The Domino Men

“Such beings usually have some greater motive, ma’am. I doubt he proffers aid simply from the goodness of what passes for his heart.”

“Leviathan is not some street waif accosting us for spare change. He is owed homage and sacrifice by right.”

“Sacrifice?”

“Dedlock, we have seen the way in which you have sneered and sighed. You may be certain that your grimaces of skepticism have gone far from unobserved. Do you not believe me?”

“On the contrary, ma’am. I believe you absolutely. Now I strongly advise you to tell me what it is the creature has asked of you.”

The Queen seemed far away. “There is to be a contract,” she said. “An agreement.”

“A contract? What kind of god deals in contracts? Your Majesty, it is absolutely vital that you tell me what you’ve promised this creature.”

The Queen smiled. “Do you really want to know? Leviathan is a god, after all, and must not be denied. What I have done is for the greater good, for the future glory of the house.”

“Ma’am…” Dedlock was barely containing his rage. “What have you promised this monster?”

“I have promised it London,” she said. “And all who dwell in her.”

The lights came on; Arthur blinked in shock and when he looked again, the two strangers had vanished. Without them, the room seemed as bare and stark as a squash court.

“What was that?” he gasped.

“That?” Streater said. “That was the first part of your history lesson.”

“Was it true? Was any of it true?”

A grin. “Better run along now, chief. It is your birthday, after all.”

Dizzy and disoriented, his imagination grown mutinous, the prince stumbled dumbly for the exit.

“Many happy returns, chief.” Streater executed a sardonic salute. “And, Your Highness?”

Arthur turned back.

A final smirk, on the razor’s edge of cruelty and charm. “Be sure to have another cup of tea before you go.”

Chapter 13

So it’s happened again and once more I find myself the victim of a crime which surely has to be unique — narrative hijacking, story gazumping, a plot stick-up.

I’ve no doubt his phenomenon will recur but I’m trying to pretend it isn’t happening. I’m doing the grown-up thing here and trying to rise above it. Although there’s nothing to stop me ripping out these offending pages, I think I’ll let the stand for now. If I allow this thing to run its course, it might buy me time, stave off the inevitable long enough for me to finish what I’ve started.

So try to ignore it. Gloss over it. Carry on regardless. From now on, I certainly intend to do the same.

I leave these interpolations in place only so that you may have a complete and accurate record of my final days.

When I met Abbey for lunch the day after my first encounter with the Prefects, she suggested eating somewhere close to her office, at a place called Mister Meng’s Peking Restaurant. I fully intend never to return.

Having unwisely spurned the waitress’s slightly condescending offer of an English knife and fork, I was still struggling twenty minutes later with a bowl which brimmed almost full. Needless to say, Abbey not only wielded her chopsticks with embarrassing ease but also, in some strange miracle, made the business of eating egg fried rice and a side order of prawn crackers seem close to sensual. She watched my gastronomic pratfalls with amusement as what little food I managed to pick up spattered down my shirt in Rorschach blots of greasy orange.

Once we had finished chatting of trivial things, she said, apropos of nothing in particular: “I’m really worried about you.”

All I could manage in reply was a single “Oh?” distractedly delivered as I was grappling at the time with an especially elusive strip of duck.

“This new job of yours. Yesterday, when you woke me, you were gabbling, you weren’t making sense. Like you were high or something.”

“Oh,” I said again. “Sorry.”

“You’ve changed. Tell me the truth, Henry. Have you got yourself into something dangerous?”

“I’ve been given a promotion.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

Suddenly lacking the heart to go on, I balanced the chopsticks on my bowl and pushed it toward the center of the table. “Yes, there’s more. But I can’t tell you.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Abbey rolled her eyes and signaled to the waitress. “Fine. Let’s just get the bill.”

I’ve never considered myself especially perceptive about women but even I could see that she was upset.

“I’m not sure where you and me are heading,” Abbey said. “But I’m telling you now that nothing’s ever going to happen unless we’re absolutely honest with one another.”

“I wish I could tell you,” I said. “I really do.”

She looked at me skeptically.

“I’m serious,” I protested. “It’d be suicide.”

“Suicide?”

“Professional suicide,” I said quickly.

The waitress drifted up to the table. “Everything OK?”

“Great,” said Abbey vaguely. “Thanks.”

“What about you?” The waitress sneered down at my half-finished bowl. “Something wrong?”

I mustered a weedy smile. “Not at all. It was lovely. I’m just full, that’s all.”

The waitress shrugged and turned back to Abbey. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

My landlady looked embarrassed. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” This must have been meant as a reference to me, as when she said it, the girl glanced dismissively over in my direction. “I’ll tell you something for nothing.” She leant conspiratorially close. “I prefer the other one.”

“Just get the bill,” Abbey snapped, and the waitress, chafing at the sudden gear-crunch in tone, scurried away in the direction of the till.

“You’ve been here before?” I asked.

Abbey couldn’t quite meet my eye. “Loads. It’s just round the corner from work.”

“What did that waitress mean? That she preferred the other one?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Embarrassed, Abbey began to gabble: “Anyway, I’m sorry about earlier. Didn’t want to come on too strong.”

“You didn’t.”

“It’s just that I’m excited about what’s happening between us and I don’t want to jeopardize it. I’ll have to learn to trust you. Just promise me one thing.”