Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

Exhausted from the alarums and excursions of the previous night, the Prince of Wales had retired early to bed. Like the idiot Lamb, after his first encounter with Dedlock, he had tried his best to dismiss the episode as a lucid dream or a particularly unfunny practical joke, only for an incident at luncheon to smack the reality of the situation back to the forefront of his attention with distressing force. His mother had replied to his request for information in the shape of a small white square of card, a quarter of which was taken up with a gilt stamp of the royal crest and a listing of her every rank and title. Underneath, written in wavery, doddering capitals, were the following four words:

STREATER IS THE FUTURE

It was a perplexed and weary Arthur Windsor, then, who, shortly after nine o’clock, swaddled in Silverman-ironed pajamas and clutching his anthology of Rider Haggard, said good night to the muscle-bound servant who stood guard outside his room, folded himself into bed and snuggled up to a pillow.

He fully expected to be sleeping alone. Laetitia had let it be known via Silverman that she wished to spend the night in her private quarters — an increasingly regular occurrence which seemed to Arthur symptomatic of the ebbing away of her desire.

A chapter and a half from the end of She , the prince folded down the corner of the page, placed the book on the cabinet by his bed, switched off the light and, minutes later, fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes again, he was aware that there was someone in the room with him and that it had been her entrance which had woken him. It was not quite pitch black and there was light enough to glimpse a familiar silhouette.

“Laetitia?” he said, suddenly hopeful and aroused. “Did you change your mind?”

As the figure moved closer, he heard the silken music of her most flagrantly erotic nightgown, smelt the barest hint of that perfume which she had worn in the earliest days of their courtship, and closed his eyes in delicious anticipation of what was to follow, praying for her smooth tongue on his face, for her soft hands to rove southwards down his body.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Darling?” he whispered. “Its’ been too long. Don’t tease me.”

Still nothing. Even the scent of her had vanished.

Arthur sat upright, clicked on the lamp by his bed, threw off the bedsheets, got to his feet, wrapped himself in his capacious dressing gown and opened the door.

The guard was waiting. “Evening, sir.”

The prince blinked, frantically fishing for a name. “Tom, isn’t it?”

“That’s correct, sir, yes.”

“Have you let anyone into my room tonight, Tom?”

The man seemed affronted by the suggestion. “Course not, sir.”

“You haven’t let my wife in, by any chance?”

“It was my understanding that the Princess of Wales was spending the night… elsewhere, sir.”

Was that a smirk? Was this man laughing at him? Good God, how widely was it known that his wife no longer wanted him?”

“That’s true,” the prince said stiffly. “But you’ll let me know, won’t’ you, Tom? If anyone calls for me.”

“Naturally, sir.”

Arthur was on the verge of beating a retreat back inside and was giving serious thought to polishing off the last chapter and a half of She when he heard Laetitia’s laugh.

“Did you hear that, Tom?”

“Hear what, sir?”

The prince did not reply but walked dazedly away, down the corridor, toward the source of the noise. Hearing it again, the pure, uncomplicated sound of Laetitia’s laughter, he found himself fighting back tears, for he had not heard his wife laugh so naturally as this since long before they were married. He reached the end of the corridor but still there was no sign of her.

For an awful moment, he wondered if he might have imagined it, but — no — there it was again, and he began to follow, down other passageway, up a staircase, through a dining room, a drawing room, through corridor after endless corridor, past numerous members of his personal staff who stopped short at the sight of him, pressed themselves into walls and cast their eyes toward the carpet, centuries of tradition having inoculated them against the asking of uncomfortable questions. Arthur moved past them all, too proud to ask for help, stumbling onwards in his dressing gown and slippers, further and further into the labyrinth.

By the standards of the family of Windsor, Clarence House is not especially large nor particularly ancient — certainly, it was nothing like so vast and distinguished as the properties he would eventually inherit upon his ascension to the throne, but as he wandered abroad that night it seemed to him that the house grew bigger than before, that it swelled and budded into marvelous new shapes. Spurred on by the laughter of his wife, he wandered through rooms which he had no recollection of ever having seen before — a hothouse filled with plants of astonishing hues, an immense library stocked with books written in impossible languages, a place which appeared as a strange museum, stuffed with trophy heads of terrible beasts and ancient armor designed for creatures less than human.

At last, he passed into a hall of mirrors, each of which twisted his dressing-gowned form into something gangling and bizarre. Then he saw her, at the end of the hall, waiting on the threshold by the doorway, her favorite nightgown pulled down to reveal a generous swathe of cleavage, slick with sweat. She was smiling, panting, waiting for him to come to her.

“Laetitia!”

“When the prince looked again she was gone and the door stood slightly ajar. Shaky and aching with excitement, Arthur dashed on in pursuit.

Inside, Mr. Streater was waiting. Barefoot, crouched on the floor, he was caught in the act of pressing a syringe filled with pinkish liquid into a vein somewhere near the region of his big toe.

“Chief!” Streater’s face was suffused with jollity, as though he had just bumped into an old acquaintance at the bar. “You’re a bit early.” He depressed the plunger.

Wearily, Arthur turned and peered through the door. No hall of mirrors stood on the other side — just an unassuming stub of corridor that he must have walked down countless times before.

“Streater?” The prince spoke carefully, delicately, swilling each syllable around his mouth as though to test that they were real.

The blond man was pulling on socks and shoes again, stowing away the hypodermic. “What’s the matter, mate? You look shocking.”

“I think…,” Arthur said slowly.

“Yeah?” Mr. Streater sounded impatient, like a home-care worker chivvying along a befuddled charge.

“I think I must have had a nightmare,” Arthur said at last. “Just a nightmare.”

The prince noticed that Streater had a teapot and a couple of cups. One was filled for each of them.

“I’ve had word from my mother. She tells me you’re the future.”

Streater laughed. “We’re the future, chief. You and me together.” He passed the prince his tea. “Drink up. Time we got started.”

Arthur took the proffered cup and had only just had time to raise it to his lips when Streater clapped his hands together, the lights in the old ballroom went out and the pageant began again.

His ancestor, the Empress of India, sat shimmering before him, every bit as cold and monolithic as before, although this time Arthur thought he could detect a certain satisfaction, something almost post-coital in her bearing. She was flanked by three strangers, a trio of men, all in their Sunday best, their hair shiny and slicked flat.