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River Cartwright stood in the doorway of his grandfather's room, watching the old man stare out the window at nothing in particular.
"Granddad?" River said, stepping into the room.
David Cartwright turned, his eyes taking a moment to focus. There was no flash of recognition, no warmth, just vacant curiosity.
"Hello," he said with a formality that cut through River like a blade.
River moved to sit in the chair opposite him, placing the tin of shortbread he'd brought on the small table between them. "I brought your favorites," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
David glanced at the tin and then back at River. "Are you from the care staff? New, are you?"
River's smile faltered. "No, Granddad. It's me. River."
"River?" David's brows furrowed. "Peculiar name for a young man."
"My mother was going through a hippy phase," River explained, the words familiar on his tongue from countless retellings. "You always said it was a miracle she didn't name me Tree or Rainbow."
David gave a polite chuckle, but his eyes remained distant. "Yes, well. People make all sorts of choices."
River leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you remember the time we went fishing at that spot in the Cotswolds? You told me it was where you'd taken my mother when she was small."
David stared blankly.
"Or the time you taught me to shoot?" River continued, desperation creeping into his voice. "You said I had a natural eye. That I'd make a fine agent one day."
"Agent?" David's expression sharpened momentarily. "Are you MI5?"
"Yes," River said, a flicker of hope rising. "Because of you, Granddad. You're the reason I joined."
"I was with Five, you know," David said, a conspiratorial edge to his voice. "Did things. Important things. Not that anyone remembers now."
"I remember," River said softly.
David looked at him suspiciously. "What's your name again?"
"River," he said, the hope dissolving. "River Cartwright. I'm your grandson."
"Cartwright?" David frowned. "Are you related to my daughter?"
"I'm her son," River said, the words catching in his throat. "Your grandson."
David shook his head. "No, no. My grandson is a boy. Little chap." He held his hand out, palm down, at the height of a child. "About so high. Smart lad. Going to follow me into the service one day."
River swallowed hard. "That was a long time ago, Granddad."
"Was it?" David looked genuinely puzzled.
"Yes," River said. "I grew up."
David's gaze drifted back to the window. "Time plays tricks."
"It does."
"Where's the boy now?" David asked, still looking outside.
"I'm here," River said quietly.
"No," David shook his head firmly. "The boy. My grandson."
River stood up, unable to bear it any longer. "I should let you rest."
David didn't acknowledge him, lost again in whatever fragmented world his mind now inhabited.
"I'll come back tomorrow," River promised, knowing his grandfather wouldn't remember either way.
As he leaned down to kiss the top of David's head, the old man looked up at him, a flicker of something, confusion, perhaps, or the ghost of recognition, passing across his face.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
"Yes," River said, his voice thick. "You know me better than anyone."
But David had already turned away, his attention caught by something invisible beyond the window.
River left the room, pausing in the hallway to compose himself. The nurse at the station gave him a sympathetic smile.
"Bad day?" she asked.
"Is there any other kind lately?" River replied.
"He has moments of clarity," she offered. "Yesterday he was telling one of the staff about some mission in Berlin. Quite convincing, actually."
River nodded. "He was the real thing."
"I can tell," she said. "He's got that look about him. Even now."
"Will you call me if there's any change?" River asked, the same request he made every visit.
"Of course, Mr. Cartwright."
River drove home in silence, the weight of his grandfather's non-recognition pressing down on him. The flat felt emptier than usual, the silence more accusing. He poured himself a scotch and sat in the dark, wondering if he'd done the right thing by moving his grandfather to the care home. David Cartwright would have hated being dependent, being vulnerable. But the alternative had become impossible, David wandering off in the middle of the night, forgetting to turn off the stove, mistaking River for an intruder.
The call came at 3:17 am. River had been staring at his ceiling, sleep eluding him as it had for weeks. When his phone buzzed, he answered without looking at the screen.
"Mr. Cartwright?" said an unfamiliar voice. "This is Nurse Williams from Sunnydale Care Home. I'm afraid I have some bad news about your grandfather."
River listened in silence as the nurse explained that David Cartwright had passed away peacefully in his sleep. Heart failure, they suspected, though they would need to do an examination to be certain.
"Mr. Cartwright? Are you there?"
"Yes," River said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. "I'll come in the morning to... to make arrangements."
He hung up and lay back down, staring at the ceiling. He didn't cry. He told himself it was because he'd been expecting this, because his grandfather had been slipping away for months. But deep down, he wondered if it was because he'd already grieved for the man… the day he'd first walked into Sunnydale Care Home and seen the fear in his grandfather's eyes.
Two weeks after the funeral, River was still going through the motions. He showered, dressed, and went to Slough House, where he shuffled papers from one stack to another and stared at his computer screen without seeing anything.
"You look like shit," Louisa said, dropping a mug of tea on his desk.
"Thanks," River replied, not looking up.
"I mean worse than usual," she clarified. "Which is saying something."
"We're going for drinks after work," she continued. "You should come."
"Can't," River said. "I've got plans."
"No, you don't," Louisa replied. "Your plan is to sit here until everyone leaves, then go home and stare at your wall."
River looked up at her. "Are you spying on me, Louisa? Because that would be a proper use of your training."
"Don't need training to see the obvious," she said, turning to leave. "Seven o'clock. The Black Horse. If you're not coming, I'll come drag you out."
Similar conversations played out throughout the day. Catherine brought him a sandwich from the shop downstairs (You're getting scrawny, and you weren't exactly robust to begin with
). Roddy mentioned the drinks plan with feigned casualness. Even Shirley paused by his desk to invite him, though her invitation came with the caveat that he'd need to wash the stink of depression off first
.
J.K. Coe, true to form, said nothing, but placed a paperback book on River's desk as he passed by, an obscure spy novel from the 70s that River had once mentioned wanting to read.
Only Lamb ignored River's state entirely. When they passed in the hallway, Lamb merely wrinkled his nose and muttered, Christ, Cartwright, did you fall into a cologne factory or are you actually trying to gas us all out?
At 5:00 pm, the office began to clear out. Louisa lingered by River's desk, coat already on but making no move to leave.
"You can't keep doing this, you know," she said, her voice softer than usual. Not the professional sharpness she deployed with others, but the tone reserved only for him.
River kept his eyes fixed on his screen. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit." She leaned against his desk. "Look, I know what he meant to you. But this isn't what David would want."
At the mention of David's name, River's fingers stilled on the keyboard.
"Just come for one drink," Louisa pressed. "An hour. I'll even drive you home after."
"Lou..."
"I'm worried about you," she said simply. "We all are, but I'm the only one who'll say it to your face."
River finally looked up, met her concerned gaze. "Another time," he said.
Louisa straightened, studied him for a beat longer. "I'll text you the address again. Just in case." She squeezed his shoulder briefly before heading for the door.
One by one the others filed out, Catherine with a concerned backward glance, Roddy muttering something about proper food for once
, even Shirley with her customary eye-roll. River stayed put, listening to their voices fade down the stairs.
By 7:00 pm, Slough House was silent except for the occasional creak of the old building settling. He wasn't really working, hadn't been for hours. But the alternative was going home to his empty flat, with David's books still in boxes in the corner where he'd dumped them after clearing out the care home room.
At Slough House, at least, the ghosts were not his own.
A thump from upstairs told him that Jackson Lamb was still in the building. The sound of Lamb's presence was oddly comforting, though River would never admit it aloud.
Around 7:30, heavy footsteps descended the stairs, and Lamb's bulky silhouette appeared in the doorway.
"For fuck's sake, Cartwright, you're still here?" Lamb's voice carried its usual blend of irritation and boredom. "What is it, hoping for overtime? Because I've got news for you."
"Just finishing something," River said, though his screen had been showing the same document for over an hour.
Lamb snorted, clearly not fooled. "Right. And I'm training for the London Marathon." He paused, studying River with unexpected intensity. "Go home, Cartwright. Whatever you're avoiding, it won't disappear just because you hide in this shithole."
River said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on his screen.
"I'm stepping out," Lamb said finally. "When I get back, I expect to find this place empty. Even the roaches need a break from you lot occasionally."
"Where are you…" River began, but Lamb was already gone, the door slamming behind him.
River was still at his desk at 8:30 pm when the front door opened. The slow horses rarely returned to Slough House after hours, so he tensed, reaching instinctively for a weapon he didn't carry. But it was Lamb who appeared in the doorway, Lamb and something else. A large dog, its coat rich sable brown, padding silently at his side.
"Christ, are you still here?" Lamb asked, his voice heavy with distaste. "Don't you have a home to go to?"
River ignored the question, his eyes on the dog. "What's that?"
"It's a dog, Cartwright. Surely even Slough House standards aren't so low that we've started recruiting people who can't identify basic animals."
The dog, a sable German Shepherd, sat obediently at Lamb's side, its intelligent eyes fixed on River.
"Why is it here?" River asked.
Lamb sighed heavily, as if the question had physically exhausted him. "Park has decided this particular beast isn't suitable for service. Not aggressive enough, apparently. Too soft." He glanced down at the dog with something that might almost have been affection. "They were going to put it down."
"So you... rescued it?" River couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.
Lamb's expression soured. "Don't be ridiculous. They dumped it on me. Said Slough House might as well take in another reject." He nudged the dog forward with his knee. "Find Roddy tomorrow. Tell him to find this thing a home. I'm not running a bloody kennel."
"What's its name?" River called after him.
Lamb turned back, his face creasing with contempt. "How the hell should I know? Ask the dog yourself."
As he turned to lumber back up the stairs to his office, Lamb's mind drifted to the conversation he'd had just an hour earlier. He'd been at the Regent's Park kennels, visiting an old contact who owed him information. As he was leaving, he'd overheard two handlers discussing the German Shepherd.
"Shame about Bravo," one had said. "Smart dog, just won't bite on command."
"What happens to him now?" the other had asked.
"Standard procedure. Too risky to rehome trained assets."
Lamb had paused then, watching the dog sitting calmly in its enclosure, eyes alert but peaceful. Intelligent eyes that reminded him of someone he'd known long ago, before Moscow, before everything went to shit.
"How much to take it off your hands?" he'd asked, interrupting the handlers.
They'd looked at him in surprise. "You want him?"
"No, I'm asking for my imaginary friend," Lamb had growled. "Yes, I want the bloody dog."
The paperwork had taken twenty minutes. No fee, they were happy to avoid the alternative. He'd told them it was for Slough House, a guard dog for the building. He'd told himself the same. Not that he cared about a dog. But waste irked him, always had. Good assets shouldn't be discarded just because they didn't fit the rigid parameters of service expectations. If that philosophy applied to his joes, why not to a dog?
The animal stayed where it was for a moment, watching River with calm, assessing eyes. Then it padded over to him, sitting beside his chair. River didn't move, didn't reach out to pet it. He'd never had a dog. His grandfather had talked about getting one when River was young, but it had never happened. Too busy, he'd said. Too many absences. A dog needed stability.
The dog continued to watch him, its brown eyes seeming to see right through him. Finally, River turned back to his computer, determined to ignore its presence. But throughout the evening, he found himself occasionally glancing down at the animal, who had settled on the floor beside his desk as if it had always belonged there.
The next morning, Roddy came in to find the dog sitting beside River's desk.
"What the fuck is that?" he asked, nearly dropping his energy drink.
"Lamb's latest recruit," River said without looking up from his screen. "He wants you to find it a home."
Roddy approached cautiously, as if the dog might suddenly attack. "Why me?"
"Because Lamb said so."
Roddy grimaced. "Great. Another shit job for the tech guy." He studied the dog for a moment. "It's not even a proper police dog, is it? Looks too... friendly."
"Apparently that's why Park rejected it," River said. "Too soft."
"Ha!" Roddy barked a laugh. "Welcome to Slough House, dog. Land of the soft and rejected."
The dog ignored Roddy, its eyes still fixed on River. Throughout the day, it followed River around the office, settling wherever he settled, moving when he moved. The other slow horses commented on its apparent attachment.
"Looks like you've made a friend," Catherine observed.
"It's just confused," River replied.
"Dogs are good judges of character," Louisa said with a smirk.
By the end of the week, the dog had become a fixture at Slough House. It still followed River, but it had also established its own relationships with the other slow horses. It accepted treats from Catherine, tolerated awkward pats from Roddy, and gave Louisa a respectful distance. Only Lamb seemed immune to its charm, continuing to refer to it as "that bloody animal" whenever he encountered it.
Roddy made halfhearted attempts to find the dog a home, posting on a few forums and making a few calls. But there were complications, the dog had been partially trained for service, which meant there were protocols about where it could be placed.
"Can't just give it to anyone," Roddy explained to River. "Has to be someone with clearance, bureaucratic bullshit."
River still stayed late at Slough House, but now the dog stayed with him, lying quietly at his feet as he worked, or following him on his aimless wanderings through the building. Sometimes, River would find himself talking to it, not about anything important, just observations about his day, complaints about a particular task Lamb had assigned him, memories of cases long past.
The dog listened with the same patient attention it gave everything, its brown eyes fixed on River's face as if understanding every word.
One evening, River was alone in the office, or thought he was, when he found himself talking to the dog about his grandfather.
"He taught me everything," River said softly, his hand absently stroking the dog's fur. "How to shoot. How to follow someone without being seen. How to hide in plain sight." He swallowed hard. "How to be a spook."
The dog rested its head on River's knee, its eyes never leaving his face.
"Was it even what I wanted? Or was I just trying to make him proud?" River continued, the words spilling out now. "And look where it got me. Slough House. The place careers go to die. Unwanted. Failed."
He looked down at the dog. "Maybe I'm like you. Too soft for the real work. Not aggressive enough." A bitter laugh escaped him. "The difference is, you'll probably find a nice home with someone who appreciates that about you. Me? I'll just keep rotting away here until Lamb finally gets sick of looking at me."
A single tear slipped down River's cheek, surprising him. He hadn't cried since his grandfather's death, not at the funeral, not clearing out the house, not in the lonely silence of his flat. But here, in the empty office with only a dog as witness, something broke loose inside him.
"I don't even know if I said goodbye properly," he whispered. "He didn't know who I was. Our last conversation, and he thought I was some stranger."
In the hallway outside, Jackson Lamb paused, a glass of whiskey in one hand. He'd come downstairs for a fresh bottle and heard voices. Now he stood silent, listening to River's confession to the dog.
He recognized the pain in River's voice, raw and unguarded. It reminded him of things he'd rather forget, losses that had hollowed him out long ago, leaving behind the shambling wreck he now cultivated so carefully.
Too soft. Not aggressive enough. The words River had used about the dog, about himself, echoed in Lamb's mind. He'd seen it differently: being principled wasn't the same as being soft. Being unwilling to cross certain lines wasn't weakness. The Service might see it that way, but the Service was wrong more often than it was right.
For a brief moment, Lamb considered stepping into the room, saying something that might ease the young man's pain. But what? Comfort wasn't his language. Kindness wasn't his currency. Besides, he'd already done more than he should by bringing the dog here, a moment of weakness he was still trying to justify to himself.
He would pretend he'd heard nothing, and River would never know otherwise. It was better that way. The less River knew about what Lamb really thought of him, the better for everyone.
Back in his office, Lamb poured himself another generous measure of whiskey. He'd known from the start that the dog would end up with River. Not because he cared about River's wellbeing, he'd never admit to such a thing, but because he recognized when two lost things might save each other.
"Soft," Lamb muttered to the empty room, his voice thick with derision. But whether that derision was directed at River, the dog, or himself, even he couldn't say for certain.
Two nights before Roddy found a potential home for the dog, River had stayed especially late at Slough House. The building was empty except for him and the German Shepherd. Even Lamb had gone out, presumably to one of his regular drinking haunts.
River had spent hours going through old surveillance logs, a mind-numbing task that kept his thoughts from wandering. The dog had stayed faithfully by his side, occasionally nudging his hand when he stopped petting it.
Sometime after midnight, exhaustion finally caught up with him. Without consciously deciding to, River had wandered upstairs and collapsed onto the worn leather couch in Lamb's office. He told himself he'd only rest his eyes for a moment before heading home.
The dog had followed, settling on the floor beside the couch. Within minutes, River was asleep, one arm hanging down, his fingers lightly touching the dog's fur.
Lamb returned to Slough House in the early hours of the morning, whiskey on his breath and a takeaway kebab in hand. He was surprised to see light still spilling from under his office door. When he pushed it open, he stopped short.
River was asleep on his couch, looking more peaceful than Lamb had seen him since before OB’s death. The dog lay beside him, its head resting against River's dangling hand. At Lamb's entrance, the dog opened its eyes but didn't move, unwilling to disturb River's sleep.
Lamb stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching. The sight stirred something in him that he preferred not to examine too closely, something that felt dangerously like concern.
He moved quietly into the room, setting his kebab on the desk. The dog's eyes followed him, alert but unafraid.
"You're getting above yourself," Lamb muttered to the dog. "That's my couch you're guarding."
The dog blinked slowly at him, unimpressed.
Lamb sighed and opened a cabinet behind his desk, pulling out an old wool blanket he kept for those nights when going home seemed too much effort. He shook it out, eyeing the dog.
"This stays between us," he said in a low voice. "You breathe a word of this to anyone, and it's the kennel for you."
The dog's tail thumped against the floor.
With unexpected gentleness, Lamb draped the blanket over River's sleeping form.
Lamb sighed and settled into his desk chair, unwrapping his kebab. He ate in silence, watching River sleep. The young man's face was relaxed, the lines of grief and tension temporarily erased. It was the first time in weeks Lamb had seen him without that haunted look in his face.
"Soft," Lamb murmured, though whether he meant River, the dog, or himself wasn't entirely clear.
He finished his kebab, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it into the bin. Then he leaned back in his chair, considering the sleeping man and his canine guardian.
"Maybe that's not always such a bad thing," he added quietly.
The dog's tail thumped once against the floor, as if in agreement.
Two days later, Roddy burst into the office with an air of triumph.
"Found a home for the dog," he announced. "Ex-military bloke, cleared to adopt service animals. Lives in Sussex, has a big garden. Dog will love it."
The slow horses gathered around, expressing approval and a hint of sadness. The dog had become a part of Slough House in its short time there, a mascot of sorts for their little band of misfits.
"Good," River said flatly, not looking up from his computer. "When does he take it?"
"Saturday," Roddy said. "Guy's coming to London anyway, said he'd pick it up."
River nodded, still not meeting anyone's eyes. The dog sat beside his desk as always, unaware of the conversation determining its fate.
The slow horses exchanged glances, their concern for River evident. But no one knew what to say. Catherine opened her mouth as if to speak, then thought better of it. Shirley frowned, her usual sharp tongue momentarily silenced.
From the doorway, Lamb observed the scene with his customary disdain. He took in River's rigid posture, the concerned faces of the other slow horses, the dog sitting loyally beside the only person in the building who had barely acknowledged its existence, apart from speaking to it now and then. His mind flashed back to the image of River sleeping peacefully on his couch, the dog standing guard.
"The dog stays," he announced.
All heads turned toward him, expressions ranging from surprise to confusion.
"What?" Roddy asked.
"Are you deaf as well as socially inept?" Lamb snapped. "I said the dog stays. Call your military man and tell him to find another mutt to rescue."
"But you said…" Roddy began.
"I know what I said," Lamb interrupted. "I've changed my mind. It happens occasionally, usually when someone around me says something so monumentally stupid that it forces me to reconsider my position out of sheer self-preservation."
"Why?" This from Catherine, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Lamb sighed heavily. "Because every kingdom needs a mascot, and this one's already house-trained. Unlike the rest of you." He turned to go, then paused. "Besides, it's the only one in this building with an IQ above room temperature. I'm keeping it on principle."
With that, he disappeared back upstairs, leaving the slow horses staring after him in bewilderment.
"Did Lamb just... do something nice?" Louisa asked, her voice hushed as if speaking of something sacrilegious.
"Must be losing his mind," Shirley muttered.
"Or liver," Roddy added.
River said nothing, but his eyes followed Lamb's retreating form. The dog, as if sensing the change in atmosphere, wagged its tail once before settling back down at River's feet.
The following week passed with little fanfare at Slough House. The dog, still unnamed, had taken up permanent residence beside River's desk, a silent companion amidst the tapping of keyboards and muttered complaints. No one mentioned Lamb's unusual decree that the animal should stay, as if acknowledging it might somehow reverse the decision.
On Friday evening, River left early. No explanation given, just a mumbled excuse about an appointment as he collected his coat. The dog rose to follow him, but River shook his head.
"Not this time," he said quietly. "Stay."
The dog whined once but settled back down, eyes tracking River until he disappeared from view.
"Trouble in paradise?" Shirley smirked as River left.
"Give it a rest," Louisa snapped.
After River's departure, the dog paced restlessly around the office, checking the door every few minutes.
River stood at his grandfather's grave; hands thrust deep in his coat pockets against the chill air. One month since the funeral. The headstone was new, the earth still fresh.
DAVID CARTWRIGHT
HUSBAND, FATHER, GRANDFATHER
SERVANT OF THE CROWN
The official inscription revealed nothing of the man, the O.B., the spy who had shaped generations of agents, the grandfather who had taught River to fish and shoot and survive.
"I met a dog," River said to the headstone. "German Shepherd. The kind you always said were the only dogs worth having."
He paused, watching his breath frost in the air.
"Lamb brought it to Slough House. Says it wasn't aggressive enough for service. Too soft." River smiled faintly. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
A rustle of wind through the cemetery's trees was his only answer.
The smile faded from River's face as he knelt to brush a few fallen leaves from the grave.
"I miss you," he said simply. "The real you. Not just the shell at the end. I miss your stories, even the ones I'd heard a hundred times. I miss your advice. I even miss your disappointment."
He stood, brushing dirt from his knees.
"Lamb knows more than he lets on. About you. About me. I see it sometimes, when he thinks no one's looking." River shook his head. "But then, that was always your way too, wasn't it? Knowing more than you said."
River laid a hand briefly on the cold stone.
"I'll come back next month," he promised. "Maybe I'll bring the dog. You would have liked him."
As he turned to leave, River felt lighter somehow, as if he'd set down a burden, he hadn't realized he was carrying.
It was dark by the time River returned to Slough House. He hadn't planned to go back to the office, had intended to go straight home, but something pulled him back, a need to complete the circle of this day.
The building was silent, the other slow horses long gone. Only a faint light from upstairs indicated Lamb's continued presence. That, and the unmarked bottle of scotch on Lamb's desk when River reached the open door of his office.
Lamb looked up, unsurprised. "Breaking and entering now, Cartwright?"
"Door was open," River replied.
Lamb grunted, pushing a glass across the desk. River hesitated, then entered the room and sat opposite his boss. Lamb poured two fingers of scotch into the glass without asking.
"Where's your shadow?" Lamb asked.
"Downstairs, I assume."
"Went with you, actually," Lamb said casually, taking a sip from his own glass. "Slipped out right after you left. Caught up to you at the Tube station, by my guess."
River stared at him. "What?"
"Clever beast," Lamb continued as if River hadn't spoken. "Tracked you all the way to the cemetery. Kept its distance, though. Watched from behind that big oak tree while you had your... moment."
River felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air still clinging to his coat. "How do you–"
"I followed it," Lamb said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Curious where it would go. Turns out, I needn't have worried." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Loyal to a fault, that one."
River's mind raced, imagining the scene, himself at his grandfather's grave, unaware of the dog watching from a distance, and beyond that, Lamb. It should have made him angry, this invasion of his privacy. Instead, he felt a strange sort of comfort.
"It's back now?" River asked.
Lamb nodded. "Waiting by your desk like a jilted lover."
River took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn focus his thoughts. "Why did you really keep the dog?" he asked finally.
Lamb studied him for a long moment. "It's house-trained," he said at last. "Good enough reason."
"Bullshit."
Lamb's eyebrows rose at the challenge. "Careful, Cartwright. Remember who signs your meager paycheck."
"Diana Taverner signs my paycheck," River countered. "You just make my life miserable."
"A job I excel at," Lamb agreed. He refilled his glass, not offering more to River. "Why does it matter why I kept the mutt?"
"Because you don't do anything without a reason," River said. "Especially not something that might be mistaken for kindness."
Lamb snorted. "Perhaps I'm going soft in my old age."
"I don't think so."
"Then perhaps," Lamb said, his voice dropping, "I recognized that some assets are worth salvaging, even when the Service has written them off."
Their eyes met across the desk, and for a moment, River glimpsed something in Lamb's gaze, not compassion, exactly, but understanding. A recognition of shared wounds.
"Your grandfather once told me something," Lamb said abruptly. "Back when he was running agents and I was just another joe in the field. Said that in our line of work, it's not the aggressive ones who last. It's the ones who can bend without breaking. The ones who remember what they're fighting for."
River said nothing, letting the words sink in.
"I thought he was full of shit at the time," Lamb continued. "But I've lived long enough to see he was right."
Then Lamb gestured toward the door. "Now get out of my office and take your dog home. Some of us have important drinking to do."
River stood, the scotch half-finished. At the door, he paused and smiled at Lamb.
Downstairs, the dog was indeed waiting by River's desk. It rose as River approached, tail wagging cautiously, as if uncertain of its welcome after the day's unauthorized excursion.
"Come on then," River said, patting his leg. "Let's go home."
He padded to his side, falling into step beside him as they left Slough House together.
Behind them, unseen from his window above, Jackson Lamb watched them go. He raised his glass in silent tribute, not to River or the dog, but to David Cartwright, to the Old Bastard.