before next Thursday? I don’t want Marcus to win the bet.”
“There’s a bet?” You turned to Shirley. "Did you know about this?"
“'Course I did. Lamb already lost,” Shirley said. “He was proper tamping about it as well.”
“Like you weren’t,” Louisa laughed.
River resurfaced from the crowd, four glasses clutched carefully in his hands, and the three of you fell silent. “What? Come on, what?”
Louisa just shook her head as he slipped into the booth beside you. Though there was space for Marcus and Roddy, maybe even Coe if he felt like sitting in, he was pressed against you; shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Under Shirley and Louisa’s knowing gaze you tried not to react. After a moment, their heads bowed together, their hands covering their mouths.
“What are they whispering about?” Rivers lips brushed your ear.
Shaking your head, you smiled at him.
“Come on, I’m being left out.” His pout seemed so true, teasing bordering on genuine hurt, that you reached out and covered the clenched hand on his knee with your own.
“They’re just making fun of me.”
“About that man you like?” He was smiling enough that you almost missed the edge in his tone.
“Something like that.”
“What’s his name?”
You shook your head again. His hand, still under yours, twitched. “Please don’t tell me it’s Roddy.”
“It’s not Roddy.”
Tension bled out of his shoulders a little. He knee pressed a little harder against your own as he leaned in, crowding you against into the corner of the booth. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“God, Cartwright,” Roddy sneered. “Are you trying to hump her in front of all of us?”
He slumped down into the space next to River. Marcus, shaking his head—but laughing—, slid in next to Louisa. The two of them bumped shoulders, and Louisa leaned in to whisper in his ear. His eyes flickered from you, to River, and back.
“Fuck off, Ho.”
“Fine. But only because I’m going to get a drink.”
“Get me a pint?” Marcus called after him.
The night stretched on, the masses of finance bros and women in pencil skirts moving on from the convenient warmth of the pub. But the Slow Horses remained. Thankful for the chance, you watched River as he rolled his eyes at Roddy, snarked with Shirley, and laughed with Louisa and Marcus.
Happily trapped in the corner, you took the opportunity to trace the the slope of his brow; the slight bump on the bridge of his nose which you often dreamt about tracing with the tip of your finger on a weekend morning when nobody needed you for anything and you could go the whole day only seeing each other.
He pulled his hand out from where it was curled under yours and placed it flat on the table. Taking your hand back from where it fell limp on his knee, you let it lie in your lamp. He drummed his fingers a couple of times then slid it back underneath the table to weave his fingers between yours.
Minors DNI. Reader’s discretion is advised. Mild suicidal ideation mentioned, death from assumed suicide, murder, physical violence.
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
Welsh Translation
sori sorry
nid yw'n ddim it's nothing
November 2018
The Costa coffee on the way to the station was emptier than usual. Waiting by the counter for her hot chocolate, she pulled at the fake holly leaf, tinsel tickling her fingers. They had been up before Halloween this year, as had most of the Christmas decorations in London. She'd heard Lamb muttering about it with Catherine in the kitchen, the only conversation they had that didn't seem to end in an argument. Outside, a patchy drizzle muzzled the sounds of Caledonian Road.
"Hot chocolate for Imogen?"
"Yeah, thanks."
The glass door closed behind her with a solid thump. This time last year, she thought to herself, she would still be heading into Park. Everything was terrible. Everything was still terrible, but at least she could get out of bed in the mornings.
What would today bring? she wondered as she breezed past the Service Information board and the TfL workers crowded around the small booth inside. Maybe Ho would flirt with her again. Maybe Coe will say something, or stand over her shoulder in a way that disconcerted the others. Maybe she would catch River watching her over the top of his monitor, and he'd do that funny thing with his face where he tried to smile but had seemingly forgotten how.
Of everyone in Slough House, bar Coe, River had been the one she'd felt most comfortable with. Probably because he seemed miserable as she and therefore didn't try to make her speak. It was definitely not because of his eyes or how they took on a lovely crinkly quality when he was amused. She'd heard Catherine and Shirley talking about him in the kitchen once, hushed voices and concern–well, from Catherine.
"He's just waiting for the Park's next fuck up," Shirley said, dumping her tea bag in the sink. Her shoulder bumped Imogen's.
"Sori."
"Nid yw'n ddim."
Tea seeped from it into the basin, long brown trails tracing paths to the drain. Imogen binned it. Ten seconds was a normal time to wait until she could leave, she reasoned.
"Still thinks he's going back."
"Taverner's first desk now," Catherine said, watching River through the window that overlooked his desk.
"Yeah, and she's the one who wanted him out in the first place, so he should really know better."
"Hope is a dangerous thing, Shirley."
Imogen finished washing her cup and went back to her desk. Silently, she agreed with Shirley: once Taverner wanted you out, you were gone. She made eye contact with the two of them, and they ducked their heads, pretending that they hadn't started speaking about her the moment she left the room. Alright, she thought, she could play that game too.
The wind on the platform was heavier today. Maybe it would carry her up and onto the tracks. Someone could push her if she moved too close to them. One accidental jostle, and down she'd go. Drifting along the platform, she let herself meander towards the stark yellow line. Would today be the day? Who would miss her? Maybe she should let someone push her. Maybe you should jump, the thought darted through her mind so quickly she could have missed it. No one will miss you.
No, she resolved. No. And ran out of the station.
"You're late." Lamb leaned against the wall as she came up the stairs. "Got yourself a drink, did 'ya?"
"Sorry."
Squeezing past him, she pushed through the door into the office she shared with River.
"Morning." He didn't look up from his screen. "Catherine's left the new files on your desk."
"What did I get?"
"2000 to 2002."
"What did you get?"
"2004 to 2007." He glanced up at her when she put her cup down to take her coat off. "Do you want another?"
Unable to place the look on his face that morning, she shook her head. "No thanks. Don't want to use the bathroom here."
"Fair enough," he looked back down. "Let me know if you change your mind."
They lapsed into the not uncomfortable silence which befell them everyday. Imogen revelled in it. It was still new to her, somehow so unlike the bustle of the Park and the bleak quiet of her flat. The computers droned, she could hear Lamb shuffling across the landing to Catherine's office, and River's breathing.
She only looked up when she felt his eyes on her, sizing her up.
"What?"
"Nothing, sorry." He knocked over a file.
Imogen almost smiled but pressed her lips together and looked away.
"Oi," Shirley stood in the doorway. "Has Louisa stopped answering you, too?"
"She was answering you?"
"Well that's fucking depressing." Shirley looked like she wanted to say more, glancing sidelong at Imogen.
"Do you want a tea?" Imogen stood.
"You don't have to–" River started.
"I'm heading to the kitchen anyways." Imogen slid past Shirley.
"Why'd you have to be rude?" She heard River ask.
"Rude? When was I rude?" Shirley's indignance faded into the room as she stepped towards River.
"She barely speaks to me as it is."
"She offered to make you tea."
"Yeah, and now she won't say anything else to me for the rest of the day, probably." Imogen could imagine River running his hands over his face, like he often did when frustrated. Which was also often.
"You should have a conversation with him instead of making him tea." Imogen jumped. Coe sidled up to her, his arm barely brushing her shoulder. "He's impulsive but not a bad person."
"High praise, coming from you."
"Yes."
River tried to pay attention to Shirley as she rattled off possible reasons why Louisa had stopped replying to her. Imogen's hair brushed her against shoulders. Coe was in there too, and he could see his lips move slightly.
"Are you listening to me?"
"What? Yeah, yeah, of course." River forced his eyes back to Shirley.
At the end of August, when Imogen had first arrived, he had watched her dump what small belongings she'd had with her on the desk across the room from his. "I'm Imogen," she'd said, and promptly quit the room to stand in front of Coe's desk. Shirley, though she'd been in the office with them, couldn't hear what they'd said to each other, but within ten minutes everyone in Slough House knew that Imogen and Coe knew each other. None of them had been able to figure out how.
"So you agree."
Fiddling with the cap of his pen, he glanced once more at Imogen. She was smiling at Coe as she moved to the fridge, saying something he couldn't make out. Shirley snapped her fingers in his face.
"Hello?"
"Sorry, what were you saying?"
"Fucking useless." She slid off his desk and disappeared out the door.
"Here." Imogen placed the steaming mug of tea in the middle of his desk.
"Not the corner, today," he said.
"Hm?" She was already moving back to her desk. Her striped shirt was coming untucked from the waistband of her trousers.
River imagined a world in which he could stop her and fix it. He would catch her elbow with one hand, he thought, and slide the other down her waist. Would her breath hitch? he wondered. Would she press closer? The hand that held the mug shook, spilling hot tea over the soft skin of his thigh. "Fuck!"
"You alright?"
"Yep," he ground out through gritted teeth. "Thanks for the tea."
"What do we know about her, really?" Shirley leaned against Ho's desk, arms crossed across her chest.
"She's pretty." Roddy said. An MI5 clearance pop-up beeped briefly before he bypassed it and scrolled further. "I think I found it."
"You think you have, or you have?"
"Shut up, let me check."
Lamb played with the end of his tie, not really watching them as they bickered. Next to him, Catherine had her hands folded around her cup.
"What if she's here because Park thinks we need to be watched?"
"She's not." River tried not to look as defensive as he sounded when all heads swivelled to him.
He could list what he knew about her on one hand. One, she was Welsh. Two, she hated coffee, was ambivalent towards tea, but loved hot chocolate (two-and-a-half, she never let anyone make her a drink but always offered to make them for everyone else). Three, she preferred ball point pens to pencils and wouldn't use tip-ex. Instead, pages she wrote on and corrected had large swarths of crossed-out writing. Four, she wouldn't speak about the Park. If any of them talked about it, she would quietly finish what she was doing and leave the room.
"And how would you know that?" Lamb asked. "You're not exactly persona grata, are you?"
"He's got a crush," Shirley sneered, and turned back to Ho. "Have you got it yet?"
River moved closer to Lamb. "I don't see why you're here," he said. "Shouldn't you know all this already?"
"I should, yeah." Lamb dropped the end of his tie and moved to stand between Shirley and Ho. "Park's been pretty tight lipped."
"You said she'd punched someone," Catherine interjected. "I'm with River, I don't think we have any right–"
"Bingo."
Three heads curved towards the screen, obscuring it from view.
"Oh," Shirley said.
"No wonder she wasn't receptive to my flirting." Ho whined when Shirley hit him.
"What?" Catherine, pulled by a desire to know, moved closer to the huddle.
"Says she had a mental breakdown and punched some guy–"
"–Oliver March–"
"–yeah, him, because her friend killed herself."
"Put on leave," Lamb said ponderously. "December to June. Then sent here."
"That hardly seems fair," Catherine said.
Something brushed the wall outside Roddy's office, and River's head turned. His eye caught the back of Imogen's coat disappearing around the corner, heading towards the front door. Pushing himself off the doorframe, he followed.
He spoke before he thought: "Are you getting lunch?"
She paused on the steps below him, turning back halfway to look at him out of the corner of her eye. "Yeah."
"That's good," he began down the stairs. "There's a salad bar–actually called Salad Bar–down the road and I was wondering if you'd want to, y'know, I don't know, maybe, we could–" He pinched the fat of his left palm with the fingers of his right. "I could show you where it is. If you'd like."
He hoped he was smiling.
"Are you not too busy reading my file?"
River felt the corners of his mouth flicker downwards. "Ah. Um..."
"I'm joking," she said, reaching out a warm hand and placing it on his arm. "Or I was supposed to. Sorry, I haven't been doing that much lately. Not very practised. You can show me that place if you still want to."
They sat in across from each other at the table in the kitchen, eating in silence. Imogen avoided his eyes, staring into her salad as she felt the skin at the points of her cheeks warm. His arm had brushed against hers the whole way back, and he'd apologised both times the takeout bag had bumped her leg.
He'd opened the door for her too, when they'd gotten back to Slough House, and the action had flustered her so much she'd stopped in the doorway, and he'd had to press a hand to her shoulder to get her to move. She'd become stiff when he touched her, and she wished she hadn't, because he'd taken his hand away and apologised again.
Something about his eyes when he'd glanced back at her on the stairs, like he wasn't expecting her to follow him, had reminded her of Sid. She didn't like to be reminded of Sid; thoughts of Sid alive, led to thoughts of Sid dead. In her dreams, she saw Sid constantly–always as she was in the morgue, cold and pale, dried blood at her temple and bruises marring the skin around her eyes. In her dreams, Sid became Lyndsey, and Lyndsey was always being taken from her. Yanked into the dark by disembodied hands, or pulled up from the slab by a noose. River looked back at her, and she hoped she was smiling. It probably looked more like a grimace.
In the middle of Camden Market, Lettice was having a good day. She had been busy shoving her lunch into her mouth when Terrance had turned up.
"One-thirty already, Terry?" she asked around a mouthful of bagel.
"One-thirty-five," he said. "Thought I'd give you more time for your lunch this week."
"You're too kind." She chugged some of her Activit.
"I need a new Topaz, Letty," he said, poking a finger through the display trays. "It's the full moon next week."
"So it is," she said. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she turned around. "I put one aside for you, why don't you take a look?"
Pop.
The stampede began before she hit the ground, hand still clasped loosely around the gemstone.
Catherine traipsed into the kitchen, followed by Shirley, who observed Imogen with unabashed curiosity. Stiffening, she avoided their gazes, staring into the salad bowl until her eyes watered.
Under the table, River's ankle knocked against her own, and she blinked, glancing up. He extended his hand, a piece of pita bread hers for the taking. She took it, nodding in thanks.
Stop it, he mouthed at Shirley.
She rolled her eyes.
Coe slunk in, putting the kettle on on his way passed. He posted up on the counter behind Imogen, one headphone dangling from his hoodie.
"I've been thinking," Catherine began carefully.
"You should be careful when you do that," Lamb said, marching up the stairs.
"Yes, thank you!" She turned around with a cautious smile. "We don't really know you yet, Imogen. We–" Shirley glared at her. "I, I was thinking that we could all get to know each other. Outside of work."
"You mean, like a group bonding exercise?" River asked.
"Yes. Exactly that, thank you, River."
"Yeah, thanks River." Shirley pushed his shoulder.
Coe twitched. Roddy clattered up the stairs. "Did you guys see this?"
When Imogen arrives at Slough House she brings with her three mysteries: why is she here, who was she before, and how does she know Coe? Some mysteries can be solved, but others are only beginning to unfold. As a group of extremists seek to reverse the progress of women’s rights through violence and intimidation, the Slow Horses are once more called to fill in the gaps where the Park fails.
Content Warnings
Minors DNI. Reader’s discretion is advised. There may be mentions or descriptions of misogyny, violence (including gun violence, physical violence, and murder), implied violence, injury, explicit language, harassment, and terror groups.
There may be additional warnings that come with each chapter. Please read them carefully for your own sake.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
Author’s Note
this is set after season 5, and will depart from canon!! because i haven’t read the books and season 6 is coming next year. mick herron owns all of his characters and the world, this is just my little fanfic <3
Minors DNI. Reader’s discretion is advised. There may be mentions or descriptions of misogyny, violence (including gun violence, physical violence, and murder), implied violence, injury, foul language, harassment, and terror groups.
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
Crowding around Louisa's dusty monitor, the six of them squinted at the grainy footage the BBC was broadcasting of Camden Market. A close-up on discarded items, trodden into the floor in the rush to get away, filled the screen. "Questions are being asked this afternoon as to whether it was a random attack," the reporter said. "Could this be connected to the county lines gun smuggling which has risen in recent years, alongside gang violence in the inner cities of England?"
"Thank you, Mark." The anchor shuffled his papers. "We will be bringing you more on that story, and other breaking news, as it comes in. Now, on to the weather. Stav, what's going on?"
"Well—” Shirley pressed mute.
"Not gang related." Coe pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, moving away from the close press of the group.
"Another destabilisation strategy?" Shirley looked at him intensely, fingers twitching. He shook his head.
"The fuck are you all doing?" Lamb leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette rolling between his pinched fingers.
"The shooting in Camden—"
"Yeah, I know. What are you all standing around for?"
"Curious," Shirley offered.
"But not enough to go and do something, eh?"
"Well," Catherine started, "what are we supposed to do? It's none of our business. It's a Met case."
"Oh, and they're just so good at their jobs." Lamb scoffed. Pushing himself off the frame, he stomped forward to River's desk and leaned against it heavily.
Shirley bounced on her heels, the back of her hand hitting Louisa's desk. Imogen slunk away from the crowd, moving back towards her chair. The air where she had been standing turned cold, and goosebumps rose on River's arm. Brushing a knuckle down it, he caught Lamb's eye, watching his eyebrow twitch up slightly.
"Thomas," Lamb started, "and... Coe. Go have a look."
Imogen picked up her coat from the back of her chair and swung it around her shoulders. The familiar weight of it entombed her. She smoothed down the heavy wool with her hands. River watched as she flipped down the upturned collar. She missed the section behind her right ear, and it stood proud against her neck.
"What do you think they'll see?" Catherine squared her shoulders.
"I don't know yet, do I? That's why I'm sending them."
"Flyte's on," Roddy said.
"What?"
River's head whipped back to the screen, his view quickly obscured by Shirley's insistent head. "Do you mind?" He craned his neck to see around her.
"Yeah, I do actually."
In the corner of the screen, behind the police tape and patrol cars, stood Flyte, her figure resolute and unmoving in a sea of confusion. The camera panned and refocused, and they could see Devon next to her, pointing and talking. The two of them glanced in the direction of the cameras and slipped backwards into the crowd with practised ease.
"That was weird." Roddy replayed the footage.
"Did you see what they were pointing at?" Imogen appeared at River's elbow.
"Did you?"
"Shut up, Roddy, she was just asking." River reached out and smoothed down the upstanding collar. Pretending not to notice the unsteadiness in his hands, he breathed sharply through his nose as he wavered and brushed against the column of Imogen's neck.
Lamb sat heavily. "Clearly, MI5 knows something we don't." He lit the cigarette. "I want to know what they think they know. Go on. Call it curiosity." He nodded to the door.
River felt the slightest pressure around his elbow as Imogen squeezed it. A silent goodbye. Fixing upon her as she headed out the door, shadowed by Coe, he spoke: "I think I should go with them."
"You will stay here," Lamb said. "I need eyes on this. Good eyes. Focused eyes."
"I am focused."
Lamb raised his eyebrows again, hefted himself up, and left the room without a word.
"I am. Lamb, I am focused!"
The closest Coe could get them was the old games shop at the corner of the square. Despite her relative height, Imogen could barely see over the sea of uniform police officers and gawkers who had gathered near the stalls to observe.
The stall was still close enough to the police tape that the two of them, pressed into the corner, could see forensics picking up bullet casings and dropping them into clear plastic bags. The unblinking bright red dot of the CCTV camera remained steady as it shifted to focus on them. She pulled out her phone, typing a quick message to Roddy. Zoom in on casings. Another a few seconds later: Please.
"Turn," Coe muttered. "News camera."
She ducked her head, feigning an interest in the rows of dice adorning the table by the door. Tiger's eye, amber, opalite, and a lovely deep blue stone that had heat prickling in her cheeks. Brushing gently over the display, she let herself linger over the D20.
"Are you going to buy it?" The shopkeeper appeared at her side, hovering over her.
"Oh," she said, retracting her hand. "I was just looking."
"You touch, you buy." He peered down his nose at her. "Or are you just rubbernecking, like the other tourists?"
"I'm not a tourist."
"Sure," he huffed a dry, unamused gulp of laughter.
"My cousin works in there." Pushing Sid to the forefront of her mind, she willed tears into her eyes. "She's not answering my calls. I'm worried about her."
She felt Coe shift from foot to foot as people pressed in closer.
"Oh," the man flustered. "Well, look, there's no need to get upset. I'm sure she's with the police or something."
"Really? You think so?" Putting on a watery smile, Imogen performatively wiped at the tears with the back of her left hand.
He nodded a couple of times, hand hovering between them. “They’re in the passageway to the left when you exit through the gateway.” Ultimately, he decided better of trying to comfort her and retreated into his shop.
"Sid," Coe asked, "or Lyndsey?"
"Don't." The twenty ridges of the dice dug into her palm as she held it tight in her fist.
In the passageway where the police were holding all the witnesses they could gather, Coe found himself a space to breathe. Pressing himself against the damp wall, he let himself sag. No one was paying attention to him. The high volume alert interrupted his podcast, telling him to turn down the level. Ignoring it, he watched as Imogen moved through the crowd, head tilted as she tuned in and out of people's conversations. When she found one that caught her interest for longer than a second, she knelt and fiddled with her shoelaces. He disliked the tightly packed crowd that had gathered, not just for their crass curiosity, but also because they were wont to push.
He let his headphones fall out. A trembling old man was being patted on the back by an overwhelmed officer. "I didn't see them," he said. "I didn't see."
“It’s alright, Terrance.”
“No, no, it isn’t!”
The officer said something in return that a sudden rise in the volume of gathered people obscured. Coe couldn't hear anything else. The old man spoke again, gesturing at his face. Coe watched as Imogen frowned, fingers playing with the dry skin on her lip. The man's gesticulating became wilder, his hands shaking profusely. His shoulders shuddered, and he dissolved into tears.
Imogen shouldered her way back to Coe, face tense. "I want to leave," she said.
"What did he say?"
Her bottom lip jutted out slightly and she shook her head. "Not here."
Nodding, he slipped a hand around her bicep and pulled her from the passage. They slipped through open back doors of food stalls and past distracted proprietors. The BBC reporter leaned against the wall, scrolling on his phone. "They've named her," he told his cameraman. "Lettice Moran." Lettice Moran. Imogen filed the information away for later.
"Are you going to announce it?" The cameraman fiddled with the settings on the side of the camera. Lettice Moran.
"Not yet," the reporter said. "They've embargoed it until they can let the family know." Lettice Moran. Coe led her through a gateway.
Finding themselves on the canal path, they walked quietly for some time.
Eventually, as the crowds thinned into nothing, Imogen spoke: "He said they wore masks. And dresses. Said they looked like his granddaughter's porcelain dolls." She sighed, hands burrowed into the lining of her pockets. In her right hand she still clutched the stolen dice.
"Is that what upset you?"
Imogen shook her head. "I don't like seeing people cry."
Coe nodded. This, he knew already. They lapsed into silence. Passing behind King's Cross, a barge chugged its way past them. He pushed his hood back. "Did you have a nice lunch?"
"I didn't know you did small talk, J."
"I don't consider conversation with you small."
She smiled up at him. "I think he was just being nice. He felt bad about the prying."
"He wants to know too." Under a bridge they walked single file so that a bike could pass them. He couldn't see her face as his voice echoed. "The only reason you won't hold it against him is because you fancy him."
"Shut up, Coe."
She resisted the urge to push him into the canal.
River found himself bouncing off the walls as he waited for Imogen and Coe to return. He spun on his chair, once, twice, three times, and found himself face to face with Lamb. "Fuck!"
"Found anything yet?"
"Coe and Imogen are on their way back," he listed off. "The news footage are all repeats, but there was a new angle twenty minutes ago with Imogen—"
"For fuck's sake," Lamb slapped his hand against River's desk. "The whole point of not sending the two of you was to avoid attention."
"It wasn't anything the Park would notice," River baulked. He felt a rush of defensiveness for Imogen, imagining himself having to protect her from Lamb's wrath. It made him feel strangely warm all over, the idea of her needing him. He liked being useful, he told himself.
Shirley piped up, her cheek squashed against her palm. "River noticed the back of her head—"
"Of course he did."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Assuming deafness, Lamb turned away from him. Catherine walked past the door balancing a stack of files that likely would not be checked off her list today. He followed her up the stairs and into her office as River watched.
Shirley's phone pinged. "Ho says he's found something."
The two of them trampled over each other to get down the staircase. Once in Roddy's office, Shirley pulled up the only available chair and elbowed Roddy out of the way to see the main screen better. River's attention was elsewhere. Imogen's face filled one of the side screens; the blown-up footage was grainy, but definitely her. On the other, a woman in a stall, only half her face visible.
"What's that?" River asked.
"CCTV footage," Roddy said. "Obviously."
"Creepy." Shirley slumped back in her chair. "Is that it?"
Roddy pulled the still of Imogen from the side screen to his main and zoomed out slowly. The footage began playing as he did. "There's Coe."
"Yes," River grated out. "We know. This is from half an hour ago. They're on their way back already."
"Hold on." Shirley leaned in. "That's forensics."
"Yeah. Thomas texted me, actually." Roddy pulled up another tab. "These are the bullet casings found at the scene. And these," a third tab appeared, "are the only type of gun those could belong to: the Mauser Model 1934 pocket pistol."
"A Nazi gun?" River raised an eyebrow. "Could it be the Sons of Albion again?"
"It hasn't even been five years since their last fuck up." Roddy shook his head. "Surely they can't be that stupid."
"They're Nazis, Roddy," River scoffed. "I'm pretty sure they're that stupid."
"No," Shirley flapped her hand in their direction, "listen to me." She pressed her finger against the CCTV footage. "Was the camera facing that direction earlier?"
Plucking at his t-shirt, Roddy shrugged. "I moved it to watch Thomas."
"But before, it was there?"
"Yeah, why?"
Shirley sighed, pressing her fingers against her forehead. "Well, genius, that means that there is footage of the booth."
"So?"
"So, there is footage of the crime." She sat back in her chair with solid satisfaction.
"Oh." Roddy and River stared at her.
"Yes, oh. Pull it up."
Roddy moved to the computer, typing in the timecode. His finger hovered over the mouse, and he turned back to Shirley. "What will you give me for it?"
"I won't kick you up the arse?"
"Talk to Thomas about me."
"I didn't with Louisa, and I won't now."
"But why?" He whined.
River leaned over the two of them, hand on each of their shoulders to balance himself. He let his fingers dig into Roddy's shoulder just enough, until he was certain he could feel Ho holding back a wince. "Just do as she says, alright?" He kept his eyes firmly on the screen.
"Fucking— fine, ow, get off me." Roddy wriggled from his grasp and pressed enter.
Interference juddered across the screen, distorting the image. When it cleared, it looked like a normal day at Camden Market. The woman in the stall was finishing her sandwich when an old man arrived. Groups of people pushed on. Some teenagers slowed as they walked past, and River found himself searching their faces. What did they know? What could they know? Was it them? The teenagers moved on, hurried along by another group, pushing them forward.
Three women, decked out in matching voluminous gingham circle skirts, their hair up in victory rolls, took their place. It looked like fairly standard fare for the alt-crowd that had once made Camden Market their home.
"They're wearing masks," Shirley said.
"They're sexy." Roddy leaned back in his chair. Shirley and River exchanged a brief disgusted glance before turning their attention back to the screen.
Approaching in single file, the first woman ran a hand through her hair, fingers catching the ribbon of her mask. Her hand shook as she smoothed it back into place. The second woman reached into her handbag. The third woman flicked her wrists a few times. Quickly dodging and ducking, they made their way closer to the front of the stall.
Within the blink of an eye, the second woman pulled out a gun and shot the stall keeper once, in the back of the head. She crumpled to the ground. People scattered. They pushed against each other like fish struggling upriver. In the chaos, the three women vanished.
"Where did they go?"
Roddy shrugged as he plugged in his hard drive.
"What are you doing?" Wrinkling her nose, Shirley watched him.
"You don't want the footage?" he asked.
"No, yeah, I do."
"Where did they go?" River wondered.
Roddy replayed the footage. "Tara would have made a sexy housewife," he said.
"If she wasn't a murderous lunatic, you mean." Shirley hit his shoulder. "Are you forgetting she catfished you?"
River tuned out their bickering. Where did they go? Would they strike again? Was this personal or random? Where did they go? Irrational, unbidden anxiety seized his chest. "Can you find Imogen?" he asked.
With less resistance than he was expecting, Roddy went back to the live feed. Imogen and Coe were gone.
"Where is she?" River leaned over him again.
"You said they were on the way back," Shirley prodded him. "They're not going to be there."
"Right," he felt the panic loosen. "Yeah. I know that."
"His crush is embarrassing," Shirley faux-whispered.
"Tell me about it." Roddy shook his head.
Hands on his hips, River paced the room. "Shut up," he snapped, "I don't have a crush."
The two shared a disbelieving look.
"It's called concern. Co-workerly concern. Office mate concern. It's not a crush, alright? If it was a crush, then... I don't know, okay? I don't fucking know. But I know it isn't. And I'm not. And I don't."
"Crush," Roddy said.
Shirley nodded. "Total crush."
"Oh, fuck off."
"Oi," Lamb shouted down from the top of the stairs. "Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber. Leadenhall Market. Go."
"Why?" Shirley was already zipping up her jacket.
"They have a visiting market."
"And?"
"Just do what I say."
Leadenhall was bustling, people milling between stalls.
"What does Lamb think?" River puzzled. "That they'll try and hit here next?"
"I dunno." Shirley tugged at a dress on the rack, wrinkling her nose at it and tucking it back. "But clearly he thinks something will happen."
"Or he wants us out of the way."
"Or that."
They circled the market twice.
"What's wrong with liking Imogen?" Shirley asked him suddenly. "She's nice, she's pretty, she doesn't hate your guts."
River shrugged, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I'm a bit fucked up, Shirley."
"Yeah," she nodded. "So?"
"So?"
"She's in Slough House for a reason, dumbass. Just because you like her doesn't mean she can do no wrong."
Stopping in front of a jewellery stall, Shirley ran her fingers over the tray of rings. "Are these gemstones real?"
"Those are our costume gems," the stall keeper answered.
River found his eyes focusing and unfocusing on an open leather box. Inside, a small silver pendant, a spindle shell, winked at him. "How much?" he asked. Shirley slipped her hand around his wrist, fingers gripping tight.
"Five pounds."
"I'll take it," he shook off Shirley's hand.
Pressing the note into the stall keeper's hand, he picked up the box and closed it with a soft thunk. "Thanks." He looked up. "Oh."
"Oh?" The face of a dead woman smiled at him. The face he'd spent time watching on Ho's multiple monitors.
"You, um. You," his mouth was so dry. His voice came out hoarse. "Do you have a sister?"
"Yeah," her smile dropped slightly. "Why? You know Letty?"
"Letty?"
"My sister. You know her."
"No," Shirley was pulling at his arm. "No, we don't, sorry. Thank you, bye!"
The two of them tumbled away from her, surging through the crowd until they hit an empty street.
"That's why Lamb wanted us there." Shirley pressed her hands to her knees, heaving slightly.
"I still don't get it." The leather box sat heavy in his jacket pocket. He didn't know why he bought it. He'd hardly spoken to Imogen since she arrived. He certainly had no idea whether or not she’d like it. It was the conversation with Roddy and Shirley, he reasoned. It had made him lose his head. He knew he'd have to bribe Catherine to rig this year's Secret Santa, just to have an excuse to give it to her.
"He's a sick fuck. That's why."
"What took you so long?" Lamb griped from her chair. "Ho's been on the CCTV, and Cartwright and Dander both managed to get information from Leadenhall and not fuck anything up too badly in the time it took you to look at a market. A closed market, mind."
"We walked," Coe said.
"You walked? From Camden?"
"She doesn't like the tube."
River handed Imogen a steaming hot chocolate. "Oat milk," he said, and leaned against his desk next to her. She felt heat blaze across her face and neck. It's the steam from the mug, she rationalised. Just the mug.
Louisa's monitor had been dusted and turned out to face the room. BBC News still played.
“Regard.” Roddy set his laptop down in front of the news with one hand, half focused on playing Luigi’s Mansion, and pressed play. She and Coe watched the three women push in front of the stall, kill Lettice, and escape into the crowd.
"Her name was Lettice Moran." Imogen placed her hot chocolate on River's desk.
"Who?"
"Exactly."
Roddy sighed, closing his Nintendo 3DS. "I don't understand. Why would they kill a nobody?"
"She wasn't nobody," Imogen said fiercely. "She was somebody to someone. Someone loved her."
"Her sister," Shirley offered.
"You don't think it was personal." Lamb kicked his feet up onto Imogen’s desk, pushing some of her neatly stacked files onto the floor. River could feel her sigh more than hear her.
"No."
"Why the masks?" Catherine wondered.
"Uniform?" Imogen shifted as she felt Lamb watching her. As she moved, heat emanated from River's side, warming her further.
"The dresses are a uniform. The masks are..."
"Weird." Shirley nodded.
"Can you get a clearer image of them?"
Roddy huffed. "Obviously." He sat on the floor, hunching over his laptop.
"The witness, Terrance, said that they reminded him of porcelain dolls."
Taking his feet off her desk, Lamb leaned forward. His hands pressed together, he watched her. "You're good at this," he said, eventually.
"It is my job." Imogen picked up the hot chocolate again, hiding her face behind the rim.
"Nah," Lamb stood. "You see, this is what doesn't make sense to me. Why are you here?"
Coe's hands flexed at his sides. "They're reporting breaking news," he said.
Catherine turned the sound back on. Glancing his way, Imogen sent Coe a grateful smile that was not missed by Lamb or River. River leaned in slightly, pretending to get closer to the monitor. His shoulder brushed hers and then pressed more firmly, the heat from him now absorbing into her. She felt herself stiffen, and River pulled away slightly, giving her the space to decide.
"—English Virtue Enterprise, or EVE, has claimed responsibility for the attack at Camden Market around midday today. The victim, Lettice Moran, a stallholder here in the market, was killed in a shooting four hours ago. The group put out a statement on their social media saying, 'As traditional values continue to erode, and women have been forced out of the home, we too have been forced to act. Feminism has taken us from our rightful place and pushed us into the role of freedom fighters.' They also quote the former mayoral candidate, Dennis Gimbal, who was found dead outside a campaign rally earlier this year, and blame the deep state for his death."
Imogen leaned into River.
"And what does this mean, do you think, this blaming of feminism?"
"Well, Simon, I think it follows closely with online discontent, the men's rights movement and the incels, this kind of resurgence in popularity of the right wing in Britain. What is unusual is that this group seems to be led by–or at least made up of–women. They also seem to be stating that this was not a specific grievance they had with Lettice Moran, who was not known to be an outright feminist, rather, they are using her death to illustrate their idea that women don't belong in the marketplace."
"Thank you—”
Catherine turned the sound off again.
Shirley let out a long breath. "That's some Handmaid's Tale shit."
"Don't worry." Roddy turned to Imogen. "When the time comes, you can be Ofroddy."
River curled his hands around the edge of the desk until his fingers ached. He didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of watching him lose control and knock Roddy out cold. The table groaned beneath them.
"I would rather die, Roddy," she said.
Lamb watched the three of them with barely concealed amusement. "Go home," he said. "A day successfully wasted, I think."
The front door closed.
"Lamb?" Taverner called out.
Imogen's breath caught in her throat.
At ten minutes past five, the bomb placed under a fixed chair in the A&E of UCLH exploded.
