The Domino Men

Chapter 8

When we arrived at the Machen Ward we were told that the old bastard was being washed — a ghastly, ghoulish sponge bath which I had no desire to witness. Jasper and I retreated to the canteen, where we shared an awkward half hour with two lukewarm coffees and a rubbery BLT.

It was only then that I was finally able to persuade Mr. Jasper to listen. During the journey from the Eye, punctuated by bursts of indiscriminate bitterness from our driver, he had sat in solemn silence, ignoring or rebuffing my every attempt at conversation.

“I need to ask you about the war,” I said, for what felt like the fifth or sixth time that day.

“Fire away,” Jasper said sardonically.

“The House of Windsor… they’re the royal family, right?”

A yawn, a nod: “Your point being?”

“It’s just that I never thought of them as particularly malevolent. Slightly embarrassing, yes, a bit kooky, maybe, but-”

“They would see London in ruins. They would see the city laid waste.”

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

Jasper gave something approaching a sneer. “Let’s hope you never have to find out.”

“Did you know him?” I asked. “My grandfather?”

“Before my time. Way before my time.”

“But you’ve heard of him?”

“He’s a legend in the Service.”

“Why couldn’t you come to see him on your own? Why do you need me?”

“I tried. But even incapacitated, your grandfather is potentially lethal. He’s set up some kind of psychic boundary. No one comes close unless he wants them to.”

“What?”

“The Directorate believes in magic, Henry. It always has.” Jasper pushed away his sandwich barely touched, prissy disdain flickering across his face. “This plate’s dirty.” He glanced about him at the cafe like he was battling to suppress a shudder. “This whole place is filthy. Crawling with disease.”

A nurse approached to tell us that we could see the patient now and we got to our feet, my companion more swiftly than I. Mr. Jasper trotted into the ward and over to the prone figure of my father’s father with undisguised curiosity.

The old man’s eyes were closed, tubes emanated from pale nose and pale mouth, and he seemed weaker and more frail than ever. I couldn’t discern a pulse. I only had the word of his support machine that he was even alive at all. Though we had yet to exchange a word, I had seem more of Granddad in the past week than I had for years.

Jasper pulled out what looked like a complicated tuning fork and pointed it at the old bastard’s body. It beeped once, twice, three times, then made a drawn-out chittering sound.

I glared. “What are you doing?”

Jasper, intent on his obscure task, didn’t even meet my gaze. “I’m trying to ascertain if he really is in a coma.”

“Course he’s in a coma.”

“Your grandfather’s faked his own death at least twice before. He’s a master of disguise. In 1959 he penetrated Buckingham Palace in the company of an Armenian circus troupe disguised as a clown. From sixty-one to sixty-four he lived undetected as a gillie at Balmoral. In sixty-six he bankrupted the head of the House of Windsor’s Special Operations Unit in a high-stakes poker game at Monte Carlo. So I think he’s more than capable of feigning a stroke, don’t you?”

“Not Granddad,” I stuttered. “That doesn’t sound anything like my granddad.”

“Then you never knew him at all.” Jasper slipped the device back into his pocket. “But it’s real.” He sounded disappointed. “Probably the booze.” He gazed into the distance, a look of quiet respect on his face. When he spoke again, the effect was that of a humble supplicant offering prayers to his invisible deity. “I’m with him now, sir… I’m afraid it’s bad news… Please. Let’s not give up… Very well. Understood… I’ll tell him.” Briskly, he turned back to me. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Lamb.” He muttered something about enjoying the rest of my birthday and paced bad temperedly away.

“Is that it?” I shouted after him. “What happens now?”

But Jasper left without looking back, strutting onward toward whatever fresh drama awaited him, and soon the ward was quiet again.

At a loss about what to do next, I sank back into the chair and sat alone for a while, the old man’s hand clasped in mine. “Is it true?” I said. “Is any of it true?”

Desperate for conversation, I called up Mum.

“How’s Gibraltar?” I asked.

No sooner had I spoken than the nurse appeared and waved me out of the room, like a farmer’s wife shooing chickens away from the petunias. “No mobiles! Ruins equipment. No mobiles!”

Actually, Granddad’s machine had seemed completely unaffected, but, chastened and embarrassed, I did as I was told and took the conversation out into the corridor.

“It’s marvelous,” Mum was saying. “Just marvelous. Gordy’s been such a naughty boy. We’re in this wonderful hotel.” She broke off to speak to someone and I heard mention of my name. I imagined her rolling her eyes, deftly miming exasperation. Then she was back on the line. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I said, then (discreetly): “Got a promotion.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“I’m not a filing clerk anymore.”

“Good for you.”

“Never again.”

“Really, darling. That’s fab.”

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Granddad was middle-aged before he joined the BBC, wasn’t he? It was his second career. What did he do before that?”

“Before the Beeb?” She didn’t even try to keep the boredom from her voice. “Some sort of civil servant, I think. Nothing glamorous — though God knows he always acted like his shit smelt sweeter than ours. Why?”

“No reason.”

“I’ve got to go, darling. Gordy’s booked us a table somewhere. He’s looking frightfully cross and tapping his watch.”

“Mum?” I said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Dad recently.”

An eternity of crackling. The vinyl pops and hisses of long distance.

“I’m sorry, darling, it’s a terrible line.”

“I said I’ve been thinking about Dad.”

“Got to dash. Gordy says the food’ll be fab.”

She hadn’t even remembered it was my birthday.

“Have a nice meal,” I muttered. “Have fun.”

“Bye-bye, darling.”

And then, a tiny acknowledgment that she had, after all, heard what I’d said. “Don’t brood, will you?”

The line went dead before I was able to reply.

I walked back into the ward and summoned up a contrite smile for the nurse. “You were right,” I said, once the apologies were done. “I think my granddad was in a war.”

“It always shows,” she murmured. For a moment, there was a chink of humanity, a dappling of sadness in her face before chilly and professional again, she walked away.

Heavy with half-formed fears and worries, I kissed the old man on the forehead and took my leave at last of that awful mausoleum.

In the long gray corridor which led to the exit, a red-headed man on crutches was clip-clopping ahead of me. I recognized his swaying frond of ginger hair.

“Hello there!”

He craned around to glare at me, his face puce and sweaty from his exertions. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Let you out quickly, haven’t they?”

“Turns out I’m fine.”

“You fell five stories.”

“Then I’m a bleeding miracle.” He grimaced down toward his crutches. “A limping one, anyway.”

“I’m just glad you’re OK.”

The ginger-haired man looked belligerently at me. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

I stared back, nonplussed. “I’m sorry?”

“The answer is yes.”

“What?”

“The answer is yes. For God’s sake. Have you got that? The answer is yes.” The window cleaner took a deep, rattling breath and pivoted himself away.

“What was that about?” I asked, as much to myself as to him.

Taking no notice of me and mumbling a grab-bag of expletives, he made his way unsteadily over to a beaten-up Rover on the other side of the parking lot in which his unfortunate family was waiting and probably wondering why he couldn’t have fallen just that little bit harder.

When I got home to Tooting Bec and walked through to the sitting room, Abbey was there, wearing a little black dress, surrounded by balloons and smiling sheepishly. An unsuccessful-looking chocolate cake sat on the table, decorated by a single unlit candle.

“Happy birthday!” she said.

“This is unexpected. I don’t know what to say.”

“Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

She sashayed through to the kitchen, from where I could hear clinking glasses, the jingle of ice, the glug of juice and liquor. She called through: “How was your day?”

“Slightly strange. You?”

“Mostly dull. Till now.”

“Thanks for all this. You really needn’t have bothered…”

She came back into the lounge, carrying two glasses of something fizzy, ice cubes bobbing on the surface.

“What’s this?” I asked as I took mine.

“Cocktail,” she beamed. “Home-made. Try it.”

I took a tentative sip — tingly, sweet, pleasantly numbing. Emboldened, I took another mouthful. Then another. It was only the presence of my landlady that prevented me from downing the thing in one.

“Wonderful. What’s in it?”

Abbey arched an eyebrow. “Trade secret.” She produced a box of matches and lit the candle on my cake. “Make a wish.”

I closed my eyes, blew out the candle and made a wish which, for a short time, came true.

“There’s more.” Abbey scampered into her bedroom and returned with a soft parcel which she thrust excitedly into my hands. “Here you are.”

“This is too much,” I protested, feeling a blush start somewhere at the bottom of my neck and gradually stain my whole face.

“I wasn’t sure of your size. I’ve kept the receipt if it’s not right.”

I tore open the paper to reveal an irredeemably hideous V-neck sweater, precisely the shade of lemon curd.

“It’s fantastic,” I lied, then lied again: “I’ve always wanted one of these.” Frankly, at that moment, Abbey looked so rapturously beautiful that she could have wrapped me a dead weasel for my birthday and I’d have thanked her for it.

She beamed, I thanked her for a second and third time and there followed a bungling couple of seconds in which I tried to kiss her on the cheek only to chicken out and offer her my hand instead.

“Aren’t you going to try it on?” she asked.

I flinched. A lurch of panic in my stomach. “What?”

A smile, almost sly. “The sweater…”

As I struggled into my birthday present, Abbey cut us both a generous slice of cake.

“Made this myself,” she said. “Could be interesting.”

“What do you think?” I asked once I had squirmed inside the pullover.

“Very nice,” Abbey said. “Very tasty.”

I think I must have blushed again. Certainly I didn’t say anything further, and as we sat in silence on the sofa eating cake, Abbey wriggled a bit closer.

“Thanks for the cake,” I said. “Thank you for my present.”

She sighed with what seemed like frustration. “Henry?”

“What?”

“You can kiss me now.”

Like an idiot, I just stared, crumbs of cake cascading from my mouth.

My mobile began to buzz. Abbey said later that she wished I’d turned it off and just leapt on her but I think some pusillanimous part of me was grateful for the distraction.

“Hello?” I said, a little wearily.

“Darling! Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks very much.”

“Sorry I’ve not got you anything this year. I’ll give you some money when I get back. I know you used to like something to open but you’re a big boy now. You’d prefer the cash, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. Sounds nice.”

“Are you having a good evening? Doing anything special?” She stopped, suddenly suspicious. “You’re not at the hospital, are you? Not with the old bastard?”

“Actually, I’m in the flat. With a… friend.” I turned to Abbey to check that the description was OK and she smiled impatiently back.

“I’d better go, Mum.”

“Many happy returns, darling.” At the other end of the line I heard the bass rumble of male laughter.

“Bye then,” I said softly.

“Bye-bye, sweetheart.”

I switched off the phone and flung it into the corner of the room. Abbey was watching with an amused look. “Your mum?”

“Yes.”

“She OK?”

“Sounded fine.”

“Good.” Abbey stretched herself out and leaned back into the sofa.

“Listen,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Before the phone rang… Does that offer still stand? Would it be possible-”

Abbey lunged. In a glorious moment, I felt her mouth pressed hard against mine, the honeyed warmth of her breath, the moist intrusion of her tongue. We came up for air and sat gazing at one another, stupid sloppy grins on both our faces. No one spoke.

Then the phone rang, the landline this time.

Abbey shook her head in silent, irritated warning.

I’m afraid I’m the kind of person who gets superstitious about ignoring the telephone. I can’t walk past a ringing phone booth without feeling an irrational stab of guilt. So of course I got up, walked across the room and tried not to sound too out of breath.

“Hello?”

“Henry Lamb?” The voice sounded aggravatingly familiar.

“Speaking.”

“I’m calling on behalf of Gadarene Glass.”

I felt myself begin to simmer. “I thought I’d told you to stop bothering me.”

“So you did. But I felt I really owed it to you to try one last time. Might I interest you in a new window?”

“No,” I said flatly. “You might not.”

“And that’s your final answer? Your answer is no?”

“Absolutely.”

The caller said nothing. There followed a long silence as the truth of it smacked me in the face and slapped me viciously around the chops.

“On second thought…”

“What?” She sounded utterly exasperated, like a teacher hand-holding a spectacularly dim-witted child through their ABCs. “What’s your answer now?”

“The answer is yes,” I said, cautiously at first, then growing in confidence. “The answer is yes!”

The line went dead.

Abbey was looking at me as though I was mad. “Who on earth was that?”

The doorbell began to jangle, hectically, insistently, without pause — the kind of ring you’d expect if someone was being murdered on your doorstep.

“Stay there,” I said, fueled by cocktail, birthday cake and the best kiss of my life, I strode to the front door and wrenched it open.

A little old lady stood outside. With her prim demeanor, outsized glasses and neatly curled hair, she looked as though she ought to be running the jam stall at the church fete instead of standing on my doorstep in Tooting after dark.

Her right hand was pressed hard against the bell. Mercifully, when she saw me, she let go. “Your grandfather said you were intelligent. Evidently, he was blinded by sentiment.”

“Who on earth are you?”

“You’re in the most terrible danger, Mr. Lamb.”

“Didn’t I ask who you were?”

“I’m an ally. That’s all you need to know for now. I assume your grandfather never told you about the password?”

“My granddad’s in the hospital,” I said. “He’s in a coma.”

“But he laid plans, Henry. I’m merely playing my part in the process.” She peered past me into the house. “Extraordinary. It hasn’t changed one bit.”

“What?”

“You know by now, I suppose, who your grandfather was? What he was?”

“Chief field officer in the Directorate. Mr. Dedlock’s number one. The leading light in the secret war against the House of Windsor.” She lowered her voice. “More kills to his name than any other soldier.”

“It’s all true, then?” I said softly.

“All true, Mr. Lamb. With a good deal of the really unpleasant detail still to come.” She seemed to be surveying the street. A battered car, effluent brown, grumbled past and she stared interrogatively at its driver. “I mustn’t stay long tonight. They’ll have put watchers on you.”

“Watchers?”

“Tell no one you’ve seen me. Not even Dedlock.”

“You know Dedlock?”

“I know them all. Knew them all, at any rate.” She gave me a disgusted look, as though I’d just broken wind and laughed about it. “What a hideous sweater.”

“It was a present,” I said defensively. Then, remembering the gravity of the situation: “I think you’d better come inside.”

“Not tonight. The enemy is very close. We’ll meet again soon, Until then — tread carefully.”

Before I could stop her, she was gone, trotting spryly into the dark. I peered out at the street and could see no sign of those “watchers” she’d spoken about. But I was careful to double-lock the door all the same before I went back into the sitting room, where Abbey, still aflutter from our kiss, was polishing off another slice of cake.

“I was thinking,” she said, “how about we go to the cinema tomorrow? I’m not sure what’s on-” She saw my face. “What’s happened? Who was that?”

“A ghost from the past,” I said, before, in a sudden surge of pessimism, adding: “Or the shape of things to come.”