Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

Arthur seized it hungrily. “She says she needs to talk to me.”

“That right?” Streater laughed. “She wants you to jump and you ask how high? Is that how it goes with you?”

“No,” Arthur protested. “That is, I-”

Streater put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Word to the wise, mate. Don’t put up with any backchat. Give birds an inch, they grab a bloody mile.”

Arthur seemed barely to have registered what Streater had said. He held out his cup, already drained. “Listen here. Is there any chance of a drop more?”

Streater smiled and filled the cup again. “We should press on. Your old mum’s keen to finish your education.”

“Why?”

Streater gave a savage smile and clapped his hands together, at which the thin, wintry sunlight faded away as though a cloud-bank had rolled in front of the sun. As the prince sat riveted, clasping his cup of tea, a figure began to materialize at the corner of the room, the strange shade of Windsor’s great-great-great-grandmother. Beside her — the silhouette of Wholeworm, Quillinane and Killbreath.

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” said the Queen.

The lawyers nodded as one.

“We regret the unpleasantness with Mr. Dedlock on the last occasion we met.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” said the Englishman. “I’m sure that Mr. Dedlock will one day come to see the light.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much, Mr. Wholeworm. I think we’re in for a long and bloody struggle. Whether Mr. Dedlock approves of it or not, Leviathan is here to stay. But the truth can be entrusted only to a few. Only the most worthy of my successors will be told — and only then when the time is right.”

“Amen,” chorused the lawyers.

“We are the inner circle. We know the truth. Leviathan will take the city only when it is ripe.”

“How will we know, ma’am?” the Irishman asked. “How will we know when London is ripe?”

“I am not certain, Mr. Quillinane. As I understand it, there are certain atmospheric conditions which must be met before the city is acceptable. Certain questions, too, of population. But I know that I shall not be here to see it.”

Various obsequious protestations at this.

“No need for flattery, gentlemen. I shall be long dead when Leviathan comes again. But the firm of Wholeworm, Quillinane and Killbreath… now they shall not.”

“Ma’am?” the Scotsman asked. “What dae ye mean?”

“Leviathan has blessed you all. Your service to the crown will continue for far longer than you could ever have dreamed. You are to be his eyes and ears on earth. You will not taste death, gentlemen, until the very end.”

Wholeworm’s face had turned white. “Ma’am? What are you suggesting?”

“You shall be eternal lawyers, in the service of Leviathan far beyond the natural span of your lives.”

They stared at her, struck dumb with horror.

“Now, now, gentlemen. Please, do not thank me. You know how easily I blush.”

“Your Majesty-” Quillinane stepped forward, hoarse voiced and shaking. “Please-”

“No, Mr. Quillinane. That’s quite enough. I envy you. You shall be here to see Leviathan in his full glory. You will be here to bear witness as he blesses the people of this city.”

Streater clapped his hands and there was light again.

Arthur realized that his body was damp with sweat. “It’s coming, isn’t it? That’s why you’re showing me this. The city is ripe. Leviathan is coming soon.”

Streater cocked his head with a sort of nod. “Leviathan’s already here, chief. It came to the city in 1967.”

“What? How is it possible?”

“It was summoned here but some clever bastard trapped it.”

“Trapped it? What do you mean — trapped it?”

“It was chained by the Directorate. By one of Dedlock’s men.”

“Good God. Is the man dead now?”

“As good as.” Streater smirked. “Leviathan’s here, chief. Close by. In the city somewhere, imprisoned. But don’t stress. It’s all in hand. We’re pretty confident that his rescue’s only a matter of days away.”

“This can’t be right. This feels so wrong. Good God, Streater — my own family-”

“Relax,” Streater purred. “Chill out.”

“Why did Mother want you to tell me all this?”

“She wants you to be ready, chief. For Leviathan. For your ascension to the throne. And before that, for something she wants you to do. A necessary chore.”

The prince was still sweating and had begun to shiver and tremble like a street-corner alcoholic. “I’m gasping for a drink. Is there any more tea? Might I have some more tea before we finish?”

The prince didn’t spot it but a tiny smile of triumph flickered on Streater’s lips. “Why not?” he cooed. “A little drop can’t hurt.”

Miss Morning lived with a monster.

Even so, it was immediately clear that she was also lonely. Her house, a large four-bedroomed place in the snooty precincts of South Kensington, whilst grimily bohemian, lacked the imprint of any life but hers. Her fridge, when I caught a glimpse of its contents, was stockpiled with ready meals, instant snacks and suppers for one.

More than this, I scarcely recognized her when she came to the door, dressed in a flowing gray smock, her hair worn long and pre-Raphaelite around her shoulders, her hands covered in what looked like clay.

Once I had stepped inside and we were walking through to the heart of her home, I blurted out: “You seem different.”

Her only answer was a smile, like a mother to a son who’s just worked out the truth about Father Christmas. We walked down a chilly hallway, through her sparse kitchen and into a large light-filled extension which jutted from the rear of the building. Formed entirely of glass, it felt pleasantly warm, like a giant greenhouse or the tropical rooms at Kew — comforting and almost homely, or at least it seemed so until I saw the beast.

The room was filled with clay sculptures, each depicting the individual body parts of some bizarre, impossible monster. Here were tendrils and tentacles and black-skinned teeth, there were talons and claws and, over by the window, a gigantic eye, milk-white and scored as though by chisel marks.

I murmured: “I never knew you were an artist.”

“I dabble. It’s a hobby I discovered after I left the service.” She asked the minefield question: “What do you think?”

“It’s weird,” I said, trying to be tactful. “There’s a lot of black. A lot of tentacles.”

She nodded. “I only seem able to approach my subject in parts.”

“Is it some sort of allegory? Something modern and difficult?”

“On the contrary, Henry. This is life drawing.”

Before I could ask more, something small, gray and very familiar padded into the studio, looked over at me and mewed.

“Hello there,” I said, feeling absurdly disappointed not to get a reply. I made that strange high-pitched kissing sound that everyone seems to make around cats, at which the animal trotted meekly over and allowed me to stroke the underside of his chin.

“He recognizes you,” Miss Morning said.

I agreed, and I have to admit that my spirits lifted, just a tiny bit, at the knowledge of it. “It’s astonishing he found you,” I said.

“You know what he is, don’t you?”

I was tickling the animal’s belly by now, making it squirm and purr with pleasure.

“The cat is your grandfather’s agent in the waking world. He is the old man’s familiar.”

Gingerly, I removed my hand from the cat’s tummy. “What do you mean?”

“It’s the old man’s servant, an avatar, an extension of his self. A distillation of sheer willpower cloaked in flesh, fur and whiskers. He sees through its eyes and it has all his guile, all his wisdom. Your grandfather chose its form but I may also be able to change its shape.”