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Nothing matters, and no one gets hurt.
That was supposed to be Slough House motto. Write it in Latin and call it a fucking day. That was why Jackson Lamb had requested it after Charles Partner’s death. David Cartwright couldn’t say no, not when he needed Lamb’s silence and it came with the added bonus of him exiled away. He might as well be in Siberia as far as the higher ups in the service were concerned; so that was where he landed. Catherine Standish followed shortly, and for years, he waited in purgatory while valiantly striving to smoke and drink himself into the grave.
It hadn’t worked.
But at least for twenty-something years, nothing mattered, and no one got hurt.
And then River Cartwright showed up.
Lamb should’ve known then that everything was going to go tits up. Cartwrights caused nothing but headaches and heartaches wherever they went. River would be no different, though it was mostly headaches, Lamb hadn’t had a heart since he worked for the kid’s grandfather.
Within eight months of Cartwright climbing the rickety stairs of Slough House, two of his agents were dead. He didn’t mourn Jed Mooney. No, that twat got himself killed attempting to play a game of chess when he wasn’t even smart enough for checkers.
He would mourn Sidonie Baker, and even more so if he thought she was actually fucking dead. Either way, she had gotten caught in the literal crossfire with Cartwright and Lady Di and paid with her life or at the very least, her existence. He wouldn’t forget about her either way.
He didn’t forget any of them.
And some days he tried, some days he did his best to erase the memories, erase the deaths from his mind, even for an hour.
It never worked.
They lost Min Harper soon after Mooney and Baker. He almost lost Louisa with him, not in the same way but to vengeance and grief. He had been there, too.
Catherine Standish was gone now, though presumably still alive and stalking neighbourhood cats. But Lamb could blame her departure on River Cartwright as well. He could blame a lot of things on River fucking Cartwright. And he did. Usually to the kid’s face.
But now Cartwright Junior was dead, killed by his grandfather after being mistaken for an intruder and the only person he could find blame for was himself.
These fucking Cartwrights. Nothing mattered, but people wouldn’t stop getting fucking hurt.
And now Jackson Lamb was driving to Tonbridge fucking Wells in the middle of the night to identify River’s body.
River Cartwright was dead.
There was a time when losing an agent would send Jackson directly into the bottom of a bottle. He would still end up there sooner or later, but only now; it wasn’t only because he lost someone. He would end up in the bottom of a bottle after a loss because he needed to feel nothing.
The part of him capable of feeling died the night Charles Partner died.
Or so he thought.
For twenty fucking years, he felt nothing.
Nothing mattered, and no one got hurt.
And then River Cartwright happened.
When Mooney died, he felt nothing. When Harper died, he felt nothing. When Standish left, he felt nothing. The bottle helped with that.
Well maybe he felt a bit of relief not having to listen to Catherine canonise Partner for any longer, but Jackson slashed her memory of her former boss on her way out the door. He should get a fucking medal for waiting that long. Twenty years, he had to listen to Standish eulogise a traitor all the while he kept his mouth shut so she could keep her vision of Saint Charles.
He kept his mouth shut because nothing mattered, and no one got hurt.
But now River was dead.
River was dead.
Lamb wasn’t surprised. Not fully.
For better or worse, River wasn’t his grandfather. He didn’t have the same survival instinct. He didn’t have the same heartless streak you needed to survive in this business. River might’ve despised being relegated to Slough House, but the first thing Jackson Lamb thought was the move would save the lad’s life.
He didn’t take into account the kid was desperate to die a fucking hero.
But he hadn’t died a hero. According to Emma Flyte, new head Dog, he had died in a bathroom. A fucking bathroom. If there was a God, which Lamb was inclined to believe there wasn’t, he sure had a sick fucking sense of humour.
Lamb knew River Cartwright wouldn’t live to collect a pension from the Park, but he was a bit surprised at the identity of his killer. But knowing David Cartwright as the old bastard that he was, maybe he shouldn’t be. Lamb almost felt for the old man having to carry the weight of killing your grandson, someone he had supposedly raised as his own. But Lamb couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for the old spook.
Not now. Not after.
David knew what it would do to him. He just didn't give a shit. Some things are more important than your personal feelings.
Now Lamb no longer had personal feelings. Feelings were as useless as a fart to a fire.
Nothing mattered, after all.
If nothing mattered, then no one could get hurt.
River was dead.
This wasn’t Min Harper or Dickie Bowe. River was dead and there was no one to kill to avenge him. From everything he heard David Cartwright was struggling with dementia, he might not even remember what had happened. Lamb spent years wanting some type of revenge on David, but not like this. Not at the cost of River.
River, who Lamb has spent their entire relationship punishing for the sins of another. River, who just wanted to serve his country even if the country ate him up and spit him out. River, whose heart was too fucking big for his chest. River, who Lamb had told to jump off a bridge just days ago.
Lamb didn’t think of any of that on the drive though, no, Jackson Lamb didn’t think of anything because if he thought of one thing then he would think of everything. And there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to clear all that from his head.
Nothing mattered.
River was dead.