Miss Morning turned away. “It’s finally happened,” she murmured, her voice shot through with bitterness. “The Domino Men are loose.”
Chapter 18
What happened next was chaos in its purest form.
Cries of panic and disbelief, Dedlock screaming in our ears, the rattle of weapons, the jabber of gunfire, the bellow of Steerforth’s commands as he screamed phrases so dismayingly hackneyed I thought I would only ever hear them on television. “Secure the perimeter!” “Go, go, go!” “Damn it, I want them alive!” And all around us, the ceaseless swirl of fog.
Mr. Jasper had turned the color of chalk. “How did they do it?” he asked. “How was it so easy?”
“It’s a game,” Miss Morning murmured, a grim kind of satisfaction in her voice, a melancholy I-told-you-so crouched behind each syllable. “It’s always been a game to them.”
Steerforth turned to the soldier who still stood, stricken with shock, by his side.
“Captain, give me a status report.”
In the palm of his right hand, the soldier clutched a PDA which displayed an electronic street map of Whitehall.
“They’re on the move, sir.” He stabbed a finger toward two smudges of black that were barreling across the screen. “They’re heading toward the roadblock.”
“Then we can still catch them.” We all heard it then in Steerforth’s voice — that awful Ahab mania. “I need twenty volunteers.”
The pit bull of the Directorate got his volunteers that night — more than he had asked for. All the killers who were there lined up before him — brawny men in khaki, the kind who’d been good at games at school, now trained to murder on the say-so of the state. The captain was amongst them and as he strode across to join the others he trust his screen into my hands. I began to protest but he pressed it toward me with such insistent vigor that I felt I had no choice but to accept. It made me uneasy, this piece of high technology which turned men’s lives into pixels and reduced mortality to a mouse click.
As Steerforth was yelping more orders, exhorting them to bring the Prefects back alive, Miss Morning was shaking her head. “What a waste,” she murmured. “And they all seemed like such nice young men.”
Steerforth must have heard because he spun around to face her. “They’re the best. They’ll run those bastards down. You have my word.”
“Those creatures are death incarnate, Mr. Steerforth. Take it from me — your men won’t stand a chance.”
The soldiers sprinted into the fog, and as I scrutinized the screen, I saw twenty spots of white hare after the Prefects’ trails of black.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Miss Morning said pityingly. “When will you people learn?”
The next few minutes were a study in impotence. Powerlessly, we watched as the white chased the black. We watched as the two colors met somewhere at the very tip of Whitehall and we watched as, one by one, the splashes of white were extinguished.
“No…” Steerforth whispered.
“Boys will be boys,” Miss Morning murmured with what, under the circumstances, I suppose should count gallows humor.
Dedlock was shouting in our ears again. “Are they dead? Are they all dead?”
Jasper tried his best to calm the situation. “It would seem so, sir, yes.”
“Where are they now?”
I consulted the PDA. “Moving out of Whitehall. Heading toward Trafalgar Square.”
“Then find them!” “Dedlock screamed.
A vein twitched in Steerforth’s temple. “Please, sir…”
“What is it, Mr. Steerforth?”
Despite the arctic tinge of the night, the man was sweating prodigiously. “I’m afraid, sir.”
“Steerforth! We do not have time for your soul-searching!”
Jasper moved to the burly man’s side and placed a hand discreetly on his arm. “You’re Mr. Steerforth.” His voice was gentle but underscored by steel. “You’re the hero of the Directorate. There’s nothing you’re afraid of.”
At the time, I assumed that Jasper was doing his best to support a friend and colleague, trying to cajole him into action. Now I’m not convinced that there wasn’t some other, darker agenda at work.
The voice of the old man crackled in our ears. “Stop bleating! Do your job!”
Steerforth seemed to come to a decision. He straightened himself up, pushed back his shoulders and snapped a reply: “Yes, sir!” Turning to the few of us who were left, he said: “I’m going after them. Who’s with me? Who’s bloody with me?”
“Steerforth?” Dedlock snarled. “Bring me their heads!”
“Yes, sir!” And again, filled with the unfettered joy of hara-kiri: “Yes! Sir!”
As Steerforth pelted into the fog, Jasper and I started, reluctantly, to follow.
I have never claimed to be a hero and I’m happy to admit that I was absolutely terrified. It wasn’t long before we came across the first of the corpses, the body of the young captain, contorted in death, splayed out on the Whitehall street like a doll abandoned by children who play too rough. I almost tripped over him and, at the sight, swallowed back a sick-bag surge of nausea and despair.
“What is it?” Dedlock bellowed in my earpiece. “What can you see?”
“Casualties, sir,” said Jasper.
“Bad?”
“Couldn’t be much worse.”
We walked on in silence, respectful though full of fear, treading through the fog past the ranks of the fallen.
Somewhere out of the billowing banks of mist came the voice of Mr. Steerforth: “I’m at the roadblock, sir. Everyone’s dead.” There was a swell of hysteria in his voice. “Did you hear me?” Everybody’s dead.”
“Mr. Steerforth!” Dedlock barked in everybody’s ears. “Moderate your tone!”
“Don’t you understand? Those things are loose in London. Nothing’s safe now. They’ll turn this city into a charnel house.”
“Clearly you’re not robust enough to cope. I’m taking charge of this operation personally.”
“With respect, sir-”
“I don’t give a tinker’s cuss for your respect,” Dedlock snapped. “Just give me what I want.”
“Please-”
It was too late. There was a grinding, crunching sound, the noise of clanking cogs and arthritic gears — and when Steerforth spoke again it was in the voice of Mr. Dedlock. There could be no question what had happened.
“Slaughter!” His voice was full of fury. “Slaughter on the streets of London.”
The rest of us hurried toward him, terrified of what we might find.
In our earpieces, Dedlock spoke again through Steerforth. “They’re heading toward Trafalgar Square. I’m going after them.” Then — “I can see them! I’m in pursuit.”
Somewhere ahead of us, he was dashing after the Prefects. It may have been my imagination but through my earpiece I was sure I could hear the malevolent lullaby of their laughter.
I can imagine how it would have gone, how they would have taunted and teased him, showing just enough of themselves — a flash of blazer, a glimpse of gnarled knee, a distant glint of penknife — just enough to keep him going, to feed him hope and lead him on.
