I stood up, shaky, slightly nauseous, quivering with pins and needles, but otherwise conspicuously unharmed.
I thought of what Miss Morning had told me about Estella — of how her skin had healed right back up again after the Directorate had bled her to the point of death. I remembered, too, what she’d hinted about the history of this place. I wondered about what my mother had uncovered in the bedroom, the significance of those sigils, signs and symbols, wondered about exactly what had been done to me in those operations I’d undergone as a child.
A couple of minutes ensued during which I tried to dismiss everything that had happened since Joe and Abbey had left as a hallucination or nightmare, but deep down I knew that something had been done to me, something set in motion. I even knew its name. Like everything else, Granddad had made sure of that.
The Process.
I took my leave of the flat and strode outside. The snow had finally stopped but its fall had rendered London strange and unfamiliar. The drones were everywhere. I couldn’t see them but I could sense them, moving past me, bustling onward, hastening into the center of the city. They seemed to be saying something and gradually I made it out — the same chant, heard over and over in a mantra of fierce joy.
“Leviathan! Leviathan! Leviathan!”
But for the first time in weeks, I no longer felt afraid. For so long, fear had been a part of my daily life, a car alarm whine which had swayed my every decision, stifled my imagination, stunted my morality.
I had only stepped a few meters from my front door when I saw it. Almost completely hooded in black snow, it was still immediately recognizable from the corkscrews of white hair which emerged like unusually hardy plant life through the darkness and the nose which jutted out like that of some ancient statue discovered in the dust.
The body of my grandfather.
As understanding began to percolate through my system, I felt to my knees with the same force as if I’d just been struck hard on the back of my legs. Tears crept from my eyes. I made no sound but began, reverentially, to scrape away the snow from his face, a patient archaeologist revealing, inch by inch, his cracked and weary features.
Then I heard the cry, much closer than before.
“Leviathan! Leviathan!”
With it, I could hear their raggedy breathing and smell the weird electric tang of their sweat. Slowly — very slowly — I looked up.
There must have been twenty of them at least, arrived like hooligans at a wake, all with flushed pink faces, all shambling toward me in the kind of frantic clump you get emerging from a tube station at rush hour. “Leviathan… Leviathan…”
I struggled up. ‘Can’t you fight it?” I asked a big bearded bloke in a postman’s uniform who appeared to be leading the charge. “At least try.”
He growled and lunged. “Leviathan… Leviathan…”
I was just beginning to wonder if it might be about to end here, after all, at Granddad’s side, when the postman’s head erupted, unexpectedly prettily, in a fountain of pink and red. He didn’t have time to cry out before he toppled to the ground, everything from the neck up a leaky scrag of gristle and bone.
I turned around. An old brown Vauxhall Nova had pulled up outside my flat and there was a man who I thought I recognized hanging out the driver’s window and holding a smoking gun.
“Get in!” he yelled. “Get in the car!”
The drones had cowered back at the gunshot but already they had begun to regroup and were starting to move toward me, their new leader a fat man dressed from head to toe in pinstripe.
For the last time, I reached down and took the old bastard’s hand. “This is my granddad,” I called back. “I can’t leave him.”
The man in the car looked at me as though I was an idiot. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
“You don’t understand. He’s… he’s the most important person.”
“Leviathan!” Stomach bulging through striped shirt, fat hanging heavily over belt, the new leader of the drones was clumping purposefully in my direction, the rest of them following cloddishly in his wake.
“For God’s sake! Get in the bloody car!”
I looked at what was coming toward me, squeezed Granddad’s hand and made my decision. “Sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry,” and I turned on my heel.
I ran over to the car and scrambled inside. My rescuer looked haggard, unshaven and scarily bloodshot — but it was unquestionably him.
“Hello, Henry,” he said, and gave an unnervingly high-pitched laugh.
“You recognize me?”
“You are Henry Lamb, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I mean, yes, Your Highness.”
“I want you to call me Arthur,” the driver said, and pressed his foot down hard, squealing out of the street, bumping over a colony of rubbish bags and only narrowly avoiding knocking down several drones.
When we were clear, I asked again how he knew my name.
“I’ve been dreaming about you. The cat’s told me everything.”
“What cat?”
“Little gray fellow. He told me how to fight the effects of ampersand. He told me how to finish this.”
“Excuse me for saying so,” I said, “and thanks very much by the way for rescuing me, but aren’t you the enemy? Aren’t we supposed to be at war?”
“The war ends tonight,” Arthur Windsor said firmly. “You and I, Henry. We’re going to put a stop to it.”
As we drove from Tooting Bec, we witnessed first-hand the fall of the city. Houses were smoldering, pavements were carpeted in glass, cars had been reduced to blackened clinker and entire streets were streaked with red. I saw a bus stop mangled into scrap and what looked like the contents of a clothes store sprayed across the road, as though a bomb had exploded in a jumble sale. It was almost unendurable to see — London, that remorseless victor, that dead-eyed master of predation, turned victim and prey, defenseless meat for some parasite which, comfortably accommodated in its gut, now chomped its eager way into the world.
There were people abroad, drones streaming in the same direction, rushing forward in makeshift columns, and we had no choice but to drive funereally through their midst, like killjoys at a parade. In their haste to move forward some of the stronger ones were trampling their weaker fellows underfoot. A number of times, I asked the prince to stop so we could at least try to help, but he just snapped something about not having time for sentiment and kept on driving.
“They tried to send me mad, you know,” he said. “Can you believe that?”
I looked at him, with his tangled hair, tufty stubble and bulging eyes, and couldn’t believe that it would ever have taken that much.
“They tried to get me hooked. They showed me ghosts and slivers of the truth. Lord knows why but I think they wanted me to kill my wife.”
We left Tooting behind us and, following the mass of drones, roughly retraced my old route to work — through Clapham, Brixton, Stockwell and Lambeth. The further we went, the more the streets grew clotted with crowds and the harder it became to maneuver through the tide of humanity.
“The cat had a message for you,” said the prince, swerving fast around a double-decker which sprawled across the length of the road like a great red seal bathing in the sun.
“I’m sorry?”
Arthur drummed his fingers excitedly on the steering wheel. “He said you’d need a phrase. For the Process. An incantation to close the trap. He told me you’d know what to do.”
