The Domino Men

EDITOR’S POSTSCRIPT

At the time of writing, two nights have passed since I said goodbye to Henry Lamb. Until now, I have not found sufficient courage to set pen to paper. Indeed, I find that I am able to write only in the daylight, with my wife and daughter comfortably close by, with the lamps on full to chase away the shadows, and far from any mirror or reflective surface.

We found him in the end. After abandoning the manuscript on my doorstep, he had taken one of our cars and driven into the Fens intending to do battle with what lay within him, with whatever it was that had written those parts of his book in a hand which was not his own.

But it was not Henry Lamb who came stumbling out of the wilderness toward us, toward the sirens and the flock of media who had gathered there against my ardent protestations. The man I knew had vanished from the face of the Earth.

Since reading what Henry wrote, I think often of Estella, about her description of what happens when you carry Leviathan inside you, of how the monster strips away artifice and unveils the real person underneath.

What staggered from the wilderness was a little boy, eight or nine years old, looking miniscule and ridiculous in adult clothes which hung pathetically off his body and trailed in the mud. I recognized that awful yellow jumper almost at once but it took me some time to identify the child lost inside it. In the end, I had to be shown old television footage before I was wholly convinced.

The boy was not loquacious. In fact, he would only ever utter a single phrase, the same quintet of words repeated over and over. It was an old catchphrase, devoid of meaning and even less amusing now than ever.

Two days ago, I went to say goodbye. Of course, Silverman arranged the whole thing wonderfully — the little lie in my official diary, the plainclothes security team, the discreetly unmarked car. In my new position, one can hardly be too careful.

The reader might find a bleak humor in where we keep Henry nowadays. He lies underground, deep beneath the town house of my first minister and at the exact center of a white chalk circle.

He does not seem to have aged a day but remains, eternally, a child. He does not perspire even slightly. No drop of sweat has been found beneath his prepubescent armpits, no trickle of perspiration on his calves or boyish moisture on the small of his back. He is well cared for, and although he is kept under lock and key, I make certain that the best of everything is brought to his cell. I have been adamant that those who keep and care for him are scrupulously vetted in order to avoid any repetition of what has come euphemistically referred to as “the Hickey-Brown problem.”

Naturally, Henry never leaves his cell. I owe him my life but it would hardly do for the poor fellow to walk abroad.

As usual, on my last visit, he did not seem to know that I was there. I brought Silverman with me for company but Henry seemed wholly oblivious to our presence, spending the entirety of our meeting intoning the same five words.

Curiously, there was a small gray cat sitting in the circle with him, curled up by Henry’s feet, purring happily and apparently quite content. I have asked how the animal came to be there but it may not surprise you to learn that a sufficiently persuasive explanation for its presence has yet to be advanced.

After I had said my goodbyes, still dabbing at my eyes and pledging my continued support, I took a detour into the smallest room and, despite his objections, ordered Silverman to wait for me upstairs.

I had completed my business and was midway through my ablutions at the basin when I caught a blur of motion, a sudden flash of color in the mirror.

Two men stood behind me. How they had entered unobserved and unchallenged, I had not the slightest notion, although — needless to say — I recognized them at once.

With their uniforms, their gnarled knees, their unforgettable air of menace, who could not?

“Hello, sir!”

“What ho, Arthur, old son!”

I dared address myself only to their reflections and asked them what they wanted of me.

“Just thought we’d drop by, sir!”

“Pop in for a bit of a chinwag!”

I spoke softly, trying to keep my head, and remarked that, without their actions, London would stand in ruins.

“Oh, but you’ll make us blush, sir!”

“Stop it, sir, or you’ll embarrass us. Boon here goes the color of Tommy K.”

I told them that I could never fathom their motives.

Those awful creatures laughed at me. “Give it time, old thing.”

“You’ll be seeing a lot more of us in the future.”

As my throat turned dry, I asked them what they meant.

“We’ll be dropping by regularly, sir. Hawker and me.”

“Just to keep an eye on things.”

“We want to be sure you make a better fist of it than the rest of your family.”

“We’re going to be your advisers, sir!”

“The power behind the throne!”

“No need to pull a face, old thing!”

“Trust me.” Boon grinned and touched the brim of his cap in mock salute. “You’ll hardly notice we’re here.”

I shivered and looked away. When I turned back, the Prefects were gone, the only evidence that they had ever been there at all the lingering scents of fireworks and sherbet dip.

I left that place as fast as I could, not stopping to dry my hands and barely restraining myself from breaking into a run as I hurried past the photographs of dead prime ministers, past serving staff, security men and the open-necked parade of civil servants.

Outside in the unforgiving sunshine, I had to stop to catch my breath and gather my wits because I knew, in an awful moment of understanding, that I had seen the shape of the rest of my life.

Silverman was waiting. “Sir?” he asked, his voice, as ever, the model of equanimity and deference. “Is everything all right?”

I tried to speak but the words would not come. I found myself wholly unable to say their names aloud.

Silverman took me away, helped me into the car and did what he does best, calming me down, soothing me, giving me hope and succor. But I have no illusions. I know how things are going to be.

The Domino Men will be with me all the days of my life and I shall not, I fancy, write again.

— AW