The Domino Men

“So Leviathan is real? The war… I’m a part of it?”

“Chief, chief, chief. I think we both know that’s not why you’re really here.”

Windsor blinked vaguely, as though he’d forgotten what he was about to say.

“Spit it out,” Streater said. “Tell us what you’ve come for.”

“You know what I want.”

“Maybe I do, chief. Maybe I do. But perhaps I’d just like to hear you say it.”

The prince’s Adam’s apple yo-yoed in desperation. He felt salt in his mouth, the panicky taste of sweat. “I was wondering…”

“Yeah?”

Arthur’s eyes were pleading. “I was wondering if you happened to have any more tea?”

Streater laughed. “Tea?”

The prince ventured one of his unconvincing smiles. “Yes, please.”

Mr. Streater shook his head in mock sorrow. “Oh, Arthur. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you, old son? But since you asked so nicely…” He reached into the holdall by his feet and pulled out a hypodermic loaded with pink fluid.

“For God’s sake,” the prince muttered, “now’s not the time to be fooling around with that stuff. I need tea.”

Streater cocked an eyebrow.

“What is that muck you put in your veins anyway?”

Mr. Streater did not smile. He seemed more serious than Arthur had ever seen him before. “The name of the drug is ampersand.”

“Ampersand? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Ampersand is my mother.” Streater spoke slowly, intoning every word, as though this was something sacred to him. “Ampersand is my father. Ampersand is my lover, my life. Ampersand, Your very Royal Highness, is the future.”

Arthur moaned. “Please…”

Streater sat down on the bed and began to roll up the prince’s sleeve.

“What are you doing?” Windsor was too enfeebled to move, too broken and pathetic to offer the least resistance.

“I’m giving you what you want, chief. Giving you what you need.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Surely you’ve worked it out by now? It’s in the tea. It’s always been in the tea.”

“Streater?”

“You’ve been taking ampersand from the day we met.” The blond man was slapping the inside of the prince’s arm, searching for a vein, brandishing his needle. “You’re one of us now.”

After that, His Royal Highness Prince Arthur Aelfric Vortigern Windsor did not speak again but lay back, gave in and let the sharp-featured man do it to him.

When the thing was over, he wept with gratitude, joy and a terrible sense of submission. He kissed the hands of Mr. Streater, he licked his palms and sucked his fingers. He made awful promises and horrid vows. He bartered his soul for another cup of tea.

Chapter 17

I stepped out of the car at the furthest end of Downing Street to find a world fallen into darkness. In open defiance of the TV’s predictions of clear skies and moonlight, an impenetrably dense, freakishly pervasive fog had descended upon the whole of London.

Fog was everywhere. The city was steeped in it — thicker than smoke, saturating clothes, sinking insidiously into lungs. It was as though we had been dragged half a dozen generations to the era of the gas lamp and the hansom cab, the ancient queen and the advent of the war.

I was struck by the thought that perhaps such an age was not so far away as it seemed, that it was only the short lives of human beings which gave the illusion of distance. Perhaps, from some greater vantage point, the span between the age of Victoria and our own would appear no more than a handful of seconds, a few spasms of the little hand around the clock.

The whole of Whitehall had been sealed off and the most famous street in England was crowded with the sounds and sights of war. Arc lights blazed impotently against fog banks. Men in uniform swarmed around an armor-plated vehicle which had been backed close to the door of Number Ten and there was everywhere the glint of gunmetal, the growl of orders, the dull jangle of weaponry. These were preparations for disaster, it seemed to me. This was insurance against catastrophe.

As I emerged from the car, Mr. Steerforth materialized by my side, flint faced and grave, in his element surrounded by military strut and bustle.

“You’re with me,” he snapped, and strode away. As I followed him towards Downing Street, the fog closed in around us.

We were close to the door of Number Ten and Mr. Jasper was in sight when Steerforth passed me a pink, flesh-colored piece of plastic, shaped something like a tadpole. “Dedlock wants to speak to you. You know how to use these?”

I started to complain, asking whether this was really necessary, when Steerforth thrust the thing hard into my left ear. A tendril groped its way into my earhole. I felt a savage poking through the doughy wetness beyond and cried out in pain and shock. Although the pain ended almost at once, I was left with an unshakeable unease, a permanent, shivery sense of intrusion. I heard a familiar voice, too loud, in my head. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

I imagined him grinning gummily, staring down across the river from his eyrie.

“This is the form tonight will take. The Prefects have already been released from their cell. They are to be taken from Number Ten under guard and placed in the armored vehicle which I imagine you see before you now. From here, they will direct us to Estella. The end of the war is in sight. I would suggest that this is cause for jubilation.”

Steerforth spoke up. “With respect, sir, I strongly recommend that we stand down for tonight. There are too many variables in this fog. We should wait until we’re in control of the situation.”

“We have total control, Mr. Steerforth.”

“We can’t see more than half a yard in front of our faces, sir. I don’t think you understand the risks-”

“It is you who does not understand, Mr. Steerforth. We cannot afford to wait. Do you think the House of Windsor is sitting idle? Do you think that they would surrender in the face of a touch of fog? They will be preparing themselves for the endgame. We cannot sit idly by and watch this city slide into chaos.”

“I’m aware of the stakes, sir.”

“No!” Dedlock shouted. “You are not! You have no idea what I’ve given up to make this happen!” I felt a twinge of pain in my head and pictured the old man splashing in his tank, impotent and enraged. I tugged at Jasper’s sleeve and asked if there was any way to turn down the volume.”

Jasper tried to shush me, but it was too late, and Dedlock was growling in my ear again.”

“Are you trying to shut me up, Mr. Lamb?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

“I think you’ll find me a difficult man to silence.”

“Sorry,” I said, and mercifully, the conversation rolled on.

I felt my mobile phone shiver in my pocket and pulled it out as discreetly as I could. There was a text message from Abbey.

Thinking of you x

The little X made my heart soar. It made me want to sing.