Silverman came running as soon as he heard, dashing along the corridor, skittering down hallways, practically bouncing off the walls, panting, perspiring, raggedly breathing. He knocked on the door to the prince’s private suite and walked in without waiting for an invitation. They had been friends for too long to worry about protocol, been through too much together to let etiquette stand in their way.
Even so, the prince looked annoyed at the interruption. He sat on the edge of his bed, breathing deeply, his face the color of semolina and wearing the look of a bunny on the motorway who knows that he will never make it to the verge in time.
The ghoul Streater stood over him, one hand placed, with casual proprietarialism, upon the royal shoulder. Silverman thought he even noticed a gentle squeeze.
“What is it, Silverman?” It was barely lunchtime, yet the prince sounded exhausted.
“We were all so worried about you, sir. You were out on your own without any kind of security detail-”
“Why does anyone give a fig how I choose to spend my time?”
“The tree-planting ceremony at the school, sir? The children were most disappointed.” At this, Silverman gave the prince a mildly reproving look — an expression which had often done the trick in the past, tweaking the royal conscience when they were both serving in the regiment and Private Wales had contemplated feigning sickness to wriggle out of training. Today, however, the prince scarcely seemed to notice that Silverman was in the room at all.
Mr. Streater looked the equerry up and down. “We went out, OK? I wanted Arthur to meet a couple of mates of mine.”
“Mates?” In other circumstances, Silverman might have found a certain humor in this, but today, one look at the pained and perplexed face of the prince was enough to quell the slightest hint of humor. “Why on earth would he be interested in your mates?”
Streater strutted over to the equerry and glared unflinchingly into his face. “What’s wrong with my mates? You think they’re not good enough for him?”
Silverman did what the middle classes usually do when confronted by blatant aggression. He backed down and started to apologize. “I didn’t mean any offense. I’m sure we’re both of us just as concerned about the prince’s welfare-”
Streater cut him dead. “Piss off.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. Sling your hook.”
Arthur pulled at the man’s sleeve, more like a little boy than ever. “That’s enough, Silverman. I think it’s probably best you leave. I’m in excellent hands here.”
Silverman knew that something was disastrously wrong but decades of deference and duty ordered him to simply bow his head and shuffle toward the door. “If you’re sure, sir.”
“Quite sure,” said the prince. “In fact, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Silverman left the room feeling a horrible certainty that the situation had just passed the point when it could be safely contained. Unsure to whom he should turn but desperate to do something to help, he walked swiftly to his study, where he poured himself a generous gin and tonic and began to set arrangements in motion for an emergency meeting with the Princess of Wales.
As soon as the equerry had gone, the prince gave a dolorous sigh.
Streater patted him on the back. “Nice one, chief. You didn’t lose your rag. Thousands would’ve. Personally, I’d have lamped him. Wiped that greasy little smirk off his face. He’s laughing at you, chief. All the time. That man and your missus, they’re pissing themselves behind your back.”
“I can’t take it…,” Arthur murmured. “Silverman and Laetitia…”
Streater shrugged. “You saw the bloke. All panting and out of breath. Looked like he’d dressed in a hurry. Reckon he was still balls-deep in her when we got back.”
Arthur stared bleakly down at the elaborate weft of his carpet, a gift from some sheikh or other who multi-syllabic name temporarily eluded him. “I can’t get the image of that poor woman out of my head.”
“What woman?”
The prince made a pathetic little moaning sound. “At the station.”
“Oh, her. Well, that’s life, isn’t it? Her choice.”
“Surely she didn’t choose to die like that.”
“Them’s the breaks, Arthur. Them’s the breaks.”
“Can ampersand do that to anyone?”
“Only if you take way too much. Listen, mate, ampersand’s special stuff. It’s priming the population. It’s making them ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“For Leviathan. Keep up, chief. It’s more than a drug. First time I bought it off Peter at a gig, it changed my bloody life. I’d tried all kinds of shit before but this was something new. Lights. Colors. All kinds of trippy shit. I heard a voice.”
“I’ve heard no voice.”
“Give it time. With me — you couldn’t shut it up. Told me I’d been chosen…”
“I can’t stand this,” said the prince. “I believe I have begun to see what it is we are traveling toward and I cannot endure the thought of it.”
“I know what’ll cheer you up,” Mr. Streater said. “This’ll put a bit of lead in your pencil.” His hands retreated into his jacket pockets to re-emerge, predictably, with the sickening accoutrements of addiction — the tourniquet, the vial, the syringe.
“No,” Arthur muttered. “Put that stuff away. There’s been too much today.”
Streater’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “Come on, Arthur. Just a little hit. You must’ve missed it.”
The prince managed a final, token piece of objection: “Under the circumstances, I’m not sure it’s appropriate-”
“Shh.” Streater put his finger to his lips. “Not another word, chief. Not another peep. Just gimme your arm.”
Arthur began to fiddle with the cuffs on his left sleeve.
“The other one. Wanna fresh vein.”
He did as he was told.
“There you go! Now, lie back…”
The prince stretched out on the bed and let Streater do it to him again, savoring the tingly sense of anticipation, the needle’s teasing bite, the soothing warmth as the ampersand flowed into his system. He closed his eyes and slipped away — and as he slept he had the dream again, about the little boy and the small gray cat.
He woke to find sweat cooling unpleasantly on his body, Streater gone and the telephone by his bed ringing loudly.
The prince rubbed his eyes and struggled toward the receiver.
“Who the bloody hell is this?”
The voice was deep, gruff and filled with oddly mirthless laughter. “Hello, guv.”
“To whom am I speaking?”
“The name’s Detective Chief Inspector Virtue, guv. You’re on speakerphone with DS Mercy. We
