Chapter 15
When I was summoned the following morning, into the presence of Mr. Dedlock, I found him to be quite unlike his usual self — pensive, melancholy, consumed by a bleak nostalgia.
“I chose to be stationed here,” he began, apropos of nothing in particular. “Did you know that?”
The day was bright with the cruel sunshine of winter and as our pod neared the apex of its revolution we were granted a view of the Houses of Parliament at their most ingratiatingly picturesque.
“The Directorate could have been headquartered anywhere. But I chose the Eye. Why? Because I wanted to see what we’re fighting for. You understand? I love democracy.”
I wondered where this was heading.
“Sleep does not come easily to me. Not any more. But here, a stone’s throw from the cradle of democracy, here at least my dreams are not so black.” He gargled meditatively. “Can you guess what I’m going to ask you to do for me?”
“I expect you’ll want me to see the Prefects again.”
Dedlock observed me gravely through the glass.
I chose my words as tactfully as I could. “I’m not sure they’re going to help us. And when I see them…”
“Yes?”
“I feel like weeping.”
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Lamb. I’ve met them once myself, a long time ago and a world away.” He sighed. “They are the ones who did this to me. Did you know that? They gave me these.” Tenderly, his fingers brushed the sides of his torso, sliding over those strange flaps of skin which I had taken to be gills. “You’re surprised? Of course I wasn’t born this way. They made me like this. They turned me into their idea of a joke.”
“I hadn’t realized…”
“I know better than anyone what they’re capable of. But we need to find Estella and it seems that you are still the only man they’ll talk to.”
“They told me terrible things…”
Dedlock swam to the edge of the tank. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. But for now — go back to the Prefects. Find Estella.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, although even the thought of returning to the hideous subterranean of Downing Street sent a liquid tremor through my bowels.
“You’ll do better than that, Henry Lamb. You’ll have to. The war’s in your hands now.”
In the daytime, Downing Street seemed a different place — almost friendly, peopled with flocks of policy makers and power brokers, think-tankers, politicos and wonks, but the illusion vanished as I descended underground, past the bottled ranks of madmen, who simpered, scowled and wept at the sight of me.
The guard outside the Prefect’s cell let me pass with a nod of recognition. Inside, the television was gone but the circle was tilled with a vast amount of food — trifle, liquorice, sausages on sticks, eclairs, green jelly, slabs of Neapolitan, currant buns, biscuits in the shapes of jungle animals, cans of Tizer and sherbet dip.
My tormentors waved.
“What ho, Mr. L!”
“Hello, sir!”
“Hawker,” I muttered stoically. “Boon.”
The ginger-haired man thrust a teetering spoonful of trifle into his mouth. Some of the cream and at least one of the cherries splattered down his shirt and tie.
“Super tuck we’ve got here, sir!”
“Jolly good feed!”
“Triffic nosh!”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked warily.
“Can’t you guess?” Hawker chortled.
There was something I had to ask them. Something I hadn’t even mentioned to Dedlock. “Last time I was here you spoke about my dad again. You said you were there the day he died.”
Boon had produced a box of macaroons and was stuffing them mechanically into his mouth in a joyless production line with the weird tenacity of some oriental eating champ. He swallowed and reached out again for the contents of the box.
“How can you have been there?” I asked. “How is it possible that you were there by the side of that motorway when you’ve been trapped here for decades?”
Boon seemed startled by my question. He spluttered, a stream of half-chewed macaroon spraying into the air like green mist. “You really think we’re here against our will?” He wiped the crumbs from the corner of his mouth.
