by Jo Walton
“What will you do?” Sir Guy asked.
“I don’t know,” Carmichael said. “I need to talk to Elvira. I do wish Jack could have seen this.”
“I’m very sorry it came too late for him,” Sir Guy said. “Come on, walk out with me.”
They walked together through the corridors of the Watchtower, past cells and cubicles and offices. “Maybe I’ll go into business for myself,” Carmichael said. “A private detective, something like that.”
“That’s very traditional,” Sir Guy said. “Well, good luck to you, Carmichael, whatever you do. Keep in touch.”
“Keep the country on an even keel,” Carmichael said.
“Oh, I’ll have to, or Her Majesty will turf me out too,” he said.
“And hang bloody Normanby!”
“I fully intend to,” Sir Guy said. “It’s your evidence that will do it.”
Carmichael shook his hand at the top of the stairs. The sun was shining from a sky dotted with puffy white clouds; it was another beautiful spring day. He supposed he could call for a car for the last time, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t know where he wanted to go. Home would seem very empty without Jack, even if England was taking her first tottering steps towards being free again. He waved to Sir Guy and walked away in the sunshine up the dirty London street.
