Those who had suckled at its teats were gone for good. A faintly mawkish memorial service was held in Trafalgar Square, presided over by the prime minister, who, although visibly aged by events, had fortunately been in Geneva at the time of the snowfall. A number of his cabinet had not been so lucky.
Anyone who hadn’t reached the river to gobble greedily on that liquid data recovered. There was much confusion, angry refutation, tearful acceptance and, ultimately, a good deal of a deep and queasy kind of grief. A lot of people came close to the brink that day but the majority were saved. In the end, everyone did the only thing they can do — take a deep breath, put their best foot forward and carry on with their lives, settling back in the old routine, the working week, the morning commute, the daily stampede into the center of the city.
And then there was me, of course. I was saved, too.
After the trap of the Process snapped shut, everything went black and I can remember only flashes of what happened next, a sequence of flash-bulb pictures — strong arms pulling me from the water, a warm, restorative liquid being poured down my throat, the sensation of being lowered onto something soft, the soporific motions of a long car journey.
Apparently, I was delirious when they found me, still chattering about the snow, the CEO, the information. The first thing I can really remember is waking up here, in bed, at Highgrove, where you’ve undone so much of the damage caused by the errors and misjudgments of your ancestors and been gracious enough to make me feel welcome.
I have taken great pleasure in getting to know you and your lovely wife and I would enjoy nothing more than to meet your son or daughter, whose arrival, as I write, is expected any day now.
There is a voice in my head. The first time that it spoke it uttered only nine words and then fell silent. Naturally, for a short while, I tried to convince myself that I had imagined it, that it was all some strange aftereffect, an auditory hallucination brought on by extreme fatigue.
But it has grown worse — much worse — in the past few days and it is high time that I accepted the truth. Leviathan is awake inside me and growing in strength.
What Estella held within her was merely a branch of Leviathan. What I have is its head office, its nerve center, its business brain. I’m afraid it will take a considerable sacrifice to bind it for good.
Actually, I think I know how it’s going to go. You might even have noticed it yourself. Over the past few days, my clothes have been getting bigger and baggier. My voice has seemed a little higher in pitch, often cracking and squeaky, sometimes child-like. But, strangely, I feel better than before. There are times when I even feel like laughing.
You may do what you like with this manuscript. Keep it in a locked drawer. Burn it. Publish it, even. Only words, after all.
One last thing. The truth about that voice which has split from my head and onto the page.
The first time I heard it, I had just woken on my first day here, and at the sound of it, I began to shake. It was more than just a voice, it was a chorus of voices speaking as one. It was the voice of Leviathan, the voices of the Englishman, the Irishman, the Scotsman, of the old Queen, the creature behind the jade door, the buzz of the drones and, buried deep in some murky quarter of its being, impossibly bitter but still cocksure, the voice of Mr. Streater.
This is not the end, it said. The wilderness is waiting.
EDITOR’S POSTSCRIPT
At the time of writing, two nights have passed since I said goodbye to Henry Lamb. Until now, I have not found sufficient courage to set pen to paper. Indeed, I find that I am able to write only in the daylight, with my wife and daughter comfortably close by, with the lamps on full to chase away the shadows, and far from any mirror or reflective surface.
We found him in the end. After abandoning the manuscript on my doorstep, he had taken one of our cars and driven into the Fens intending to do battle with what lay within him, with whatever it was that had written those parts of his book in a hand which was not his own.
But it was not Henry Lamb who came stumbling out of the wilderness toward us, toward the sirens and the flock of media who had gathered there against my ardent protestations. The man I knew had vanished from the face of the Earth.
Since reading what Henry wrote, I think often of Estella, about her description of what happens when you carry Leviathan inside you, of how the monster strips away artifice and unveils the real person underneath.
What staggered from the wilderness was a little boy, eight or nine years old, looking miniscule and ridiculous in adult clothes which hung pathetically off his body and trailed in the mud. I recognized that awful yellow jumper almost at once but it took me some time to identify the child lost inside it. In the end, I had to be shown old television footage before I was wholly convinced.
The boy was not loquacious. In fact, he would only ever utter a single phrase, the same quintet of words repeated over and over. It was an old catchphrase, devoid of meaning and even less amusing now than ever.
Two days ago, I went to say goodbye. Of course, Silverman arranged the whole thing wonderfully — the little lie in my official diary, the plainclothes security team, the discreetly unmarked car. In my new position, one can hardly be too careful.
The reader might find a bleak humor in where we keep Henry nowadays. He lies underground, deep beneath the town house of my first minister and at the exact center of a white chalk circle.
He does not seem to have aged a day but remains, eternally, a child. He does not perspire even slightly. No drop of sweat has been found beneath his prepubescent armpits, no trickle of perspiration on his calves or boyish moisture on the small of his back. He is well cared for, and although he is kept under lock and key, I make certain that the best of everything is brought to his cell. I have been adamant that those who keep and care for him are scrupulously vetted in order to avoid any repetition of what has come euphemistically referred to as “the Hickey-Brown problem.”
Naturally, Henry never leaves his cell. I owe him my life but it would hardly do for the poor fellow to walk abroad.
As usual, on my last visit, he did not seem to know that I was there. I brought Silverman with me for company but Henry seemed wholly oblivious to our presence, spending the entirety of our meeting intoning the same five words.
Curiously, there was a small gray cat sitting in the circle with him, curled up by Henry’s feet, purring happily and apparently quite content. I have asked how the animal came to be there but it may not surprise you to learn that a sufficiently persuasive explanation for its presence has yet to be advanced.
After I had said my goodbyes, still dabbing at my eyes and pledging my continued support, I took a detour into the smallest room and, despite his objections, ordered Silverman to wait for me upstairs.
I had completed my business and was midway through my ablutions at the basin when I caught a blur of motion, a sudden flash of color in the mirror.
Two men stood behind me. How they had entered unobserved and unchallenged, I had not the slightest notion, although — needless to say — I recognized them at once.
With their uniforms, their gnarled knees, their unforgettable air of menace, who could not?
“Hello, sir!”
“What ho, Arthur, old son!”
I dared address myself only to their reflections and asked them what they wanted of me.
“Just thought we’d drop by, sir!”
“Pop in for a bit of a chinwag!”
I spoke softly, trying to keep my head, and remarked that, without their actions, London would stand in ruins.
“Oh, but you’ll make us blush, sir!”
“Stop it, sir, or you’ll embarrass us. Boon here goes the color of Tommy K.”
I told them that I could never fathom their motives.
Those awful creatures laughed at me. “Give it time, old thing.”
“You’ll be seeing a lot more of us in the future.”
As my throat turned dry, I asked them what they m
eant.
“We’ll be dropping by regularly, sir. Hawker and me.”
“Just to keep an eye on things.”
“We want to be sure you make a better fist of it than the rest of your family.”
“We’re going to be your advisers, sir!”
“The power behind the throne!”
“No need to pull a face, old thing!”
“Trust me.” Boon grinned and touched the brim of his cap in mock salute. “You’ll hardly notice we’re here.”
I shivered and looked away. When I turned back, the Prefects were gone, the only evidence that they had ever been there at all the lingering scents of fireworks and sherbet dip.
I left that place as fast as I could, not stopping to dry my hands and barely restraining myself from breaking into a run as I hurried past the photographs of dead prime ministers, past serving staff, security men and the open-necked parade of civil servants.
Outside in the unforgiving sunshine, I had to stop to catch my breath and gather my wits because I knew, in an awful moment of understanding, that I had seen the shape of the rest of my life.
Silverman was waiting. “Sir?” he asked, his voice, as ever, the model of equanimity and deference. “Is everything all right?”
I tried to speak but the words would not come. I found myself wholly unable to say their names aloud.
Silverman took me away, helped me into the car and did what he does best, calming me down, soothing me, giving me hope and succor. But I have no illusions. I know how things are going to be.
The Domino Men will be with me all the days of my life and I shall not, I fancy, write again.
—AW
ABOUT THE TYPE
Goudy is an old-style serif typeface named for its designer, Frederic W. Goudy, for American Type Founders (ATF) in 1915. In its original ATF form and the Linotype derivatives, only the roman and italic weights of Goudy are called Goudy Old Style. In versions sold by other foundries, such as Bitstream, all weights are referred to as Goudy Old Style. Other weights, such as Goudy Bold and Goudy Extra Bold, were based on Goudy Old Style but designed by Morris Fuller Benton.
Suitable for both text and display applications, Goudy Old Style is a graceful, balanced design with a few eccentricities, including the upward-curved ear on the g and the diamond shape of the dots of the i and the j, the points found in the period, colon and exclamation point, and the sharply canted hyphen. The uppercase italic Q has a strong calligraphic quality. The gently curved, rounded serifs of certain glyphs suggest a Venetian influence.
Table of Contents
EDITOR’S NOTE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
EDITOR’S POSTSCRIPT
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