V 02 - Domino Men, The (16 page)

“Hello?” said the prince, determined to act (at least for the time being) as though her sudden materialization might possess some rational explanation.  The woman gazed distantly ahead, and now that he was closer, Arthur saw that she seemed to ripple and shimmer, like a film projected onto heat haze.  “Madam?” he said.  “What are you doing here?”

Outside, the storm was getting worse — rain beating at the windows, wind screeching past the stone walls, trying to find egress — but the woman appeared oblivious to it all.

“Don’t you see the resemblance?”  It was the blond man’s voice, maddeningly close.

“Streater?” said the prince.  “Switch on the lights.”

“No can do.”  He sound insufferably smug.

“You caused this.”

“A giggle in the dark.

“Streater?  Who is this individual?”

“Oh, chief, don’t tell me you can’t recognize your own great-great-great- grandmother?  Queen of England.  Empress of India.  Defender of the faith…  Albert’s missus.  Ring any bells?”

Arthur swallowed hard.  His instinct for rationalism was shrinking to a pinprick, but still he struggled to accept the truth of what he saw before him.  “How is this possible?”

“She’s an echo from the past, mate.  Just a memory.  Chillax.  She can’t see us.  And we can’t talk to her.”

“What is this?” Arthur said, his voice laced with fear and panic.  “What’s happening?”

“This,” Streater hissed, “is 1857.  The year the Indian Mutiny kicked off.  Small wonder the old girl’s feeling a bit tender.  Small wonder this was the year it made its move.”

“What made its move?”

There were three distinct knocks at the door.

Streater hushed him.  “Watch and learn.”

The doors were flung open and a man — another stranger — strode into the room.  Dressed every bit as anachronistically as the woman, he was not yet thirty, pleasant faced and athletic, his collar-length hair still boyishly tufty despite his efforts at lacquering it down.  He shared the same quality of mirage and translucence as the woman, and Arthur could see that the stranger seemed half-asleep, aggravating his eyes by rubbing them, fiddling distractedly with his collar.

“This is the man who founded the Directorate,” Streater explained.  “This is Mr. Dedlock.”

“Directorate?” Arthur said softly.  “I’ve heard mother speak of them.  Once, when she was in her cups—”

Streater cut him short.  “Chief?  Just go with the flow.”

The lady in the chair favored the new arrival with a frosty smile.  “Mr. Dedlock.  Thank you for coming so swiftly and at so unsociable an hour.”

“No more than my duty, ma’am.”

“What I have to tell you must go no further.  Do you understand me?  This is to remain a private matter, purely between the two of us.  You are here in your capacity as my etheric advisor and I trust that you will honor the sanctity of that position.”

Dedlock murmured something truckingly deferential and the lady went on.

“Last night I had a dream.  What is it the poet says?  ‘I could count myself a king of infinite space and be bounded in a nutshell were it not that I have bad dreams…’ ”

“I believe that is so, ma’am.”

“You’re looking at me as though I am mad, Mr. Dedlock.”

The man from the Directorate, his face a masterclass in discretion, showed not the slightest flicker of emotion.  “Nothing could be further from the truth, ma’am.”

“I do not think my dream was quite as other dreams.  That is to say, I do not believe it to have been a product of too much cream at table or an undigested piece of beef.  I believe it to have been absolutely real — as real and as solid as this conversation.  You understand me?  This was more than mere fancy.”

Dedlock smoothly:  “Of course, ma’am.”

“Something spoke to me last night while I slept.  Something completely outside the field of human experience.  And I am bound to say that it was the most beautiful, the most astounding thing I have ever seen.  Mr. Dedlock, I think that I have looked upon the face of a god.”

A delicate cough which, to more cynical ears, might have sounded as though it was intended to mask a laugh.

“I had been asleep for barely an hour when it happened.  So as not to scare me by appearing in its true form, the god showed itself to me as a great, shining circle of color.”

“A circle, ma’am?”

“Dazzling, impossible shades wholly unlike those that I or any other human being have ever seen before.  Colors that surely cannot exist upon the earthly plane.  And then, Mr. Dedlock…”

“Yes, ma’am?  What happened then?”

“Then it opened its eyes.”  Her own eyes grew watery at the memory.  “Hundreds of them, shimmering things as though on a peacock’s tail.  I heard its voice in my head, deep and ancient, infinitely wise.  It told me its name.  It is called Leviathan.”

“Leviathan, ma’am?”

“That is the closest approximation in our tongue.  Its true name, it told me, would resemble a mathematical formula of such length and complexity that it lies generations beyond even our most gifted logicians.  To him, our little lives must seem as the scurryings of ants.  But he told me that I had distinguished myself.”  Two spots of color appeared on the Queen’s cheeks.  “Leviathan has chosen my family for special attention.  To him, affecting human life on earth is as simple as moving toy soldiers upon a board.  He will guide us, keep us, protect us.  Our empire will flourish.  He will keep our borders safe and render us inviolate against invasion.”

“It does sound a remarkable experience, ma’am.”  Has the prince consort—”

“He is with me in this completely.  As he is in all things.”

“Naturally, ma’am.  Quite so.”

The Queen looked annoyed at the interruption, at this presumptuous truncation of her zealotry.  “From this day forth, my house has a new god and a new religion.  Leviathan is the way, the truth and the life.”  She broke off.  “You look suspicious.  Do you doubt my revelation?”

Arthur was watching Dedlock as his ancestor was speaking and he thought he saw the young man bristle slightly at this.  “Of course not, ma’am.  But I would urge caution.”

“Caution?”

“The Directorate has dealt with such entities before, ma’am, and they are seldom exactly what they appear to be.  Tell me, has this creature asked for anything?”

The Queen wrinkled her nose.  “Asked for anything?”

“Such beings usually have some greater motive, ma’am.  I doubt he proffers aid simply from the goodness of what passes for his heart.”

“Leviathan is not some street waif accosting us for spare change.  He is owed homage and sacrifice by right.”

“Sacrifice?”

“Dedlock, we have seen the way in which you have sneered and sighed.  You may be certain that your grimaces of skepticism have gone far from unobserved.  Do you not believe me?”

“On the contrary, ma’am.  I believe you absolutely.  Now I strongly advise you to tell me what it is the creature has asked of you.”

The Queen seemed far away.  “There is to be a contract,” she said.  “An agreement.”

“A contract?  What kind of god deals in contracts?  Your Majesty, it is absolutely vital that you tell me what you’ve promised this creature.”

The Queen smiled.  “Do you really want to know?  Leviathan is a god, after all, and must not be denied.  What I have done is for the greater good, for the future glory of the house.”

“Ma’am…”  Dedlock was barely containing his rage.  “What have you promised this monster?”

“I have promised it London,” she said.  “And all who dwell in her.”

The lights came on; Arthur blinked in shock and when he looked again, the two strangers had vanished.  Without them, the room seemed as bare and stark as a squash court.

“What was that?” he gasped.

“That?” Streater said.  “That was the first part of your history lesson.”

“Was it true?  Was any of it true?”

A grin.  “Better run along now, chief.  It is your birthday, after all.”

Dizzy and disoriented, his imagination grown mutinous, the prince stumbled dumbly for the exit.

“Many happy returns, chief.”  Streater executed a sardonic salute.  “And, Your Highness?”

Arthur turned back.

A final smirk, on the razor’s edge of cruelty and charm.  “Be sure to have another cup of tea before you go.”

So it’s happened again and once more I find myself the victim of a crime which surely has to be unique — narrative hijacking, story gazumping, a plot stick-up.

I’ve no doubt his phenomenon will recur but I’m trying to pretend it isn’t happening.  I’m doing the grown-up thing here and trying to rise above it.  Although there’s nothing to stop me ripping out these offending pages, I think I’ll let the stand for now.  If I allow this thing to run its course, it might buy me time, stave off the inevitable long enough for me to finish what I’ve started.

So try to ignore it.  Gloss over it.  Carry on regardless.  From now on, I certainly intend to do the same.

I leave these interpolations in place only so that you may have a complete and accurate record of my final days.

When I met Abbey for lunch the day after my first encounter with the Prefects, she suggested eating somewhere close to her office, at a place called Mister Meng’s Peking Restaurant.  I fully intend never to return.

Having unwisely spurned the waitress’s slightly condescending offer of an English knife and fork, I was still struggling twenty minutes later with a bowl which brimmed almost full.  Needless to say, Abbey not only wielded her chopsticks with embarrassing ease but also, in some strange miracle, made the business of eating egg fried rice and a side order of prawn crackers seem close to sensual.  She watched my gastronomic pratfalls with amusement as what little food I managed to pick up spattered down my shirt in Rorschach blots of greasy orange.

Once we had finished chatting of trivial things, she said, apropos of nothing in particular:  “I’m really worried about you.”

All I could manage in reply was a single “Oh?” distractedly delivered as I was grappling at the time with an especially elusive strip of duck.

“This new job of yours.  Yesterday, when you woke me, you were gabbling, you weren’t making sense.  Like you were high or something.”

“Oh,” I said again.  “Sorry.”

“You’ve changed.  Tell me the truth, Henry.  Have you got yourself into something dangerous?”

“I’ve been given a promotion.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

Suddenly lacking the heart to go on, I balanced the chopsticks on my bowl and pushed it toward the center of the table.  “Yes, there’s more.  But I can’t tell you.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Abbey rolled her eyes and signaled to the waitress.  “Fine.  Let’s just get the bill.”

I’ve never considered myself especially perceptive about women but even I could see that she was upset.

“I’m not sure where you and me are heading,” Abbey said.  “But I’m telling you now that nothing’s ever going to happen unless we’re absolutely honest with one another.”

“I wish I could tell you,” I said.  “I really do.”

She looked at me skeptically.

“I’m serious,” I protested.  “It’d be suicide.”

“Suicide?”

“Professional suicide,” I said quickly.

The waitress drifted up to the table.  “Everything OK?”

“Great,” said Abbey vaguely.  “Thanks.”

“What about you?”  The waitress sneered down at my half-finished bowl.  “Something wrong?”

I mustered a weedy smile.  “Not at all.  It was lovely.  I’m just full, that’s all.”

The waitress shrugged and turned back to Abbey.  “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

My landlady looked embarrassed.  “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah.  I can see that.”  This must have been meant as a reference to me, as when she said it, the girl glanced dismissively over in my direction.  “I’ll tell you something for nothing.”  She leant conspiratorially close.  “I prefer the other one.”

“Just get the bill,” Abbey snapped, and the waitress, chafing at the sudden gear-crunch in tone, scurried away in the direction of the till.

“You’ve been here before?” I asked.

Abbey couldn’t quite meet my eye.  “Loads.  It’s just round the corner from work.”