The Domino Men

Chapter 28

Unexpectedly, I opened my eyes.

It was as if waking up from an unusually vivid and visceral dream. I felt groggy and dazed and there was a sour taste in my mouth by the symptoms were no worse than those you might expect from a medium-strength hangover.

I was still bound to the chair but there were no cuts to my wrists. They chafed against the duct tape but they weren’t bleeding now, nor did they even appear to be grazed. Of the Prefects, there was no sign.

The pieces of tape which tied me to the chair seemed suddenly easy to remove. They slipped away like shrouds.

I stood up, shaky, slightly nauseous, quivering with pins and needles, but otherwise conspicuously unharmed.

I thought of what Miss Morning had told me about Estella — of how her skin had healed right back up again after the Directorate had bled her to the point of death. I remembered, too, what she’d hinted about the history of this place. I wondered about what my mother had uncovered in the bedroom, the significance of those sigils, signs and symbols, wondered about exactly what had been done to me in those operations I’d undergone as a child.

A couple of minutes ensued during which I tried to dismiss everything that had happened since Joe and Abbey had left as a hallucination or nightmare, but deep down I knew that something had been done to me, something set in motion. I even knew its name. Like everything else, Granddad had made sure of that.

The Process.

We count ourselves as no friends of his but in the final analysis it must be said that Henry Lamb was poorly used. The things that he allowed to be done to him were immoderate and inhumane. But the real tragedy lies in how bovinely he accepted it all.

Even now, his humiliations are far from at an end.

I took my leave of the flat and strode outside. The snow had finally stopped but its fall had rendered London strange and unfamiliar. The drones were everywhere. I couldn’t see them but I could sense them, moving past me, bustling onward, hastening into the center of the city. They seemed to be saying something and gradually I made it out — the same chant, heard over and over in a mantra of fierce joy.

“Leviathan! Leviathan! Leviathan!”

But for the first time in weeks, I no longer felt afraid. For so long, fear had been a part of my daily life, a car alarm whine which had swayed my every decision, stifled my imagination, stunted my morality.

I had only stepped a few meters from my front door when I saw it. Almost completely hooded in black snow, it was still immediately recognizable from the corkscrews of white hair which emerged like unusually hardy plant life through the darkness and the nose which jutted out like that of some ancient statue discovered in the dust.

The body of my grandfather.

As understanding began to percolate through my system, I felt to my knees with the same force as if I’d just been struck hard on the back of my legs. Tears crept from my eyes. I made no sound but began, reverentially, to scrape away the snow from his face, a patient archaeologist revealing, inch by inch, his cracked and weary features.

Then I heard the cry, much closer than before.

“Leviathan! Leviathan!”

With it, I could hear their raggedy breathing and smell the weird electric tang of their sweat. Slowly — very slowly — I looked up.

There must have been twenty of them at least, arrived like hooligans at a wake, all with flushed pink faces, all shambling toward me in the kind of frantic clump you get emerging from a tube station at rush hour. “Leviathan… Leviathan…”

I struggled up. ‘Can’t you fight it?” I asked a big bearded bloke in a postman’s uniform who appeared to be leading the charge. “At least try.”

He growled and lunged. “Leviathan… Leviathan…”

I was just beginning to wonder if it might be about to end here, after all, at Granddad’s side, when the postman’s head erupted, unexpectedly prettily, in a fountain of pink and red. He didn’t have time to cry out before he toppled to the ground, everything from the neck up a leaky scrag of gristle and bone.

I turned around. An old brown Vauxhall Nova had pulled up outside my flat and there was a man who I thought I recognized hanging out the driver’s window and holding a smoking gun.

“Get in!” he yelled. “Get in the car!”

The drones had cowered back at the gunshot but already they had begun to regroup and were starting to move toward me, their new leader a fat man dressed from head to toe in pinstripe.

For the last time, I reached down and took the old bastard’s hand. “This is my granddad,” I called back. “I can’t leave him.”

The man in the car looked at me as though I was an idiot. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

“You don’t understand. He’s… he’s the most important person.”

“Leviathan!” Stomach bulging through striped shirt, fat hanging heavily over belt, the new leader of the drones was clumping purposefully in my direction, the rest of them following cloddishly in his wake.

“For God’s sake! Get in the bloody car!”

I looked at what was coming toward me, squeezed Granddad’s hand and made my decision. “Sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry,” and I turned on my heel.

I ran over to the car and scrambled inside. My rescuer looked haggard, unshaven and scarily bloodshot — but it was unquestionably him.

“Hello, Henry,” he said, and gave an unnervingly high-pitched laugh.

“You recognize me?”

“You are Henry Lamb, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I mean, yes, Your Highness.”

“I want you to call me Arthur,” the driver said, and pressed his foot down hard, squealing out of the street, bumping over a colony of rubbish bags and only narrowly avoiding knocking down several drones.

When we were clear, I asked again how he knew my name.

“I’ve been dreaming about you. The cat’s told me everything.”

“What cat?”

“Little gray fellow. He told me how to fight the effects of ampersand. He told me how to finish this.”

“Excuse me for saying so,” I said, “and thanks very much by the way for rescuing me, but aren’t you the enemy? Aren’t we supposed to be at war?”

“The war ends tonight,” Arthur Windsor said firmly. “You and I, Henry. We’re going to put a stop to it.”

As we drove from Tooting Bec, we witnessed first-hand the fall of the city. Houses were smoldering, pavements were carpeted in glass, cars had been reduced to blackened clinker and entire streets were streaked with red. I saw a bus stop mangled into scrap and what looked like the contents of a clothes store sprayed across the road, as though a bomb had exploded in a jumble sale. It was almost unendurable to see — London, that remorseless victor, that dead-eyed master of predation, turned victim and prey, defenseless meat for some parasite which, comfortably accommodated in its gut, now chomped its eager way into the world.

There were people abroad, drones streaming in the same direction, rushing forward in makeshift columns, and we had no choice but to drive funereally through their midst, like killjoys at a parade. In their haste to move forward some of the stronger ones were trampling their weaker fellows underfoot. A number of times, I asked the prince to stop so we could at least try to help, but he just snapped something about not having time for sentiment and kept on driving.

“They tried to send me mad, you know,” he said. “Can you believe that?”

I looked at him, with his tangled hair, tufty stubble and bulging eyes, and couldn’t believe that it would ever have taken that much.

“They tried to get me hooked. They showed me ghosts and slivers of the truth. Lord knows why but I think they wanted me to kill my wife.”

We left Tooting behind us and, following the mass of drones, roughly retraced my old route to work — through Clapham, Brixton, Stockwell and Lambeth. The further we went, the more the streets grew clotted with crowds and the harder it became to maneuver through the tide of humanity.

“The cat had a message for you,” said the prince, swerving fast around a double-decker which sprawled across the length of the road like a great red seal bathing in the sun.

“I’m sorry?”

Arthur drummed his fingers excitedly on the steering wheel. “He said you’d need a phrase. For the Process. An incantation to close the trap. He told me you’d know what to do.”

I thought for a moment, then: “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Although I feared that the journey would last forever, that we would drive through this shadow realm, I feared still more what was waiting for us at our destination. Then we turned a corner, the exterior of Waterloo station came into view and at last I realized where it was the drones were heading.

The streets were now so choked and thronged that we had no choice but to abandon the car and take our chances amongst the mob. Stepping carefully from the vehicle and trying our best to stop our ears against the cries of the crowd, we moved toward the station. The crowd seemed mostly oblivious to us, too close to the object of their quest to pay us much heed. We had to join the surge, give in, become a part of the torrent and let ourselves be swept into Waterloo.

The place, though packed, seemed eerily neglected. The small shops, fast food outlets and newsagents were entirely untouched, unstaffed but still open for business — burgers cold to the touch, days-old newspapers lying undisturbed, a rack of sandwiches starting to turn green and rancid behind their plastic wrappers. The drones ignored them all, even their needs for food and current affairs now subsumed by the urge to reach their destination. There was death, too — mangled cadavers clogging up the escalators, a solitary ticket inspector trampled underfoot, the flyblown corpses of a guide dog and its master — but Arthur and I walked past it all.

We were pushed through the main part of the station, then moved along with the drones, allowing ourselves to be jostled up an Escher maze of concrete, unable to stop or slow down, trying not to think too hard about those who were thrown to the floor and trampled underfoot. We emerged onto the South Bank, almost exactly opposite the spot where, in a lunch-hour long ago, I’d sat and watched Barbara devour a cheese baguette.

Before us was the river, the great dark width of the Thames, and there at last we saw it — the sea beast, the great serpent, the tyrant of the seven heads.

It must have been a crash landing. The Houses of Parliament looked smashed and half-demolished, Cleopatra’s Needle was snapped in two and the Eye leant askew like something had simply batted it aside. In the distance, the spires of the business district stood darkened and empty. Boats of every kind — sight-seeing vessels, pleasure cruisers, industrial transport ships, floating restaurants and a fleet of police launches — had been hurled against the bank, where they lay shattered like broken toys, reduced to so much driftwood and debris.

The sheer mass of the creature had caused the river to burst its banks. Water overflowed and sluiced across the pavement, making the ground slippery and treacherous.

The entire length of the Thames as far as the eye could see was filled with a vast black shadow, just out of sight. The water around it was bubbling and broiling in distress, shooting out jets of steam and malevolent emissions from the deep. All that was visible of the beast were slender tubes, long thin tentacular things which snaked out of the water and came limply to rest on the pavement like stems of meat or straws of flesh.

Our ampersand had made the people of this city so grateful! They rushed out to meet us, eager to offer their services, aching to become part of something greater and more wonderful than themselves. And, honestly, who amongst us can blame them for that?

To our horror, Arthur and I saw what was happening. All the people who had been hurrying with such desperation through the city now dashed on toward the riverbank, skidding, sliding along the pavement with such insanely enthusiastic speed that I thought they were in danger of toppling into the water. But no, they came to a halt just in time and fell to their knees. Then, humbly, reverentially, each and every one of them picked up a tendril in their hands and, in a moment of unutterable obscenity, took it into their mouths, opening wide, gobbling with infantile glee. The suckled for a moment, their faces suffused with pleasure, before, disgustingly satiated, they collapsed onto their backs and crawled away into the city, chattering to themselves, bleating nonsense words and strings of impossible numbers. One of these unfortunates blundered past me, his eyes hopeless and black, his lips able to move only in the service of Leviathan, like a termite, an insect helplessly in thrall. I tried to stop him but the drone barely seemed to notice and he shouldered his way past, still gibbering his incomprehensible language.

The city was Leviathan’s now. It belonged, lock, stock and barrel to this monstrosity, this implacable enemy of life.

This is a slanderous misrepresentation. We were only ever doing our jobs, fulfilling our quota and offering our customers the kind of top-quality service which they have deservedly come to expect.

As we reached the riverbank, I heard a noisy heaving to my right. The prince was doubled up, powerless in the grip of regurgitation, spewing his breakfast onto the tarmac.

I was hunting through my pockets to see if I couldn’t find the poor man a tissue when somebody shouted my name. With a gunslinger swivel, I turned around.

Joe Streater stood behind me. By his side, stumbling and puffy faced — my landlady.

“Abbey?”

She looked at me blankly. “Leviathan?”

“This is your fault,” Streater said.

“Me?”

“They promised I could save her. But as soon as she stepped into the snow… It wouldn’t have happened if I’d got to her sooner. If you hadn’t gone and hidden her from me.”

“I only tried to keep her safe. You’re the one who practically kidnapped the poor girl.”

We were so occupied in our argument (soundtracked by the continued retching of the future king of England) that we didn’t even notice what Abbey did next, didn’t see her as she staggered toward the water’s edge, her eyes speaking only of hunger and lust. It was Joe who stopped speaking first. He was staring past me, toward the river.

“Abs?” he shouted, but it was already too late. Before either of us could stop her, she crouched down, reached for a tendril, placed the thing between her lips and gurgled in delight.

“Abbey!” I shouted. “Darling, for God’s sake!”

Streater glared at me. “Please,” he said to her. “Please, babe. Don’t do that.”

But she was already finished. Abbey removed the tendril from her mouth and turned her face upon us. The change was absolute. Her eyes were pinpricks and she was chattering too fast — impossible formulae which should never have been spoken aloud, vile, blasphemous things whose very sound made some ancient part of my brain recoil in reptilian disgust.

She no longer knew us and staggered away to join the others, disappearing back into the city, gibbering and weeping, consumed by inexplicable purpose.

The girl should have been grateful. After all, she had finally made herself useful. At long last, she was doing something worthwhile with her life.

I didn’t need to think anymore but just launched myself at Joe Streater. Shocked by the ferocity of my assault, he staggered backward and we scuffled incompetently together by the banks of the Thames, exchanging feeble blows and girly punches, close enough to the creature to hear its hisses of pleasure, its oozing exhalations of joy and repellent coos of victory.

I pulled on Streater’s shoulder, spun him around and kicked him in the stomach. Although the impact hurt my foot, the traitor slid backward, slipping in the slush and water which lapped along the pavement. Behind him, most of the railing had been peeled away by some surge of the crowd, so when I kicked him again there was no way to stop him toppling into the water. He tried to save himself by clinging onto the last strip of railing with his fingers. To my astonishment, it looked as though there might be tears in his eyes.

“That shouldn’t have happened. They said she’d be safe.”

“They lied to you,” I said. “Of course they lied to you.”

“You don’t understand.” I saw now that I’d been right and that the man really did have tears seeping from his eyes. “I only did this for her. I wanted to win her back. I wanted to give it another go.”

He looked pathetic — the great Joe Streater, Iago to the crown, Quisling to the beast — now just another sap clinging on to life at any cost, another loser, another opportunist who’s taken a wrong turn. Mephistopheles reduced to a charity case.

I suppose the kindest thing, the most honorable and decent thing to have done would have been to bend down, offer him my hand and help him up. Indeed, if either of us had been players in a Hollywood movie where character arcs and life lessons come as standard, then that’s exactly what would have happened.

It wasn’t, however, what took place that day by the banks of the river.

I kicked Joe Streater in the face, and I have to say — the wicket-crack his front teeth made when they shattered was one of the most satisfying sounds I’ve ever heard. He spat out the bone and wailed up at me in rage and despair, pleading pitifully for mercy.

So I stamped hard on his fingers.

With a final whine, he let go and plopped miserably into the river. I was just dreaming up an amusingly appropriate quip when two hundred pounds of royal bulk slammed into the side of me, delivering us both into the churning water.

For a moment, this was how I thought it was going to end — the prince, Joe Streater and me, all floundering in the Thames, our arms flailing, gasping at the col, struggling impotently against the tide — but then I became aware of something slick and ropey feeling its way toward me and I knew that this wasn’t the end. Not quite yet.

I think I may even have tried to scream but my mouth was choked with river water. Something slithered around the back of my neck, wound itself around my shoulders and pulled tight about my chest. The last thing I remember is a sensation of movement, of being pulled fast through the river water, tugged deep into the belly of the beast, into the black heart of Leviathan.

What lay in the Thames that afternoon was a thing of beauty and wonder. Henry Lamb should have welcomed it with hymns of praise and thanksgiving. He should have kissed it. He should have bowed down before it and worshipped it as a living god.