"Good." She unwinds a fraction. "You're probably wondering why I'm giving you the velvet glove treatment. Well, in case you hadn't noticed, you're now the focus of a fatal incident enquiry. You may or may not come out of it with your honor intact, but it is going to place you under stress. When people are under stress they're more likely than usual to make mistakes, and I don't think you're any exception. So I'm not going to let you take on any hazardous jobs until this is sorted out. If you screw up and get yourself killed then—speaking as your line manager—I will follow you all the way to hell and kick you around the brimstone pits. Because letting you make further screwups due to stress would not only be an avoidable, hence senseless waste—it would be a black mark on my record." There's a peculiar, dangerous gleam in her eyes. "Are we singing from the same hymnbook yet?"

I nod again, slightly less reluctantly.

"Good. Now piss off home and leave the damage control to me." She pulls up a strained smile, and I could cry. "Go on, it's what I'm here for. Scram!"

I can take a hint: I scram.

IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED THAT A SANE employee in possession of his wits must be in want of a good manager.

Unfortunately it's also true to say that good management is a bit like oxygen—it's invisible and you don't notice its presence until it's gone, and then you're sorry. The Laundry has a haphazard and inefficient approach to recruiting personnel: if you know too much you're drafted. The quid pro quo is that we have to make do with whatever we get; consequently it should be no surprise to learn that our quality of management is famously random, governed only by the tiny shred of civil service protocol that sticks to the organization, and Human Resources' spasmodic attempts to cover up the most egregious outrages.

As I already noted, I've had an unfortunate history with managers. I'm not a team player, I don't suffer fools gladly, and I don't like petty office politics. In a regular corporation they'd probably fire me, but the Laundry doesn't work like that; so I get handed from manager to manager as soon as they figure out what I am, like the booby prize in a game of pass-the-parcel.

Iris showed up one morning and moved into the interior corner office that Boris had temporarily vacated—he was on assignment overseas, doing something secretive for MI5—with her bike helmet and a framed photograph of her husband on his Harley, and a bookshelf consisting of The Mythical Man-Month and a selection of mathematics texts. It was a whole week before she told me over coffee and a Danish that she was my new line manager, and was there anything she could do to make my job easier?