The Domino Men

Chapter 14

Heading back to the flat, half an hour or so after saying goodbye to the old lady, I noticed that a dead ringer for my old bike, which I’d abandoned at work on the day of my initiation into the Directorate, had been roped around the exact same lamppost to which I used to lasso my own. That’s curious, I thought. What a coincidence.

Inside, I found Abbey sitting at the kitchen table and sharing a bottle of wine with the very last person I would have expected.

“Barbara?”

Unflatteringly dressed in chunky knitwear, her hair in some abortive attempt at a bob, the dumpy girl giggled in greeting. “Henry! Hello!”

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“I brought your bike back. You left it at work.” A hint of a blush suggested itself at the peripheries of her cheeks. “I’ve chained it up outside.”

I was quite touched by this. “That’s very kind of you. I’d completely forgotten about it.”

“You don’t need it for your new job?”

“Not really. They usually send a car.”

Barbara beamed in admiration.

Abbey broke in. “We’ve just been getting to know one another,” she said. “I did say that Barbara could leave the bike with me but she seemed to have set her heart on seeing you.”

Barbara flushed pink.

Abbey gave me a meaningful look. “We thought you’d be home sooner.”

“I’ve been at the hospital.”

Barbara looked sympathetically deflated at this and Abbey shot her a look of profound irritation.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Barbara. “Is there any change?”

“I’m not sure there’ll ever be.”

“Have a drink,” Abbey said quickly. “Join us.”

I sat down, poured myself a glass of wine and asked Barbara how she was getting on at the office.

“You know how it is. More files than we know what to do with. Even the Norbiton annex is running out of space now. And Peter’s been acting funny.”

“No change there, then,” I said, and Barbara laughed dutifully.

“They keep sending me down to the mail room.” The pudgy girl leant over to me. “That lady down there, the fat, sweaty one. She gives me the creeps.”

“Oh, I know,” I said. “I remember. But how are you?”

As Barbara chattered on, Abbey curled back into her seat and gulped sulkily at her wine.

“I had the most wonderful evening the other night with your Mr. Jasper,” Barbara said.

A shiver of suspicion ran through me. “You did?”

“Lovely man. So attentive.”

I felt troubled by this, though I was uncertain why. “Are you seeing him again?”

“Definitely,” she said, with just a touch too much certainty. “Hopefully…,” she added.

Abbey yawned, then gaped in fake astonishment at her watch. “God. Is that the time?”

“What a tedious woman,” she said, the moment poor Barbara had gone.

I was in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. “Wouldn’t call her tedious.”

“Clearly she finds you fascinating.”

“Sorry?”

“Coming all the way here just to drop off your scrap-heap of a bike. It’s embarrassing.”

“I thought it was a nice gesture.”

“Nice gesture?” Evidently, this suggestion was absurd. “I think she’s after you.”

I could hear the kettle boiling. “What do you mean ‘after’ me?”

Abbey folded her arms. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why would Barbara be interested in me? Anyway, do you want a coffee or not?”

Abbey stalked from the room. “Good grief,” I muttered. “Surely you can’t be jealous?”

My only answer was the slam of her bedroom door.

I was giving serious thought to knocking on that door, to taking Abbey in my arms and confessing that I was falling for her in the most hopeless, overwhelming kind of way (and that I wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in Barbara), when the doorbell began to clamor for my attention.

The driver from the Directorate slouched on the threshold. “Fetch your coat,” he grunted. “The Prefects want a word.”

I made as much noise as I possibly could in retrieving my coat and preparing to leave the flat, but Abbey didn’t emerge from her bedroom and I was too proud to tell her that I was going.

Barnaby had Radio Four playing in the car, some piece of late-night esoterica with a couple of professors spatting crustily over the early works of H.G. Wells.

“Academics,” Barnaby spat as we drove past Tooting Bec station and began the usual protracted escape from south London.

“But weren’t you one of those once?” I asked mildly.

“Yeah,” Barnaby said, his voice bristling with an even greater than usual distillation of belligerence. “Difference is — I knew what I was talking about. Still would, as a matter of fact, if those bastards hadn’t set me up. If they hadn’t concocted that farrago of-”

“Where’s Jasper tonight?” I asked, eager to avoid another venting of the Barnaby spleen. “Where’s Steerforth?”

The driver grimaced. “Too chicken. Couple of nancy boys, the pair of them.”

“I don’t believe they’re cowards,” I said quietly. “It’s just Hawker and Boon. They’ve got a way of making you feel afraid.”

A grunt from the front seat.

“Have you ever met them?”

“No,” he said, although I could tell by the way he said it that he was lying.

I was about to ask more but Barnaby turned up the volume on the radio as high as it could go and refused to answer any further questions for the duration of the journey.

The phalanx of reporters and photographers who often loiter and preen outside Number Ten in daylight hours had long since retired to bed, and those who were left — the soldiers, the guards, the plainclothes policemen — all parted before me without the slightest murmur of a challenge and I marveled again at the skeleton key effect of the words “the Directorate.”

This time I had walked into Downing Street alone. Barnaby still sat in the car outside, gloomily turning the pages of Erskine Childers and the Drama of Utopianism: (Re)Configuring Bolshevism in “The Riddle of the Sands.”

If anything, the sense of oppression, of walking blithely into the gingerbread house, felt even stronger this time. I moved through the library, stepped behind the painting and descended into the depths, past the silent gallery of freaks and ghouls, and tiptoed along the twilight corridor until I reached the final cell, the dreadful resting place of the Prefects.

The guard, his hands white knuckled around his gun, nodded brusquely and I think I was able to detect, buried somewhere deep in his mask of military indifference, a flicker of concern, the merest suggestion of compassion.

Inside, the Domino Men were waiting, their gnarled, hairy legs swinging to and fro in their deckchairs. Everything seemed identical to my last visit, the room as pitilessly stark as before — except for one peculiar addition.

There was an ancient television set in the center of the circle, cranked up far too loud. I heard the blare of canned laughter, the squeak of poorly delivered wisecracks, the silken voice of one of our most prolific character comedians, but it was only when I recognized the tremulous soprano of my nine-year-old self that I realized with a jolt exactly what it was that those creatures were watching.

On-screen, my younger self walked onto a set which always wobbled and delivered my catchphrase to cyclones of tape-recorded mirth.

Hawker and Boon were staring sullenly at the television, like it was a lecture on photosynthesis which they were being forced to sit through in double-period science.

The smaller man groaned. “Dearie me.”

Hawker shook his head sorrowfully. “I’ve got to be honest with you, old top.”

“Got to be frank.”

“It ain’t the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Let’s be candid here, Mr. L. It’s about as funny as cholera.”

“It’s about as funny as…” Hawker thought for a moment, then sniggered. “A nun with leprosy.”

A dirty smirk twisted Boon’s features into something rubbery and grotesque. “And we should jolly well know.”

I moved before them, careful to keep outside the circle.

“Why are you watching that?” I asked, as I caught the familiar plonk and grind of the theme tune.

“It really is a clanger, isn’t it, sir?”

Hawker switched off the television, his lips pursed in a moue of distaste. “What a turkey, sir! What a tip-top stinker!”

Boon passed his hand to and fro in front of his nose, as though washing away an imaginary pong. “Phew!”

“Coo-ee!”

I let them finish. “I want you to tell me where Estella is,” I said as calmly as I could.

Hawker looked at me blankly, then cupped a hand to his ear. “Who?”

“Estella,” I said flatly, knowing that he’d heard me perfectly well the first time.

“Oh right! You should have said, sir! We were going to tell you the other day but you dashed out ’fore we got to it. Rather rude, I thought. Bit cheeky.”

“Dashed ungrateful,” said Boon. “Specially since we’d bent over backwards to make you feel welcome.”

“Where’s Estella?” I said again, trying my best to remain toneless.

Boon got to his feet and surveyed the little limits of his cell. “Do you miss it, sir? The old show?”

“The old routine?”

“The roar of the greasepaint?”

“The smell of the crowds?”

Though the Prefects squealed with laughter, I was careful not to let my expression alter. “Where’s Estella?”

“Pity you’re such a terrible actor, isn’t it, Mr. L?”

“S’pose you might have made a career of it if you’d been any good. But you’re nothing now, are you, sir? Is he, Boon?”

“Certainly not, my old Satsuma. He’s a real nobody.”

“Where,” I said, my voice at last betraying my impatience, “is Estella?”

“What a grump.”

“Someone’s in an awful dudgeon.”

“Young Mr. Lamb’s got up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

I glared. “I need to know where she is.”

“Yaroo!”

“You’ve got a rotten temper, Mr. L.”

I tried my best not to listen. “I want to know where Estella is.”

“And you think that’ll be it, do you, sir? You think, once you find the lady, they’ll let you trot back to your old life? Bad luck, old chum. No one ever leaves the Directorate. You’ll croak in the harness.”

“Where’s Estella?” I said.

Boon smirked. “Even chaps who don’t sign up for Dedlock’s mob end up dying for it,” he said. “Even your daddy, for instance.”

I felt tendrils of panic begin to stir inside me. “Don’t talk about my father.”

Hawker clapped his hands in joy. “Splendid, sir! You were starting to sound like a stuck record.”

“Your pa,” said Boon, “he never signed up for the Directorate. You’re granddad didn’t tell him a thing about it.”

“He wanted him to have a normal, dull sort of life.”

“And he did, didn’t he, Mr. L? Your pa — he was the dullest man you ever knew.”

I protested. “That’s not true!”

“Goodness me, but that fellow was a dullard!”

“And yet…” Boon smirked.

Hawker rubbed his hands together. “We did your granddad a favor once. We told him about the Process.”

“The Process?” I felt myself on the edge of the precipice. What are you talking about?”

“And we didn’t ask for much in exchange, did we, Hawker?”

“Certainly not, Boon. We’re not greedy boys.”

“It was the smallest of favors. The tiniest trinket.”

“What,” I gasped, “did he promise you?”

“He promised us his flesh and blood,” said Hawker.

“And we were ready and waiting on the day of your father’s accident.”

“Accident!” Hawker crowed. “Oh, my little lambkin, now you know the truth of it.”

“We peered into the tangled wreck of his car as he lay dying and we jeered and laughed and poked him with a very big stick.”

The monsters were doubled up with laughter now, jack-knifed in hilarity.

“The look on his face,” said Boon, “as he lay there sobbing! He thought we’d come to save him!”

“Do you remember,” Hawker gasped, forcing the words out amidst eruptions of laughter, “how we poured petrol on his legs?”

I did my best this time. I didn’t holler or scream or beat my fists fruitlessly against the glass walls of the cell. Nor was I tempted to blunder into the circle. Instead, I simply walked calmly over the door and knocked for the guard to let me out.

“Ta-ta!” one of the Prefects shouted. “Come and see us again soon, won’t you, sir?”

“Better luck next time, Mr. L!”

More laughter. I heard the television blunder back into life, heard those brash inaugural chords, the old soundtrack to my life, before anything evil had entered in.

As I stumbled back out into the corridor, my only hope was that the bastards hadn't seen that I was crying.

When I got home, Abbey was waiting for me, sitting at the table in the front room, dressed in a man-sized T-shirt and nursing a hot blackcurrant squash.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” I said carefully and, after a few seconds of trying to guess what sort of a mood she was in, decided to chance a smile.

To my relief, she smiled tentatively back. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I saw you with that girl… I suppose I just overreacted.”

“Honestly,” I said, taking off my jacket and throwing myself onto the sofa. “I’m not interested in Barbara.”

As Abbey grinned, I noticed how thin her T-shirt was, how it seemed to accentuate and draw the eye to the curves of her chest.

“How was your work thing?” she asked. I wondered if she’d noticed the way I’d been looking at her.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “A bit knackering.”

“Let me get you a drink, then.”

“A glass of water would be lovely,” I said, and I heard her pad away into the kitchen.

When she came back, she passed me a glass, but no sooner had I raised it to my lips than I felt her hands in my hair, her breath on my skin.

“Abbey?”

The water was forgotten, hastily abandoned on the table, and all at once she was kissing my neck, my cheeks, my temples. For an instant, her tongue flicked inside my left ear and I shuddered in pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “Poor Henry.”

She maneuvered herself in front of me, then sat down on my lap.

“Abbey?”

“Shh.” She kissed me hard on the lips and I responded in kind (as best I knew how).

“I didn’t expect to feel this way,” she said, once we’d come up for air. “Not so soon. But there’s something about you…”

Giddy with the moment, I risked a joke. “I’m irresistible.”

“Don’t spoil it,” she chided, placing her hand on mine, guiding it beneath her shirt as somewhere deep in my stomach I felt the same lurch of panic I’d felt the first time we’d kissed, the awful anxiety of performance, the insidious terror that one might not measure up.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

She kissed me again, I kissed her back and I was just beginning to relax and enjoy myself when my mind was wrenched back to that terrible cell, to the gargoyles in the chalk circle and the relentless cackle of the Prefects.

The next thing I knew, Abbey was no longer sitting on my lap but standing over me, concerned, disappointed, smoothing down her T-shirt.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really wanted to-”

“It’s fine.”

“I hate to let you down.”

“You’re not,” she said, although I would have been deluding myself not to recognize the frustration which tinged her voice.

“It’s just that I’ve had a long day. A lot’s happened.”

“Of course.”

“And… Oh God-” Something halfway between a sob and an irresistible urge to vomit began to force its way up my body — the great, indigestible tumor of the truth.

Abbey stroked back my hair, held me close, whispered in my ear. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry.” I was gulping back tears. “But there’s something I can’t stop thinking about. Something in my past.”

Abbey kissed me on the forehead. “Let it out.”

“I need to tell you…” My nose had started to run and I could feel grief and rage take hold. “I need to tell you how my father died.”

The heir to the throne woke the next morning to find Silverman standing over him holding a breakfast tray, a large pot of tea, a sheath of correspondence and a fresh edition of the Times, all of it balanced with the kind of dexterous skill one can acquire only through decades of experience.

“Your Royal Highness. Good morning, sir.”

Arthur wriggled up in bed. “Plump the pillow for me, would you, Silverman?”

Obediently, the equerry patted the pillow into place.

“I have sleep in my peepers,” said the prince.

With great tenderness, Silverman teased out the granules of dust which had accumulated overnight at the edges of the prince’s eyes. He walked over to the wardrobe and laid out his master’s outfit for the morning — crisp gray suit, starched white shirt, underpants emblazoned with the prince’s crest and a choice of half a dozen ties, all of them varyingly somber shades of mahogany.

Once the equerry was done, the prince asked: “What do the papers say? Be a good chap, would you, and summarize the headlines.”

Silverman scanned the front page. “The prime minister is flying home from Africa,” he said, and at the mere mention of the man, the prince rolled his eyes in exasperation. “A new health secretary has been appointed. And a rock musician has been arrested for punching a traffic policeman.”

“What else, Silverman? What aren’t you telling me?”

The equerry cleared his throat discreetly. “There is a small article about your mother, sir.”

“My mother?”

“Some wholly unfounded piece of speculation about the state of her health.”

“What are they saying, Silverman?”

A moment’s hesitation, then: “It would appear, sir, that the headline is: “At Death’s Door?”

“How do they know? It’s not like anyone’s even seen her for months.”

“It’s only a newspaper, sir. They are peddlers of exaggeration and hyperbole.”

“I do wonder when she’ll show her face again. You know, of course, that she never liked me all that much?”

“I’m sure you must be mistaken, sir.”

“Never like Laetitia either, come to think of it. Of course, that’s why Mother won’t see me anymore. She thinks I’m weak. She thinks I’m squeamish. And I suspect the public tend to concur. It’s really most unfair.”

Silverman cleared his throat. “Will that be all, sir?”

Arthur took a sip of his tea and eyed his breakfast. “Thank you, Silverman. You may go.”

The equerry backed toward the door.

“There’s just one more thing.”

“Sir?”

“What do you make of this Streater fellow? Seems a rum sort.”

He does not appear to be a man in whom I would be altogether happy to place my faith, sir.”

“Oh?” Strangely, the prince seemed almost affronted by this. “Well, I’ll say this for him. He makes an uncommonly good cup of tea.”

“Is that so, sir?”

“I’m seeing him later, as it happens. He’s in the midst of telling me the most extraordinary story. Something about my great-great-great-grandmother. Something about a contract.”

“Good Lord, sir.”

“Good Lord, indeed, Silverman. It’s all madness, of course.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of something like that? Any rumors of that nature?”

“There are always rumors, sir.” Silverman bowed his head. “If there’s nothing else?”

Arthur Windsor waved the fellow away and sat in silence for a while, alone with his boiled egg, his suspicion, his storm-cloud thoughts.

An hour or so later, he left his room and, brushing aside offers of assistance from various members of his household staff, walked swiftly to the old ballroom, not stopping to question his haste or wonder why he was hurrying with such rapidity to meet a man whose company, in the normal course of life, he would have found distasteful in the extreme.

Arthur arrived at the appointed time to discover his host already waiting for him, drinking tea and smirking.

Streater didn’t bother to get up when the prince walked into the room, just grunted once and slurped noisily at his cup.

“Mr. Streater?”

There was another lip-smacking sound before the sharp-featured man looked up. “Be with you in a minute, chief. Just having my brew.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Thirsty?”

Arthur Windsor became uncharacteristically. He seemed to shrink back, withdraw into himself, a royal snail edging into his majestic shell. “What I mean to say is that I’d really like some tea.”

Streater drained his cup and set it on the table beside him. “What was that, mate?”

“I said I’d really like some tea.”

“Bad luck, chief.” Streater sounded not in the least apologetic. “Think I’ve just had the last of it.” He belched expansively.

The prince looked stricken.

“Sorry about that.”

“Are you quite sure?” Arthur said, his voice wavering under the weight of disappointment. “Might there not be a little left behind?”

Streater shrugged. “Doubt it. But I’ll check anyway.” He popped the lid off the teapot, peered inside, paused, wrinkled his nose and said: “You’re in luck, chief. There’s a few dregs after all.”

Arthur’s voice was glutted with relief. “Dregs will be fine.”

Streater poured out about half a cup and passed it to him. “Happy now?”

Arthur gulped it down in one. “Much better. Thank you, Mr. Streater.”

The blond man flashed his sharky smile. “We ought to crack on with your education. Your mum doesn’t want us to drag our heels.” Like a ringmaster about to introduce the prize of his menagerie, he clapped his hands and the room instantly grew dark. “Tea down, chief. It’s look-and-learn time.”

By now it had started to become almost predictable — the past shimmering into existence, coalescing and becoming real before the prince’s eyes. There was his great-great-great-grandmother, sat behind her desk. There was Mr. Dedlock, founder of what (according to Streater) was to become the implacable enemy of his family. And there, marching through the doors like the spearhead of some bureaucratic army, were the Englishman, the Irishman and the Scotsman, the triumvirate who constituted the firm of Wholeworm, Quillinane and Killbreath. By their side was someone the prince had not seen before, an adolescent boy — squat featured, his face pocked with acne, his hair in hopeless clumps, his mouth twisted into a vacant leer.

“The long-dead Queen bared her teeth in welcome. “Is this the child?”

The Englishman, Mr. Wholeworm, spoke first. “It is, ma’am.”

Next, the Irishman stepped forward. “And he was exactly where Leviathan said he’d be.”

Strangely, the boy seemed unafraid, allowing himself to be herded into the presence of the monarch, his expression fixed and incurious.

Dedlock, who had until now been standing at the Queen’s right hand, moved into the light. “Why is the boy so quiet? Why does he not scream and mewl?”

The Englishman spoke up. “He has been bred from birth to act as a vessel for Leviathan.”

Impatiently, the Queen waved away the explanation. “Bring him to me.”

The boy was ushered forward.

“Gentlemen,” purred Arthur’s great-great-great-grandmother, “I think this child should kneel before his Queen.”

The Irishman placed a hand on the boy’s head and guided him down onto the floor.

“You’ve done well,” said the Queen. “Now give me his wrists.”

Quillinane nodded. Almost tenderly, he took the child’s hands and turned them palms-outward toward the monarch.

“Gentlemen, what I am about to do may cause you some distress, but I wish you to know that however my actions appear to you, they are executed for the greater glory of our empire and for the continued inviolacy of these shores. Stiffen your sinews, gather up your resolve, harden your hearts. Leviathan has warned me that there may be those amongst you who suffer from nerves or who lack the stomach for necessities. I only hope that we are man enough to stand the sight of blood.” Whilst she had been speaking, the Queen had teased out a slender knife from a hiding place in her left sleeve — a sleight of hand which had gone entirely unnoticed by all who were present, meaning that what happened next took everyone by surprise.

In two swift motions, the head of the British Empire slashed into each of the child’s wrists. Blood bubbled up.

“Come here, boy,” she said, dropping the knife, seizing the boy’s wrists and pressing down hard. “Now, bleed,” she hissed. “Bleed!”

Later, bringing to bear all the logic and common sense which had fled in the face of the horror in the ballroom, Arthur realized that pressing down so vigorously upon the boy’s wrists ought rightfully to have staunched the bleeding. It should have stopped the flow of blood, not the opposite. Certainly, it shouldn’t have sprayed out in the way that it did, not in those nightmarish geysers of iridescent crimson.

Dedlock ran toward the Queen. “This is monstrous, Your Majesty?” He tried to wrest the boy free, but against all logic, the woman’s grip proved too strong.

Wholeworm, Quillinane, and Killbreath merely looked on, swapping the occasional anxious glance between them, content on this occasion simply to observe.

“Silence!” barked the Queen. “You are all of you accomplice to this day.”

Dedlock’s face was purpling in rage. “I will not condone such butchery!”

The boy crumpled to the floor, scarlet pooling fast around him.

“What have you done” Dedlock said. “What have you become?”

The Queen seemed unmoved by his appeal, fired up as she was, supercharged by passion. “Hush,” she said, her voice trembling with fervor. “Leviathan is here.”

The boy sat up straight, a human jack-in-the-box in a spreading lake of blood. He made a noise when he moved. They all heard it — a sticky, fleshy popping sound, like the noise one hears on pulling the heads off shrimp.

He smiled.

“Good morning,” he said, although the voice did not sound altogether like that of a child. “Greetings to you all.”

The Queen’s left hand hovered near her mouth in a posture of girlish excitement. “Leviathan?”

The boys lips twitched upward. “I am here, Your Majesty.”

“Then everything was true?”

“All true. All quite true.”

Dedlock approached the child. “Leviathan?”

“You must be Mr. Dedlock,” said the boy. “The doubter. The cynic. Not that Dedlock is your real name. Why not tell us the name you were born with, sir? Surely it is not a thing of which to be ashamed?”

“What are you?” Dedlock asked.

“A higher being, sir. One who moves amongst the angels. One who hears the music of the spheres.”

“You’re not human?”

“I am a creature of air and starlight, Dedlock. A thing of clouds and moonbeam.”

“What is it you want? What do you want with London?”

The boy turned toward the Queen. “Shall we tell him, Your Majesty?”

She giggled. “The excellent firm of Wholeworm, Quillinane and Killbreath has drawn up our contract.”

The Scotsman stepped forward. “All above board,” he purred, his voice full of Caledonian pride for a really well-crafted legal document.

“Ma’am?” Dedlock’s voice bristled with barely suppressed fury. “Surely you cannot be ready to sign away the city to this monstrosity?”

Behind them, the boy was laughing, blood and mucus in his throat conspiring to lend the sound the quality of a struggling cistern. Raising himself to his feet, the child clip-clopped over to the monarch.

Dedlock looked as though he was going to throw up. “Majesty?”

The boy reached the desk and placed a hand on top of it. Blood oozed around the inkwell, spread fast across the blotter, seeping scarlet into the walnut wood below. “Dear lady. Please sign. Feel at liberty to use my blood.”

The Queen took out a pen and dipped it in front of him. “So kind.”

“No!” Dedlock was so close to the monarch that, for a moment, it seemed as though he might strike her.

“Leviathan wishes only to guide us,” said the Queen. “This is simply his due.”

The boy squirmed over the desk. “Sign, Your Majesty!”

“Ma’am,” said Dedlock. “I implore you not to sign that paper. And I tell you again that this being is not what he claims. What god has need of signatures and contracts?”

“Time grows short,” wheedled the boy. “Sign the paper.”

“Ma’am!”

The child smiled. “Without my help, by the end of the century, this country will be overrun. Foreigners everywhere! Savages in the gates! The streets crimson with the blood of innocents! Sign, Your Majesty! Sign!”

Dedlock was near to begging. “Majesty, please. What does the creature want with London? What will it do with the city?”

“My mind is made up, Mr. Dedlock,” she said — and the Queen of all that is pink on the map scrawled her sanguinary signature.

“Ma’am!” Dedlock was distraught. “I cannot — will not — tolerate this.”

A royal glare. “You have little choice, sir.”

“On the contrary, I will devote every fiber of my being to stopping you. I will dedicate the whole of my life to bringing this Leviathan to justice. I shall pit every resource of my organization against your house of malice.”

“You would declare civil war? War between crown and state?”

“It grieves me to say so, ma’am, but you have left me with little choice.”

Just as Mr. Dedlock strode from the room, self-righteous wrath in every strutting step, the boy toppled forward, face-down, onto a floor sticky with blood, the last flicker of life in him extinguished.

It was over. Streater stuck his hands together, the room blazed with light and the outlines of the spirits faded into dust and sunshine once again.

Arthur, his eyes stinging from the glare, craned his head to look at his mother’s messenger with piteous confusion in his face. “Is this the truth?” he asked.

Streater grinned. “All true, chief. All true. But the really juicy question is — what happens next?”