The Domino Men

Chapter 22

It was the last night of the Diabolism Club. After what unraveled there, I don’t suppose anyone had the stomach to carry on. The building was demolished, the ground concreted over, and I understand that there are currently plans to build some kind of monument, a memorial or a tombstone, on the spot where Diabolism used to stand.

It happened two minutes after Hawker’s salute and sixty seconds after all the lights in the building had flickered off. When someone eventually managed to get a couple of them going again, it was already too late. The place had turned insane. Adults dressed as children were screaming, sobbing, trying to escape; hundreds of liquored-up revelers frightened for their lives were charging for the doors in a stampede born of mortal desperation. Every one of them was sneezing. There was a cacophony of nasal distress. The air was filled with saliva, snot and tears, with mucus, spit and foam.

I was the lucky one. Immediately after the lights had gone out and just before that black, volcanic dust had sprayed down from the sprinkler system, I felt a soft hand clamp itself over my mouth and another apply itself firmly to my back and steer me toward the exit, jostling nimbly through the melee.

Later, I learnt that fifty-four people were hospitalized just trying to reach the door.

“What happened?” I gasped, once we were outside and Barbara had taken her hand away from my mouth.

The Directorate’s hunter raised a hand in her usual semaphore for silence. The weedy bouncer was still standing there, petrified and helpless, as his club vomited up its clientele.

Barbara snapped: “Call the emergency services. Tel them they have a disaster.” The man nodded stupidly and obeyed.

Whilst I did my best to calm a young woman whose nose had already started to spurt blood, Barbara, brisk and unflappable, spoke into her earpiece.

“Sir?”

The voice of Mr. Dedlock echoed in my head. “I trust you have good news.” He paused. “What is that rumpus?”

Barbara’s was a calm, still voice amongst the chaos. “The Prefects appear to have sprayed everyone inside the building with some sort of sneezing powder, sir.”

“Why on earth would they want to do that?”

“Why do little boys do anything, sir? For fun. For larks.”

“Where are those knobble-kneed bastards now?”

Barbara took out her PDA. “I can see them, sir. We can track them.”

“Then get after them!”

“People are dying here,” I said.

The old man was incensed. “If you don’t do your job, this city as we know it will cease to exist.”

“I’ll get the car,” said Barbara. “We’ll bring them in.”

“Do it.” A final snarl from Dedlock, then merciful silence in my head.

Barbara ran out of sight to get the car before I could think of anything to say.

I did my best to soothe the girl in my arms, tried to staunch the blood, told her to breathe deeply and think about not sneezing. After a while, it seemed to calm her, so I did what I could for some of the other victims until, at last, a fleet of ambulances blared onto the scene. I was easing a man whose body was close to rupturing into the arms of a paramedic when Barbara pulled me roughly to my feet. Her trench coat was back, billowing about her in the breeze.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

“But these people-”

“There’s nothing you can do for them.”

“Where’s the car? Where’s Barnaby? Where’s Jasper?”

The car is burning. Barnaby’s dead. And Jasper’s gone.”

Already, I was growing accustomed to Barbara’s delivery of bad news — catastrophe snapped out in telegraphic monosyllables. “Burning? Dead? Gone?” I asked, but she was already running. I left the paramedics to do their job and sprinted after her. “Barbara!”

She pelted on, ignoring me. There was a crackling in my ear and I heard the voice of Dedlock. “What’s happening?”

“Barbara: “We’re tracking them.”

“You mean you’ve let them get away?”

“The club’s in chaos. It masked their escape.”

Dedlock snapped some final, bitter instruction and broke the connection. The two of us dashed into the darkness of the city. Soon my breathing was ragged and I had an agonizing stitch in my side but Barbara, sprinting into the distance, appeared quite unaffected. I was about to lose sight of her completely when she gave a yelp of frustration.

When I caught up, she had stopped short and was staring at her PDA in furious disbelief.

I panted. “What’s happened?”

She struck the machine hard. “They’ve vanished.”

“What?”

“Disappeared. Dropped off the map.” Her shoulders sagged at the news and for a second or two I thought I caught a glimpse of the real Barbara, trapped behind that immaculate facade. “They’re playing with us.”

Once I had sufficiently recaptured my breath to form whole sentences again, I said: “You saved me. I ought to thank you.”

“No need.”

“How come you weren’t affected? By the sneezing powder?”

“My respiratory system is vastly superior to yours. I can go three hours without having to draw breath.”

“Remarkable,” I said, even now incredulous. “And Mr. Jasper did all this just by giving you a pill?”

Barbara nodded. “Despite his considerable personal failings, Jasper is the most brilliant chemist of his generation. The Directorate takes only the best. The prodigies. The wunderkinder.” Her eyes passed over me as though she’d suddenly remembered something. “And you, of course, Henry.”

She walked on.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re tracking the Domino Men. We’re following their spoor.”

“But we’ve lost them! This is pointless.”

Unspeaking, she strode ahead.

The long night had turned into early morning and the first glimmerings of dawn had just begun to dilute the grayness of the sky when we chanced upon a side street filled with parked taxis clustered around an all-night cafe like piglets at a teat. We had been walking for what felt like hours and I suggested to Barbara that we at least take the opportunity to get a coffee. I had even begun to wonder whether she required sustenance at all in the traditional human sense, so I was surprised when she quickly concurred with something approaching gratitude in her voice.

I’d rolled down my trousers and ditched the old school tie so that when we walked inside, I looked normal again — or at least able to pass for it. The place was filled with cab drivers amongst whom there appeared to be little or no camaraderie. They sat in their ones or twos, morosely clasping plastic cups, scanning the sports pages of yesterday’s newspapers or gazing dead eyed at the smeary blankness of the Formica table tops. Even the appearance of Barbara in their midst occasioned little more than a rustling of tabloids, a weary leer and a single, pathetic wolf-whistle which shriveled into nothing after my companion’s gaze flicked across the culprit. I got us a couple of coffees and we sat together at a table by the window.

“Do you remember when I started at the office?” she said, after we’d both swallowed a mouthful of what turned out to be surprisingly decent coffee.

All of a sudden, her voice sounded different and I experience a stab of hope. “Barbara?”

A brief flash of a smile. “Barbara’s always here, Henry. Even if it doesn’t seem that way. But I asked you a question. Do you remember my first day?”

“Of course.”

“You were kind to me. You showed me the file room, that sweaty woman in the basement. You introduced me to Peter Hickey-Brown.”

I pushed aside my memories of everything which had happened since then — from my grandfather’s collapse to the carnage at Diabolism — and I ventured a smile. “God, that man’s a prat. Do you remember — he tried to impress you by naming all the gigs he goes to?”

Barbara tried to laugh at the memory. It was a painful thing to hear. A forced rasp, a throaty hiss, a mechanical chatter.

“I’m glad you remember,” I said softly.

“It’s strange.” She sipped her coffee. “There are parts of Barbara’s life I can recall so clearly. Her father — my father — taking me to church on Christmas Eve. Midnight mass. The way his hand felt in mine. But I can’t remember if Barbara ever kissed anyone. I can’t remember what happened to her after she went to lunch with Mr. Jasper.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know how I can explain this to you. Somehow my memories are so infused with those of the woman they call Estella. She had such a life, Henry. She’d avert national disaster and scarcely blink. But I’m not either of them now. Not fully Estella. Nor fully Barbara.”

I gazed at her, partly in admiration, partly in fear. “Jasper seems to think you’re some kind of superhuman.”

She snorted. “You know what I think I am?” she asked. “Honestly?”

“Go on.”

“I think I’m a cul-de-sac. I think I’m a dead end.” She got to her feet. “And I think I need to try to pee.”

As Barbara walked into the back of the cafe I suddenly remembered something. I fumbled for my phone and punched out a text message to Abbey.

So sorry. Been a horrible night.

Can’t wait to see you again.

I pressed send although I didn’t expect a reply for several hours.

Barbara returned from the bathroom. I tried to draw her back into a discussion of the transformation which had overtaken her but it seemed that our moment of intimacy had melted away as quickly as it had arrived. She asked if I’d like another coffee. I said yes, and whilst she was ordering at the counter my phone shuddered in my pocket to announce the arrival of a recent text message.

So glad you’re ok. Can’t wait to see you too.

Sorry I didn’t tell you about Joe.

I missed you holding me tonight.

Then, best of all, the letter X repeated three times.

“Girlfriend?” Barbara asked, setting another coffee in front of me.

“Maybe,” I said. “Not sure, to be honest.”

“Is it the girl we met? I mean — that Barbara met. Your landlady?”

I nodded.

“Have a little happiness together, Henry. Grab it while you still can. You’re lucky.” Barbara stretched herself out felinely. “I know that’s not for me.”

“Surely,” I said, “looking like you do…”

She just stared ahead. “You know that they fought over me…”

“Who fought over you?”

“Dedlock and your grandfather. I can’t quite recall the details. Not yet. But I know that there was a struggle. Backstabbing. Treachery. Nothing changes. Jasper wanted me, too. He tried to touch me.”

“Jasper?”

“I say only that he tried, Henry. He made the attempt. That’s all you need to know.”

“And Barnaby? What about him?”

“Barnaby’s dead,” she said flatly. “They killed him.”

“Who?”

Rather disgustedly, she spat into her coffee. “You know their names.”

Suddenly, mercifully, Barbara’s PDA bleeped for attention. She seized it and grinned. Two small spots of black had reappeared on the screen.

“Gotcha.”

I felt a paroxysm of fear. “Where are they?”

“Oh, very good.” Barbara laughed, and this time it sounded almost natural. But there was no happiness in her laugh, no genuine mirth. “Very droll.”

“Barbara,” I said softly. “Where are the Prefects?”

“You know the address. We both do. They’re at One Twenty-Five Fitzgibbon Street.” Now Barbara’s laughter sounded a hairsbreadth from tears. “They’re at our old office.”

B the time we got to the Civil Service Archive Unit, it was almost nine o’clock and a stream of gray-faced men and women was slouching despairingly into work. The safety officer, Philip Statham, walked straight past and didn’t even recognize me.

Barbara was outlining the situation to Dedlock. His voice crackled in our ears. “What are they doing in there? What the hell are they doing?”

“I think this is it, sir,” Barbara said. “I think they’re here to find Estella.”

“You know something?”

“Nothing concrete. Just ghosts.”

Engrossed in their conversation, I slowly became aware that someone was shouting my name.

“Henry!” Miss Morning was walking along the pavement toward us, clutching a carrier bag. Strangely, she appeared to be smiling.

The croak of Dedlock in my head: “Who is it?”

Barbara told him.

“What does she want?” he spat.

Miss Morning reached us, still brandishing her plastic bag like she’d won it at bingo. “Tell that unhappy old man that I have our salvation in this bag. Are the Domino Men inside?”

“Yes,” we said, pretty much simultaneously.

“Thought so.”

I asked her why.

“You think your job was an accident, Henry? You think anything in your whole life has been left to chance?” She took the carrier bag out from under her arm. There was something heavy inside which she unwrapped with the reverential care of a priest opening a fresh delivery of wafers. “Your grandfather built this.”

What was in the carrier bag was an impossibility. Shaped like a revolver and constructed with perfect intricacy, it was formed entirely of glass, glinting in the early morning sun, the product of a technology so far out of step with contemporary thought that it almost qualified as science fiction.

“He hid it in your flat,” Miss Morning said. “I discovered it behind your television.”

“So I’ve heard,” I muttered. “What does it do?”

The old lady smiled again. “It’s going to stop the Prefects.”

“How will it do that?”

“Your grandfather promised it would work. But Henry?”

“Yes?”

“If anything goes wrong in there. If we get separated. Trust the Process, won’t you?”

“What?”

“When the time comes, you’ll know what I mean. Just promise me — trust the Process.”

With impeccable timing, my mobile phone began to trill. When I saw who it was, I think I might actually have groaned aloud. I turned away from the others, hit the answer key and sighed: “Hello, Mum.”

“Gordy’s a shit. He’s a shit like all the rest.”

“Are you still in Gibraltar?” I asked gently.

“God, no,” she said. “Back home now, thank Christ. Jesus, what a disaster. The man’s an absolute bastard.”

“Not a good holiday, then?”

“It was a catastrophe. His only topic of conversation was his exes…”

Barbara tapped me on the shoulder. “Time to go in now.”

“Mum?” I said. “I’m sorry. But I’ve got to get to work. I’ll call you later, OK? We can catch up then. Have a natter.”

Mum gave a protractedly theatrical sniff. “If a day at the office means more to you than a conversation with your mother-”

“Bye, Mum.” I finished the call and turned back to Barbara.

Miss Morning, still holding that insanely improbably weapon, had begun to walk toward the office, tottering heroically onward in little-old-lady steps. We easily caught up.

I spoke quietly so that only Barbara would hear me. “Something I’ve never understood… If Estella’s in there — the real Estella — then what do we do when we find her?”

“It’s not going to be nice,” she said. “Not nice at all.” Barbara’s face had turned chalk-pale and she seemed to move more mechanically than ever, propelled forward by some irresistible force. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to kill her.”

Slimy with sweat, oppressed by spasms which shook the whole of his body and struggling to swallow the lake of bile in his throat, the next king of England crouched in the passenger seat of Mr. Streater’s Nova and whimpered about the end of the world.

The driver’s gaze passed casually over the prince, his voice a twitch of disdain. “What’s up with you?”

Outside, a gaggle of girls, belt-skirted, orange-peel-skinned and mountainously stilettoed, lurched and reeled along the pavement. Streater honked the car horn, at which one of the revelers raised her middle finger in contemptuous salute.

The driver sniggered. “Always liked a woman with a bit of attitude. With a wiggle in her walk and steel in her arse. You’re the same, aren’t you, chief? You like a girl who knows what she wants and how to get it. Your missus is like that. Just a shame these days it’s not you she wants.”

The prince whimpered again, a pitiful, helpless threnody, like the sound a puppy makes on catching a glimpse of the veterinarian’s knife and guesses, too late, what is to come.

“Up for some tunes, chief? Something to blow away the cobwebs? Something to get us in the mood?” Streater’s left hand drifted away from the steering wheel toward the glove compartment, clicked it expertly open and unleashed an avalanche of old cassettes. Arthur moaned and Streater noted, with something akin to satisfaction, that his charge had actually begun to drool. He tossed a handful of tapes onto Arthur’s lap.

The prince stared dumbly down at them and saw that they were all identical, all labeled with the same short word.

“What is this…” he began, squinting at what was written in front of him as though he was not quite certain of its reality. “What is this… Boner?”

Streater grinned. “That’s my old band, chief.”

“Band? You’re a musician?”

“Played bass. Used to do a lot of gigs. How else do you think I met Pete?” Streater plucked out a tape and thrust it into the mouth of the car’s cassette player. “Here we go. Let us know what you think.”

The prince groaned again, Mr. Streater pressed play and the car was filled with the beehive roar of static. There was a moment’s silence, followed not, as Arthur had expected, by the cacophony of modern music but by a clipped, strangulated voice, a masterclass in received pronunciation.

“Good morning, Arthur.”

At the sound of it, the prince wriggled up in his seat, wiped his mouth and felt the distant pull of lucidity. “Mother?” he said.

He turned to Mr. Streater, intending to ask the meaning of this strange recording, only to see that the blond man was rhythmically tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and humming, a little discordantly, as he drove, as though he was joining in with some chorus or refrain which the prince was unable to hear.

The tape went on. “Of late, I have been thinking a good deal about the first stalking party your father took you on. You must have been terribly small. Six, perhaps, or seven.”

The eyes of the prince moistened at this, for he knew what was coming, knew with what he was about to be confronted.

“You seemed so eager for the adventure. I recall that for once I felt a small measure of pride in you — that warm maternal glow which one is often told that ladies in my position are expected to feel. But then, as usual, you lived down to our expectations. You came home early and in tears. You had walked out with the rest of them but when the moment came for the belly of the kill to be slit open and for you, as the most junior member of the hunt, to receive the honor of having its blood laid across your forehead, you began to cry. You mewed as though you were still a baby. You refused to be blooded then and have spurned it ever since. That awful woman you married has done nothing to encourage you. You have turned out so spineless, Arthur, that I saw no choice but to place you in Mr. Streater’s care. I only hope that he has prized some semblance of manhood from you.”

Mr. Streater winked.

“It saddens me that you are to be the only heir of the House of Windsor. I suspect that by the time you hear this, Leviathan will be on his way at last. I do hope you are blooded in time. I pray you are man enough to welcome our savior and do what needs to be done. I only hope that at long last you can make me proud.”

The tape spooled to a finish and Arthur slumped miserably in his seat. “I never liked the sight of blood,” he said at last. “Why is that so wrong of me?”

Streater laughed. “Tough titty, chief. Gonna be a lot of it about in the next few days.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that Leviathan’s gonna make a few changes. A few improvements to the city. I mean that you’re expected to help out.”

The car slowed down, almost home now, back in the familiar alley of the Mall, the Nova processing with high seriousness along the wide stone channel. At last, the blond man pulled up outside Clarence House.

“Get out, chief. I’m not stopping. There’s still some shit I’ve gotta sort.”

Arthur groped for the door handle and, like a one-night stand on the morning after, stepped unsteadily, dazed and humiliated, from the car.

“Oi!” Streater had wound down his window and was leering out of it like a lecherous cabbie hoping for a tip. “I’ve got a couple of things for you.”

“What?”

“Here’s a little pick-me-up.” He shoved a shrink-wrapped syringe into Arthur’s hands. “And here’s something else. Just in case.” He shoved an object into the prince’s hands and, too late, Arthur saw what it was, caught the glint of dawn light on gun barrel, and felt nauseous at the sight of it, green with disgust.

“I don’t want a gun.”

“Just take it, chief. Remember what your mum said? You’ve gotta be blooded. And you might need it. What if you see something you don’t like? What if you’re confronted with the truth?”

The window hiccoughed upward. Streater revved the engine and, without so much as a wave goodbye, turned the car and hot-rodded back into the city.

Stowing into his jacket pocket the accessories of a criminality from which, only a few days earlier, he would have believed himself completely removed, Arthur trudged indoors. Servants were already up and about, doing whatever it is that servants do — wiping, scraping and polishing, making ready, making clean. As the prince passed by, they stopped, looked down at the ground and said nothing. They asked no questions. Discretion had been bred into them and even at the sight of their master reduced to the status of a bum, all of them held their tongues.

Overcome with desire, helpless with craving, the prince lurched into an alcove and, with a grim facility which would have horrified anyone who had ever loved him, injected himself with another hit of ampersand. He sighed in dark delight. It was only when he was finished that he noticed that an under-butler was standing opposite, his eyes still cast feudally toward the ground. Making a stab at dignity, flailing toward decorum and falling horribly short, the prince rolled down his sleeve and tottered past.

The underbutler’s face burned with shame. Just as the prince was almost out of sight, he said: “Sir?”

Slowly, the prince turned around, dumbstruck by the insolence.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the man. “But I have to say something.”

“What?” hissed the prince.

“Fight it, sir! You have to fight it!”

The prince stared at the servant. No doubt he had passed the man a thousand times, but his face was entirely unfamiliar to him. The fellow had a strange, whiskery moustache and an air of almost feline sleekness.

“What…” he began. “What did you say?”

“I said you’ve got to fight it,” said the under-butler again. “For the sake of us all, you have to snap out of this.”

The man backed away and disappeared, his courage evidently all used up.

Arthur tried not to think too hard about this strange interlude and lurched on toward his quarters.

He heard the sounds before he even reached his door. Animal noises. Grunts and groans. Yells and screeches. He paused outside. Had he been mistaken? No, there they were, the sounds of passion, almost comical in their volume and excess. There were squealed suggestions of the most indecent nature. There were hoarse commands and whimpered pleasures. The prince heard his oldest friend yelp in delight and his lover moan in delirious abandonment.

As ampersand gurgled through his synapses, slimed down his nervous system and surged along his bloodstream, the prince felt the weight of the gun in his pocket and knew what he had to do.

He opened the door and walked inside. Who knows what he saw behind that door, what grotesquerie, what lurid pornography, what leering simulacra.

You might reasonably expect at this point, when the drug ampersand had almost completely destroyed his capacity for reason, for us to tell you about a couple of gunshots, to be told about the ferocious whip-crack of that revolver echoing around the corridors of Clarence House.

That wasn’t to be. Instead, two minutes later, the prince simply re-emerged, as inside the sounds of romance went on unabated.

Only one thing had changed in this picture. A single, unremarkable detail which none of us could have predicted but which immediately made everything different.

There was a small gray cat strolling by his side.

In the corridor, two old acquaintances stood waiting. Each held a pasty in his hand — half-eaten, their glistening insides dripping onto the floor, where they clung glutinously to the plush strands of carpet.

“Evening, cock!” crowed Detective Chief Inspector George Virtue.

“Wotcha!” bugled Detective Sergeant Vince Mercy.

“Why are you here?” Arthur asked.

One of the fat men wiped his meat chop of a hand across his nose. “Bottled it, didn’t you, scout?”

“Couldn’t go through with it, could you?”

“Wassock.”

“Toss-pot.”

“Nonce.”

“You gonna stand about and let people laugh at you?”

“You gonna let them take the piss?”

“Be a man, guv.”

“Get yourself blooded.”

Arthur stared, a little more understanding inching into his consciousness. “What did you say?”

“Blooded, guv.”

“That’s what he said. Get yourself blooded.”

The prince stared at them both, suddenly hopeful, suddenly aware of the possibility for redemption. “Gentlemen!” he said, sounding for the first time in days something like his old self.

“Yeah?” Mercy asked through a mouth of semi-digested mulch.

“I don’t believe you’re real.”

“Oh, that’s gutting, mate.”

Arthur went on. I can’t believe what I’m hearing from that room. Or what I saw in there either. It’s an illusion, isn’t it? It’s a trick being played on me be ampersand.”

“Don’t know what you’re on about, pal.”

The prince glared at them. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you want me to kill my wife?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Virtue shouted. “There’s a bloke in there porking your missus and you’re wasting time yammering with us.”

Deliberately, Arthur turned away from them (behind him, their cries went on — “Do it, you arsehole!” “Pull the bleeding trigger!”) and, his gun lowered, went back into the bedroom.

As the ampersand-filter descended from his eyes, he saw the truth of it — Laetitia on the bed, alone and fast asleep, curled up under the covers, the picture of innocence and chastity (though perhaps looking a little heavier than Arthur could remember having seen her before).

Back outside, the detectives Virtue and Mercy had disappeared. The prince fell to his knees in relief, wracked with sobs at how close he had come. At first he didn’t even notice what had walked in beside him and begun to nuzzle against his legs.

Arthur Windsor wiped his eyes, dabbed the snot from his nose and, miraculously, managed a kind of smile.

The gray cat looked up at him and purred.

“You again,” whispered the prince.

The cat purred, seemed to smile and stalked closer to the downed prince, please at what had been averted, knowing the dangers which still lay ahead but ready at last for the endgame.

The prince fell back upon the floor as the cat came closer. He was about to say something more, to offer the animal some thanks, some further words of gratitude, when exhaustion washed over him and everything faded away. The last thing he saw was a feline face, small and gray, filled with wisdom and concern, opening its mouth as though it was about to speak and, at long last, explain it all.