Jasper smirked. “You must be Henry’s landlady.”
Abbey shot me a look made up in equal parts of bewilderment, irritation and accusation.
“So sorry to barge in like this,” Mr. Jasper went on. “Though I’ve actually been interrupted myself. Just in the middle of squiring young Barbara around town. Wonderful girl. So clean…” He smiled dreamily. “I’ll give you two a moment, shall I?”
I steered Abbey back into the bedroom, where I apologized profusely, dressed, thrust a comb through my hair and tried to prepare for a night out with Dedlock, with Hawker and with Boon.
“Could you distract him for a minute?” I asked once I was fully clothed. “Just get him talking. I need to make a private call.”
“Why?” Abbey asked. “Who the hell are you phoning?”
“Please. No questions.”
“One day, Henry, you’re going to have to tell me everything.”
“I promise. But for now…?”
Abbey plastered on a hostess smile and we went back together into the sitting room, where Jasper was flicking through a magazine and swigging briskly from a bottle of water. He tapped his watch.
“Two minutes,” I said. “Just got to go to the bathroom.”
As I left, I heard Abbey talking, trying her best to distract him. “Lovely to meet a colleague of Henry’s. Now tell me, ’cause I’ve always wondered… What is it you do exactly?”
I flushed the toilet and crouched beside the bowl, partly to disguise the sound of my voice, partly to fox any listening devices which might have been hidden nearby. It didn’t occur to me at the time to question how naturally I’d taken to such precautions.
I took out my mobile phone and dialed a number which must have rung a dozen times before it was answered.
“It’s Henry,” I hissed. “Sorry to wake you.”
Miss Morning sounded older now, as though she’d aged ten years since I’d left her. “I was not sleeping, Mr. Lamb. Just too afraid to answer.”
“They’re moving the Prefects tonight.”
No reply.
“Miss Morning? I said, they’re moving the Prefects tonight.”
A heavy sigh. “Then I assume you’ve made a will. I trust you’ve set your affairs in order I hope you’ve prepared yourself for the worst.”
He never slept with her, of course. As guarantors for the truth, we think it our duty to make that absolutely clear. Naturally, he would have liked to have done so, but we can assure you that he never laid so much as a finger on any part of her. In fact, unless something remarkable happens in the next few days, the miserable man will die a virgin.
At around the time that Mr. Jasper was standing on Henry’s doorstep, the heir to the throne of England awoke with a wretched headache, an urgent need to urinate and a terrible hunger gnawing at his soul.
He had no idea how he had ended up in bed, no recollection of staggering along the corridor, of peeling off his clothes and falling onto the mattress, no memory at all, in fact, since he was last in the ballroom, taking tea with Mr. Streater.
Streater. If the prince was certain of just one thing then it was this: he needed to see that man again. Only Streater would understand. Only Streater could make the world tolerable again. Only Streater could ease the craving, the black desire, the burning need.
The extremities of his body tingling with pins and needles, the prince swung himself out of bed and wrapped himself in his dressing gown. Every noise seemed too loud, every light intolerably bright. He used the telephone by his bed to make two calls — the first to Mr. Silverman, the second to his wife. Both, he was told, were unavailable.
In the end the prince had to wake an underbutler named Peter Thorogood to ask the only question which seemed to matter to him anymore.
“Where is Mr. Streater?”
Although Peter Thorogood thought that the prince appeared out of sorts, he politely pretended not to notice and simply directed him to the room which Streater had commandeered upon his arrival at Clarence House.
However, once the prince had left (Arthur was adamant that he did not wish to be escorted), Peter Thorogood telephoned his superior, a butler called Gilbert Copplestone, to inform him that the master was acting erratically, that his speech was garbled and his gait had become eccentric. Copplestone conveyed these fears to the head of the household, Mr. Hamish Turberville, who then telephoned the prince’s permanent secretary, Galloway Pratt, who called Kingsley Stratton, his contact at the palace, who spoke to his lover, a lady-in-waiting named Eloise Clow. Four hours later, the Queen herself had heard the news about the behavior of her only son. The message which she sent back was alarmingly simple.
Everything is proceeding according to plan.
As Arthur weaved his way down the corridors of Clarence House, he saw what had descended outside — a thick fog, a pea-souper — and it is a measure of his increasing instability that he pondered at length whether the weather was real or a trick of his mind.
It turned out that Mr. Streater was staying in an unusually unassuming wing of the house, halfway down a corridor of single rooms traditionally designated as quarters for chauffeurs and scullery staff. Exhaling asthmatically with relief, Arthur knocked at the door and waited.
When the sharp-faced man opened up, he was fully dressed and beaming. “All right, chief?”
“Let me in.”
Streater stepped back and watched the heir to the throne totter inside. The room was almost monastic — bare white walls, cheap furniture, a single bed with its duvet rumpled and distressed. There were no books, keepsakes or mementoes, nothing to suggest any life beyond the palace, with just one exception — a framed photograph of a young woman, a pretty brunette in skinny jeans.
Arthur all but tumbled onto the bed. “You know what I want.”
Legs splayed, immobile but somehow still swaggering, Streater sat opposite on the only chair in the room. “Do I though, chief? Do I really?”
“Is it true what you told me? About the deal? About my family?”
“Come on, you gotta know the answer to that.”
“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.
Steerforth was still protesting. “Please, sir. Please reconsider.”
“You’ve been working for the Directorate for thirteen years, Mr. Steerforth, is that correct?”
“Almost fifteen, sir.”
“You’ve served in Algeria, Khartoum and the Sudan. And you’re frightened of a bit of London fog?”
“It’s not the fog which scares me, sir. I’m frightened of what it might be hiding.”
“This discussion is at an end. Do not question my authority again.”
All at once, a hush fell upon Downing Street, an atavistic silence.
Two figures strolled through the black door of Number Ten — creatures dressed as schoolboys, forced to walk unnaturally slowly, shuffling in tiny steps like old men. A metal chain ran between their ankles and their hands were shackled and cuffed in front of them. They were as criss-crossed and tightly bound with manacles and locks as was the ghost of Jacob Marley.
Hawker and Boon were flanked by men with guns, killers who eyed their captives with the keen suspicion of keepers at the most dangerous wing of the zoo. Weapons were trained upon every part of the Prefects’ bodies by Directorate officers with paranoiac minds and itchy fingers, who were trained to murder in an instant and to relish it.
Yet Hawker and Boon were laughing. They were positively full of mirth, beaming and winking at one another as though they were on a school trip on the last day of term.
“Corks!” said Boon. “Fresh air! Have you missed it, old thing?”
“Rather,” said Hawker. “It’s absolutely topping!”
“Course we’re used to having the run of the playground. Such a shame the beaks kept us in detention so long.”
“Asses.”
“Swine.”
“Rotten brace of polecats.”
“I say,” said Boon, and I had a terrible feeling that he was looking at me. “Isn't that Henry Lamb?”
“Beards! It’s old lamb chop.”
“Lamb chop! Over here!”
Had they been able to raise their arms, no doubt they would have waved.
For six long minutes they stood there, keeping up their ceaselessly see-sawing conversation, their endless, babbling cross-talk, until they were marched at gunpoint into the back of the armored van.
As the door clunked shut, a man in uniform jogged up to Steerforth. “Sir?”
Steerforth looked irritated at the interruption. “What is it, Captain?”
“We’ve got a civilian, sir. She’s asking to see Lamb.”
“I thought we’d sealed the whole street off.”
Spots of color appeared on the man’s cheeks. “We’ve no idea how she got in. It seems she…”
“Yes?”
“It seems she slipped through…”
“Keep her detained until after this thing’s over. Least she deserves for poking her nose in.”
“Sh
e knows more than she should, sir. She’s naming a lot of names…”
Before Steerforth could reply, an elderly woman trotted impatiently out of the fog. “Henry? There you are, dear. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
She advanced on Steerforth. “You must be the new boy.”
Steerforth looked affronted. “I’ve served the Directorate for fifteen years.”
“Like I said. The new boy.”
“Everyone,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “This is Miss Morning.”
“Thank you, dear,” the old lady said. “They know who I am.”
Dedlock was shouting. “Who’s there? Steerforth, let me see.”
Mr. Steerforth looked as though he were going to be sick. “Now, sir? Does it really have to be now?”
The growl of the head of the Directorate: “Let me in.”
Poor Steerforth. He convulsed once, twice, three times, his face squeezing and contorting in agony.
“Miss Morning?” he said. The body was Steerforth’s but the voice, cracked and bitter, belonged unmistakably to Dedlock. “Time, it seems, has not been kind to you. Or even mildly understanding.”
Miss Morning thrust out her chin pugnaciously. “And how is life underwater, Mr. Dedlock?”
“What are you doing here?”
“You’re about to do something very stupid indeed.”
“I’m doing what is necessary to win this war.”
“The Prefects don’t give a jot about your war.” They’re playing a larger game.”
Steerforth’s face was turning a terrible scarlet color. “I’ve outmaneuvered them.”
“Come now. You’ve done no such thing. This situation is entirely of their own devising.”
“I am the one in control here.”
The old lady sounded tired. “Oh, but they’ll escape.”
“Escape?”
“Of course, they’ll escape. They’re the Prefects.”
Steerforth turned toward the soldier. “Captain, make sure this presumptuous secretary is put in a holding cell.” The captain place a hand, slightly squeamishly, on Miss Morning’s shoulder but she scarcely seemed to notice.
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