Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

This book is a list of instructions for how to survive what follows unscathed. You must be certain to follow them to the letter and, above all else, you must trust the Process. Remember that, Henry. Whatever else happens — trust the Process.

The cat nuzzled against my legs and meowed.

“What does it say?” Jasper asked, excitement and relief his voice.

“He says it’s a set of instructions. Something about a process.”

Jasper sounded close to giggling. We’re saved!”

The cat nudged past my ankles, mewed and stalked imperiously to the door. He stopped, looked back and gave a final impatient yowl.

“Do you know?” I said. “I think that cat wants us to follow him.”

“Ridiculous,” said Jasper, although I noticed that when I walked across the room he was close behind me. Or perhaps it was simply because I had that book and Jasper was drawn to it as a dog to aniseed.

Whatever his motive, it proved fortuitous, because if Mr. Jasper and I had stayed where we were, the two fizzing balls of flame which smashed through the window a minute or so later would have almost certainly have hit us square in the face. Instead, they bounced off the wall, dropped onto the carpet and set themselves to burning.

Jasper swore loudly. I just stared, dumbfounded.

In an instant, the room was filled with light and sound. Until them, I had never realized how much noise fire makes, the apocalyptic roar of it. Choking from the smoke, our eyes streaming with tears, we fled the room, stumbled into the corridor and down the stairs, the cat bounding just ahead. Behind us, we heard the bedroom catch ablaze, the whinny of the floorboards, the crackle of cheap furnishings, the splintering of chipboard and plaster. From outside — shouts and screams of panic and confusion. Acrid black smoke blocked our path as I fumbled to unlock the door until, after a small eternity, I got it open, and we staggered gratefully out onto the street.

Already a crowd had gathered, morbidly gripped by the disaster. A burly, thick-necked man ran forward and tugged us from the smoke.

“You two okay?” he asked once we’d finished spluttering. In the distance, I heard the approach of sirens.

“Thank you,” I managed at last, dabbing at my streaming eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Damn it.” The thick-necked man seemed enraged. I noticed that he wore the same flesh-colored piece of plastic in his ear as Mr. Jasper. “How the devil did they know we were here?”

“No idea,” said Jasper, peevish, singed and soot stained. “Henry Lamb — meet our head or security. Steerforth — meet Henry Lamb.”

Mr. Steerforth was not exactly fat, but he had the kind of meaty, rugby-on-a-Sunday physique which makes you wonder how much of it is muscle and how much simply flab. His blond hair looked dyed and was thinning badly, which had had unsuccessfully tried to disguise by combing it forward into a widow’s peak. If he had been an American football player, he’d be a grizzled linebacker given one last chance to prove himself in the final game of his career.

“Henry?” Jasper said quietly. “Where’s the book?”

I felt like crying. “Inside. I think I dropped it.”

Steerforth needed no further encouragement. Despite the fact that Granddad’s house had smoke billowing from its door and windows, despite the six-foot tongues of flame which were clearly visible within, Steerforth bounded into the building with the enthusiasm of a puppy chasing his first stick.

I turned to Jasper. “Will he be OK?”

“Steerforth doesn’t know the meaning of fear.” I couldn’t detect whether it was admiration, envy or sarcasm I heard in Jasper’s voice — and I wonder now if it might have been something else entirely.

Five or six intolerably long minutes passed before Steerforth re-emerged, a handkerchief knotted around his face, his forehead smeared with dust and grime, holding something cradled in his arms. To raucous applause from the assembled bystanders, he jogged over to us just as a fire engine and two police cars sped into Temple Drive.

“You’ve got it?” Jasper hissed.

“The book burned.”

“What?” Jasper’s eyes seemed to swell with exaggerated despair.

“But I did save this little fella.”

Steerforth passed me a small gray bundle of fur. Clumsily, I held it in my arms, and as he looked up at me, I could have sworn that Granddad’s cat was smiling.

Steerforth suggested that we go for a pint. Various medics and police-people were fussing over us but Jasper had only to mention one word — “Directorate” — for them to dissolve obediently into the night.

Most upsettingly, the cat had done the same, squirming free of my arms and running into the darkness before I could do anything to stop him. I searched frantically but Steerforth, apparently dying for a packet of pork scratchings, told me to give it up and manhandled me in the direction of the Rose and Crown.

The others went in, despite the fact that it seemed to be hosting some sort of school disco, whilst I hung back outside to make a phone call.

It took a long time for the connection to go through, then: “Mum?”

“Darling?”

Inside, a whoop of delight as “Come on Eileen” arrived on the sound system and the volume swelled.

“Where on earth are you?”

“It’s a long story. Listen, I don’t know how to tell you this, but… Someone’s blown up Granddad’s house.”

Mum sounded bored. “Really?”

“It’s been completely gutted.”

“Oh.” I could hear someone talking to her. “Henry again,” she said.

“I was inside when it happened.” I was starting to feel rather put out by her lack of concern.

“Sounds thrilling. You’ll have to tell me all about it when I get back.” She giggled. “Gordy says big kiss, by the way. Big kiss from Gordy.”

“Hello, Gordy,” I said flatly.

“Look, I’d better go. This must be costing us a fortune. Bye-bye, darling.”

Not bothering to say goodbye, I jabbed angrily at the off button.

As I walked into the pub, “Livin’ la Vida Loca” had started up and Steerforth was drumming his fingers on the table in time with the music. When the chorus lurched into view, he began to make weird, bird-like motions with his head as Mr. Jasper, sipping his Baileys, looked on, appalled.

The pub itself was practically deserted. All the real action seemed to be going on in the function room next door, where dozens of teenagers were busy doing one or more of the following: dancing, drinking, snogging, smoking, passing out. The smell of hormones, the heady scent of adolescence, was almost tangible in the air.

Steerforth shoved a glass in front of me. “Lager OK? Nice pint of wife beater?”

“This is a black day,” Jasper muttered Eeyoreishly.

Ignoring the signs, prominently displayed, which exhorted us not to smoke, Steerforth pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered them in my direction.

I shook my head. Jasper looked repulsed and mumbled something which might have been “dirty.”

Steerforth peeled the cellophane from the packet. “The house was our last roll of the dice. You know what we’ve got to do now.”

“Not that.” Jasper’s voice was shaky and uncertain. “Not them.”

“There’s no other choice,” Steerforth said as he produced a lighter from his pocket and applied it to the tip of his cigarette. I noticed that he had great difficulty lighting the thing since, despite his tone of brusque insouciance, his hands were shaking almost uncontrollably.

Suddenly, Jasper’s head jerked upward, as though he’d been goosed by a ghost. “Good evening, sir,” he said. “We were just discussing-” He paused. “Are you quite sure, sir? Is there no other way?” A wince. “You know my opinion on that, sir.” A chewing of the upper lip, then a reluctant nod. “Very well. We’ll tell Henry.”