The Domino Men

Chapter 6

The next day I made up my mind to go to Granddad’s house. Not one other member of the family (nor a single constituent of his fair-weather entourage) had emerged to offer their assistance, and as the only relative who had ever admitted to actually liking the man, I felt the persistent tug of responsibility.

The day passed in a blur of routine — Hickey-Brown’s jokes, lunch with Barbara, an errand in the mail room, a dirty look from Philip Statham, an eternity spent idling on the computer, staring at my screen and waiting for five o’clock. Once it was over I cycled up to London Bridge, forced my bike onto the train and headed for Dulwich — specifically for 17 Temple Drive, where my grandfather had lived since long before I was born.

Pushing my bike up the hill, I turned into his still, suburban street, past the ranks of plane trees and those signs which hysterically insisted that this was an area under the jurisdiction of the neighborhood watch. This was time-travel for me. It was a wormhole into my childhood.

Granddad lived in a small terraced house running to seed — books pressed up against the windows, dying weeds curled around the grate, a handwritten sign at the door which read in emphatic Biro: NO HAWKERS.

I let myself in, kicked aside the hillock of mail which had accumulated on the mat and was immediately overwhelmed by an acute sense of sadness. The same smell was everywhere. Fried sausage — fat, greasy and black — the only thing the old man had ever been able to cook. It was what he had invariably fed me when I went to stay at half-term, what was on the table when I got back from those operations at the hospital as a boy, what he’d made for me on the night my father died.

The smell of the past was in my nostrils and I collapsed as though winded into the big armchair in the lounge. At that moment I would have given anything to be eight years old again, for Granddad to be OK, for my father to be alive, for everything to seem sweeter and more innocent.

Something small and soft brushed past my legs and I looked down to see a plump gray cat gazing up at me with optimistic eyes. Tentatively, I reached out a hand. The animal didn’t shy away so I stroked it again, at which it started up a contented purr.

“You must be hungry,” I said.

There were a couple of tins of cat food in the kitchen cupboard. I opened one and spooned out its contents, which the creature attacked with relish. As soon as it was done, he started to pester me for more.

The cat was not the only thing that seemed unfamiliar. As usual the lounge was filled with books — but they had changed. I remembered dog-eared scripts (Galton and Simpson, The Goon Show, ITMA, The Navy Lark), yards of comedy stacked halfway to the ceiling, but now it seemed quite different. There were volumes here on the most recondite and esoteric subjects — bulky, valuable-looking hardbacks on divination, telepathy, palmistry, the tarot, Freemasonry, Rasputin, metempsychosis, Madame Blavatsky, astral projection, Nostradamus, Eliphas Levi, the preparation of human sacrifice and the end of the world. Books with terrible, wonderful titles. Strange-smelling books, tingly to the touch.

All gone now, of course.

In the past few years I’d not seen Granddad as often as I ought and had barely visited him at home at all. Only twice really — once when I was looking for a job and we’d spent the afternoon trawling the employment sections of the broadsheets, and once again, a few months ago, when we’d done much the same thing searching for flats and he’d pointed out the place in Tooting Bec. After that, once I’d met Abbey, my visits dwindled to nothing.

Guiltily, I told myself the usual homiletic lies — that I’d been busy at work and settling into a new flat, that it wasn’t the frequency of my visits but their quality — though none of this made me feel any better about my neglect.

But I still wondered why I hadn’t seen any of those books before. I suppose he could have bought them recently but, with their cracked spines, makeshift bookmarks and frequent marginalia scribbled in a hand that I recognized at once as his, they had to look about them of a cherished library.

I was distracted by an optimistic yowl and a renewed, determined pressure on my leg. The cat gave me a disapproving look and padded away to the kitchen. I followed, intending to open another can of food, only for the animal to turn, trot upstairs and vanish into the bedroom. Expecting to find a dead mouse or a week’s worth of mess, I followed it inside to discover that here, too, things had changed.

There was a small bed (unmade, strewn with blankets) a table with a coffee-stained copy of the Mirror and a wind-up alarm clock which had stopped at 12:14. What was new was the large framed photograph which hung on the furthest wall. It was me as a child — an old publicity shot from Worse Things Happen at Sea — buck-toothed and freckly, captured in the midst of summoning on demand another fake grin for the cameras. For a moment, I stood and stared. Seeing stuff from that time is like witnessing the life of a stranger, as though I’m observing events which overtook someone I’ve never met but only read about in magazines.

I noticed that the picture had been hung slightly askew. The cat craned its sleek head upward as though he too were staring at it and disapproving of its wonkiness. He began to yowl.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll get your food in a minute.”

I walked over to the picture and tried to readjust it, although it seemed oddly weighted and refused to settle. Irritated, I moved it aside.

It was then that I first started to feel that something was seriously out of kilter here, sensed the first stirrings of the worm at the center of the apple.

Behind the photograph was a sheet of smooth gray metal. It had no hinges or openings apart from what looked like a small keyhole, its innards filled with pincers of serrated metal. It resembled a piece of installation art or something from a locksmith’s nightmare. The thing was an aberration — another mystery in my grandfather’s house.

The doorbell rang.

The cat gave out a startled meow, ran between my legs and stayed there, quaking. Irrationally, I felt a tremor of fear. There was a second’s peace before the bell rang again. I let the photograph swing back into position, padded downstairs and opened the door.

Standing outside was the baby-faced man, Mr. Jasper.

“Hello, Henry.”

The sight of him there of all places was so incongruous that, for a moment, I couldn’t speak.

“We need your help,” he said. “Invite me in.”

The cat followed me downstairs and now crouched between my legs, shaking in fear. “What are you doing here?” I asked at last.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Jasper sounded as though he was making the most reasonable request, as though this wasn’t strange in the slightest, this unwarranted intrusion into an old man’s home. “Your grandfather put certain safeguards in place. Here and at the hospital. We’re going to need your help.”

“My help? What on earth do you want?”

“Just let me in, Mr. Lamb.”

“No,” I said, suddenly afraid. “I think you should leave right now. You’re trespassing.”

Jasper bared his teeth in a humorless approximation of a smile. As if at the sight of the grimace, the cat wriggled free of my legs and bounded away.

“Have you been following me?”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t let me in. We’ll huff and we’ll puff and we’ll blow your house down.”

“Go away.” My voice shook only a little. “I’ll call the police.”

“Oh, Mr. Lamb. We’re above the police.”

Then he did something very odd indeed. His head snapped upwards and he stared fiercely toward the ceiling. “I agree, sir,” he said, and there was nothing in his manner that suggested he was addressing me. “I thought he’d be better looking too.” His eyes flicked over my body. “Slimmer, frankly. And cleaner.”

“Who are you talking to?” I asked.

Jasper smiled. “I’ll go,” he said. “But remember that whatever happens next, you have brought it entirely upon yourself.”