London Rules

He eyed her critically. "You look like all your birthdays came at once." "I look happy to you?" "No, old. Am I the only one round here speaks English?

One of the unforeseen consequences of Brexit, reflected Whelan, was that it had elevated to positions of undue prominence any number of nasty little toerags. Ah well. The people had spoken.

you're all crazy," Flyte said. "we prefer the term"Alternatively sane".

When he’d joined the Service he’d been in Psych Eval, which had involved evaluating operational strategies for psychological impact – on targets as well as agents – but had also meant carrying out individual assessments; who was stressed, who’d benefit from a change of routine, and who was a psychopath. Every organisation had a few, usually at management level, and it was handy to know who they were in case there was an emergency, or an office party.

But thanks for the mansplanation, Cartwright,” Lamb said. He looked at Louisa. “Mansplaining is when a man tells a woman something she already knows in a patronising, condescending manner,” he said, slowly and clearly. “Thanks.” “Do you need me to repeat that?” “No, I’m good.” “Excellent.

Noon comes with bells on, because this is London, and London is a city of bells. From its heart to its ragged edges, they bisect the day in a jangle of sound: peals and tinkles and deep bass knells. They ring from steeples and clocktowers, from churches and town halls, in an overlapping celebration of the everyday fact that time passes.

When dusk at last comes it comes from the corners, where it’s been waiting all day and seeps through Slough House the way ink seeps through water; first casting tendrils, then becoming smoky black cloud and at last being everywhere, the way it always wants to be. Its older brother night has broader footfall, louder voice, but dusk is the family sneak, a hoarder of secrets. In each of the offices it prowls by the walls, licking the skirting boards, testing the pipes and out on the landings it fondles doorknobs, slips through keyholes, and is content. It leans hard against the front door – which never opens, never closes –and pushes softly on the back, which james in all weathers; it presses down on every stair at once, making none of them creak, and peers through both sides of each window. In locked drawers it hunts for its infant siblings, and with everyone it finds it grows a little darker. Dusk is a temporary creature, and always has been. The faster it feeds, the sooner it yields to the night.

Flyte thought for a while, then settled on a one-size-fits-all response. “Shit.

No, why, are you their new stepmum?” Lamb said, “Well, this is going well.” He swung his feet to the floor, with an agility that surprised no one bar Emma Flyte. “But I’m overdue for a Donald. You lot squabble amongst yourselves.” He stole Catherine’s newspaper on his way out. “. . . Donald?” Flyte looked disturbed, more at Lamb’s expression than his sudden departure from her custody. “Trump,” Louisa explained. “Thank God for that. I thought he meant Duck.

During the winter the day tires early, and is out of the door by five: coat on, heading west, see you tomorrow. The night then takes the long shift, and though it sleeps through most of it, and pays scant attention to what’s occurring in its quieter corners, one way or the other it muddles through until morning. But while summer’s here the day hangs around to enjoy the sunshine, and allowing for a post-lunch lull, and the odd faltering step when its five o’clock shadows appear, generally powers on as long as it’s able. And in those unexpectedly stretched-out hours, there’s more opportunity for things to come to light; or, failing that, for light to fall on things.

We are talking about a bunch of mindless bottom feeders who is general ignorance of a way of life is tempered only by their indifference to human suffering, we are all agreed on that?" "Is this the politicians all the killers?" "good point, but I meant the killers.

Yes yes yes, we'll get the grammar police onto her first thing. Do they have actual powers of arrest, do you think? Or will they just hang her from the nearest participle?

There was a story doing the rounds that the list of questions traditionally asked of head injury victims, to check for concussion - what's the date, where do you live, who is the Prime Minister? - had had to be amended in light of the current incumbents turn your, as the widespread disbelief but he was still in office was producing a rash of false positives.

hate crime pollutes the soul, but only the souls of those who commit it

Thus was born the Service Archive, a ‘tool for correlating current events with historical precedents’, which would be of incalculable strategic use assuming it was ever actually operational. Currently, though, its status was not dissimilar to that of countless other Civil Service projects, in that its existence had been ordained, the process for bringing it into being had been set in motion, and it would thus continue gestating until it was officially put a stop to, despite having long been forgotten about by everyone concerned in its conception.

Lamb had known where he hid his spare keys: in an envelope secured to the underside of his desk. “The second most obvious place,” Lamb called it, the first being if Ho had just Sellotaped them to his forehead

There are worse things an alcoholic can have on her hands than time, but not many.

Well, I personally don’t plan to do much. But if you think our little gang of Jason Stillborns’ll pass up the chance to mount their own private op, you’ve forgotten what testosterone smells like. I’ve already had Dander in here wanting to know if she can have a gun.

Number Ten was a warren, as if an architect had been collecting corridors and decided to use them all up at once.

There’s a Donald Trump Junior? Christ. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.

the lesson you delivered to your enemies: that the stronger they built their citadels, the more securely they sealed the instruments of their own destruction within.

So the PM's tame Muslim celebrity turns out to be what we're not allowed to say is usually found lurking in the woodpile, and the man responsible for establishing said Muslim's credentials has fallen down on the job. The PM does rather seem to have be lacking in judgement, doesn't he?"    "Almost as if a replacement were called for."    "And who better than the hero of the referendum? Darling, happy endings are so rare in politics. This one will be celebrated for years."    Like other newspaper columnists, like other politicians, they genuinely thought themselves beloved.

Nobody doing anything remotely useful. Just an ordinary day in the office.

Because these were also rules: sound like you know more than you can say; act like you’ll do more than you intend. And when campaigning, lie your head off – the referendum’s other great legacy.

The gun was still an awkward bulge in her pocket. In another pocket was the wrap of coke. It occurred to her that if they were stopped and searched, that combination wouldn’t make for much of a character reference. So it would be best, she decided, if they weren’t stopped and searched. Some problems were more easily solved than others.

Beside them, on the road into London, traffic hissed its displeasure

Traffic was light. London wore its evening gown: glittering sequins and overstuffed purse. Some nights it looked like an empress in rags. Tonight it was a bag lady in designer clothes.

Molly Doran—how she guarded her fiefdom like a lioness its kill—and she had always encouraged them, because there’s nothing Spook Street enjoys more than a legend, unless it’s a myth. The distance between the two was paper thin; the exact space between one’s last breath and the next thing.

You lived in a democracy, and accepted that certain freedoms came hand in hand with certain dangers, or you opted for full-scale oppression, which severely curtailed the opportunities for unofficial slaughter, but potentially maximised the official kind.