“Why can’t you see?” she said. “This is their fog.”
“Move them out,” Dedlock snarled before, all at once, Steerforth’s face sagged back into its familiar lines.
We stood and watched, transfixed in solemnly respectful silence, as the armored vehicle reversed out of Downing Street, turned laboriously and began to progress down Whitehall, creeping through the fog.
“You mustn’t let this happen!” Miss Morning said, jerking at my sleeve.
“What can I do?”
Perhaps I am retrospectively crediting myself with too much perspicacity but I was unable to shake the feeling that what we were watching was somehow less than real, that we were just spectators and that all of this was merely an illusion.
“Dedlock!” Miss Morning was almost shouting now. “Unless you finish this right now, people are going to start dying.”
In monumental indifference to the old woman’s warnings, the vehicle continued its stately progress down Whitehall. Bikes rode close by on either side. Dozens of guns were trained at it, ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble.
It was then that we noticed something was wrong.
It began as a trickle, a thin line of red smoke, curling out from under the doors. I watched it grow larger, as though a fire had been lit within. Then great clouds of red smoke were pouring out, streaming into the fog, staining the night scarlet.
Dedlock bellowed in our ears: “What’s happening?”
“I see it!” Steerforth ran toward the van as it skidded to a halt, and the rest of us followed.
Dedlock: “What the hell’s going on?”
Miss Morning appeared by my side. “It’s happened already. They just couldn’t help themselves.”
The old man was screaming out his fury. “Mr. Lamb?”
“I don’t know,” I snapped. “I can’t make anything out in this fog.”
As we drew close to the vehicle, Steerforth opened the door and clambered inside. The fog made it impossible to be certain what had happened, although, of course, I think I already suspected. All of us did, I suppose.
At last we were close enough to see.
Jasper was talking to his master. “Its’ bad, sir. It’s really bad.”
I stared into the van and saw the truth of it. The vehicle was empty. The prisoners were gone. The Prefects had vanished in a puff of smoke.
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.
We emerged at the mouth of Whitehall to find the roadblock in ruins and yet more tragedy, stumbled over in the fog.
Dedlock was screaming. “I can see them! I’ve got them in my sights.”
Jasper and I moved toward Trafalgar Square, where only the base of Nelson’s Column was visible, the great man’s view being mercifully obscured.
Steerforth was still shouting that he could see them, that he was going to bring them back and make them pay — although we could make out nothing ahead but endless fog.
Through our earpieces, we caught a fragment of conversation.
“Hello, sir!”
“You’re looking a bit peaky!”
“Not feeling yourself, sir?”
Much laughter at this, then a scuffling sound, then a thud, then a sickening crack.
Dedlock’s voice: “Forgive me. I have to leave you.”
Then, strangely, Steerforth’s again: “Please, sir. Don’t leave me like-”
He was interrupted by what sounded like a scream. There was an animal whine, cut abruptly short, the abattoir shriek of metal on bone. Then another sound, a bouncing, rolling noise like a bowling ball as it speeds toward the skittles.
Sometimes I dream about what we saw come wobbling out of the fog toward us, sliding over the tarmac of Trafalgar Square. I felt a powerful urge to vomit and even Mr. Jasper seemed to have tears (or something like them) swelling in his eyes.
It rolled to a stop a few centimeters before it reached me, saving me the embarrassment of having to halt its progress with my foot as though it were a child’s football kicked into the street.
Dedlock spoke again into my earpiece. “I think… I think Mr. Steerforth may have passed away.”
None of us replied. Jasper sank onto his haunches and, almost tenderly, picked up the disembodied thing. Still, there was silence.
“Apply yourselves!” Dedlock was shouting again. “Get me a status report.”
“The Prefects have disappeared,” I said flatly. “They’ve gone.”
“Gone?”
“They must have known we’d put tracers on them,” Jasper muttered wearily. “There’s only two of us left here, sir. What do you want us to do?”
Dedlock hissed. “I want you to find them!”
“With respect, sir. You’ve seen the casualties we’ve taken. You’d be sending us to our deaths.”
Then — a bitter order. No apology. No trace of sympathy. “Go back to Downing Street.”
We trudged forlornly to Number Ten, where Miss Morning was waiting. At the sight of what Jasper was carrying, she seemed to tremble on the edge of tears.
“Now you understand,” she said quietly.
Dedlock spoke again. “I’m sending in a whitewash team to deal with this mess. Our first priority must be to find the Prefects. They’re still our only like to Estella.”
“More than that,” Miss Morning said. “They would tear this city apart simply because they’re bored.”
“There are other resources available to the Directorate,” Dedlock said. “I’ll see all of you again at nine A.M. at the Eye for a council of war. Until then — get some rest. Guards will be posted at your homes. You’re dismissed.”
Miss Morning, who, lacking an earpiece, had not quite been following all of this, turned to me and said: “Tell him I’ll be seeing him tomorrow.”
“Sir?” I said. “Did you hear that?”
“Why would I want her?” he asked. “What do I need with a bloody secretary?”
“Tell him I understand these monsters. Tell him I know what makes them happy.”
There was a long pause. “Very well. Bring her. I’ll see you in five hours.”
Soon afterwards, Barnaby arrived to take us home. Miss Morning and I clambered wearily into the cab but Jasper elected to stay behind, clinging to what was left of Steerforth with a disturbing tenacity.
As we drove, I saw that Dedlock’s whitewash team had already moved in — a phalanx of people in what looked like full-body anoraks, the personification of unsqueamish efficiency with their scrubbing agents and wire brushes, their sponges, sprays and tweezers. The street was lined with polyester bags the size of coffins, zipped up snugly to hold the dead.
We were negotiating the circle of Trafalgar Square when a van screeched past us, speeding toward the seat of power. I caught a glimpse of its passengers — more killers, tooled up and bristling with eager death.
“Jackboots,” Miss Morning murmured. “Dedlock’s reserves. The chase goes on.” She yawned and settled back in her seat, bleakly deferential to defeat.
We were too exhausted and distraught for much conversation, but as Barnaby drove us through the glum streets of Elephant and Castle, Miss Morning muttered: “I’ve seen them.”
“What? I’d been staring out of the window, doing my best to forget.
“Whilst the rest of you were gone. I saw them. They were watching it all.”
“Who was watching?”
“The three,” she whispered. “The three are moving again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know them, Henry. The Englishman. The Irishman. The Scotsman.” Even after all the lurid horrors of the night, at this I felt a peculiar frisson of disgust.
I turned my face away from the old woman and stared through the window. All I could see was my own reflection in the glass — a haggard, weary man with pity and accusation in his eyes.
Dawn was skulking over the horizon and the fog was just beginning to lift when Barnaby dropped me back outside the flat in Tooting Bec.
I let myself in, set the alarm to give me four hours’ sleep, unpeeled my clothes and sank gratefully into bed, wriggling under the cocoon of the duvet, hugging it close for comfort.
When I woke again it seemed like mere minutes had passed, although the officious chirrup of my alarm insisted that it was past eight o’clock and that I had less than an hour to present myself at the Eye.
To my surprise and delight, Abbey was in my bed. She gave a little groan at the alarm.
“Thanks,” she said when I switched it off. She moved close to me and wrapped her arms around my chest.
“You’ve come back.”
“Of course I’ve come back.”
I kissed her on the forehead and I think my hand may have inadvertently brushed against her breasts. She gave a husky sigh of pleasure.
“Oh, Joe,” she murmured.
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For a moment, I wondered if I had imagined it, but then she said it again, quite clearly, as though to leave me absolutely no room for doubt, no merciful space for self-delusion. “I can’t believe you’ve come back, Joe.”
“Joe?” I wondered aloud. “Who’s Joe?”
When I looked again, Abbey’s eyes were fluttering shut, her lips slightly parted as though in provocation for a kiss, and the last good thing in my life had just begun to dribble away.
For the first time in his long and privileged existence (with the regrettable exception of an indiscretion during his university freshers’ week, kept from the media only by the application of an improbably large donation from the royal purse) the Prince of Wales woke up the following morning without the faintest idea of where he was or why.
As soon as he came to after a peculiarly troubling dream (something about a little boy and a small gray cat) he felt the first flailings of panic. Struggling into an upright position, he surveyed the room in which he had woken — small, functional, yet dimly familiar. Beside him, on the floor by the sofa on which he had presumably passed the night, was a little heap of items which had nothing whatsoever to do with his life, stock props from the horror reel of someone else’s existence — tourniquet, syringe, a vial of bubble-gum pink liquid. It was around this time that the prince realized that he was wearing nothing more than his boxer shorts (florid, festooned with hearts and pineapples, purchased by Silverman at Laetitia’s request). Arthur had no memory of having stripped off his clothes and realized that someone must have done it for him. It was only when he noticed Mr. Streater, face-down on the bed and dressed in a silver thong which flossed insouciantly between his buttocks, that Arthur Windsor remembered the sight of the needle, the fizz of the liquid in his veins.
His emotions upon this realization were complex. Naturally, there was shame, a certain amount of humiliation and a large portion of self-chastisement, but there was also — and this was something that the prince was able to admit to himself only much later, when events had sucked him in, seemingly beyond the point of no return — a sneaking, secret pleasure, the shuddering joy of the forbidden.
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