The Domino Men

“Don’t get yourself all tied up, Henry.”

A horrible suspicion had begun to claw toward the forefront of my brain. “You are going to find a volunteer, aren’t you? Dedlock — he said it’s got to be a volunteer.”

“Leave it to me, Henry. I’ve given Blueprint a lot of thought.”

“I’ll just bet you have,” I said. “Christ, you’ve been grooming someone, haven’t you?”

“Look.” Mr. Jasper was gazing over my shoulder. “Isn't that your landlady?”

He was right. Abbey was strolling over the grass toward the Eye. She smiled, waved, and I waved back, but when I turned around to confront Mr. Jasper he had already disappeared.

Abbey drew close enough to kiss me — a brief meeting of the lips and, to my surprise, a swift intrusion of tongue.

“Hello,” I said, once she had stepped away.

“What’s that?” she asked, staring suspiciously at my earpiece.

I shrugged, sidestepped the question. “It’s for work. But what are you doing here?”

“I’m up in town for a meeting. Wondered if you were around for a quick coffee. I was going to ring but, well, here you are.”

“Love to,” I said. “But I’ve got to go to the hospital. See my granddad.”

“I thought you were working.”

“I am. It’s… it’s kind of connected.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’d love to meet him.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Course I’m sure.”

“He’s not at his best at the moment. Not very chatty.”

Abbey laughed. “Come on. We’ll get the bus.”

The 176 belched toward Dulwich, hissing and snarling through the sullen traffic. The bus was almost empty, and despite my situation, there was something rather pleasant in sitting on the top deck with Abbey whilst everyone else was hard at work. The world of the Prefects, the Directorate and the Blueprint Programme suddenly seemed a world away, something pulpy and ridiculous which had happened to somebody else. The grotesque reality of it all was brought back only when I turned in my seat and noticed the black car that was following us — Mr. Dedlock’s promised watchman.

“Hope I didn’t wake you this morning,” I said.

“Course not. But I was impressed you were up so early after last night.”

“I had to go to work.”

“God. This promotion… They’re pushing you hard, aren’t they?”

I shrugged. “Making me work for my money, I suppose.”

“Money?” she said. “Is that why you’re doing it?”

“No, not just the money,” I admitted.

She nodded sagely. “Job satisfaction. That’s what I like, too. It’d be wonderful to do something important. Something really worthwhile.”

“What, like charity work?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure, to be honest with you. Perhaps I’ll know it when I see it. I’d just like to make a contribution.”

“I think I understand.”

“I’ve missed having you around the flat,” Abbey said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too,” I replied, and we sat in contented silence, enjoying whatever mysterious connection it was that we had begun to share. Naturally, I had to go and ruin it.

“Abbey?”

A soft smile. “Yes?”

“Who’s Joe?”

The smile fled from her lips to be replaced with a trembling impostor. “Where did you hear that name?”

“You whispered it this morning. You called me Joe.”

Abbey didn’t reply but only stared out the window, her pretty face filled with sadness and regret.

“Abbey?” I said. “Abbey?”

“Joe’s no one.” She mustered a feeble, unconvincing smile. “He’s a ghost, that’s all. Just a ghost.”

Strutting into the Prince of Wales’s private bedroom without even bothering to knock, Mr. Streater shouted: “Chief! Get your glad rags on! We’re going out!”

Arthur wandered in from the bathroom, his scanty hair still heavy and dripping with Brylcreem following his tragically inexpert attempts at styling it.

“Out?” said the prince, searching around for a towel. “What do you mean ‘out’?”

“Don’t stress. Nothing heavy. I’ve got a coupla buddies I’d like you to meet, that’s all.” Streater picked up a towel abandoned on the floor and tossed it over to him. “You looking for this?”

“I can’t go out,” said the prince. “I’m meant to plant a tree at a primary school this morning.”

Streater made calming motions with his hands. “Mate… Mate…” He slid something out of his pocket — another syringe loaded, inevitably, with the candy sizzle of ampersand. “You want some of this?”

Desire twisted inside him and the prince, submitting again to the demands of his new, remorseless mistress, could only nod dumbly.

Streater’s answer was a wolfish smile. “Then you’re coming with me.”

“…I need some now.”

“You can’t even wait till we’re in the car?”

“Streater, please.”

The blond man cupped his hand over his left ear. “Can’t hear you, chief.”

“For God’s sake, man. Please.”

“OK then.”

With the terrible proficiency of the expert, Streater rolled up the prince’s sleeve, tapped a vein and plunged in his syringe. A tiny pressure on the plunger, a murmur of ecstasy from Windsor and the thing was done, already easier than before, a little more seductively natural every time.

“Come on, then,” Streater said as the prince, now dazed and wide eyed, rebuttoned his shirt sleeve.

“Streater? I had a dream last night…”

“Yeah?”

“About a little boy and a gray cat.”

The blond man shrugged. “With this shit inside you,” he said, “with this gunk gumming up your veins — take it from me, that’s only the beginning.”

No one tried to stop them as they walked out of Clarence House, strolled into the staff parking lot and climbed inside Mr. Streater’s effluent-brown Vauxhall Nova. Dimly, the prince wondered why not a single person had lifted a finger to challenge them, why they had done nothing to save him from himself.

In fact, the incident of his departure had gone unnoticed. There was gossip promiscuously exchanged amongst the household servants, there was tittle-tattle in the scullery, idle talk amongst the grooms and scandal whispered in the ears of ladies’ maids — but remarkably not a single one of them ever went to the press about it. Although if you knew of the reprisals conducted in secret by the House of Windsor against those it