Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

Hawker and Boon were flanked by men with guns, killers who eyed their captives with the keen suspicion of keepers at the most dangerous wing of the zoo. Weapons were trained upon every part of the Prefects’ bodies by Directorate officers with paranoiac minds and itchy fingers, who were trained to murder in an instant and to relish it.

Yet Hawker and Boon were laughing. They were positively full of mirth, beaming and winking at one another as though they were on a school trip on the last day of term.

“Corks!” said Boon. “Fresh air! Have you missed it, old thing?”

“Rather,” said Hawker. “It’s absolutely topping!”

“Course we’re used to having the run of the playground. Such a shame the beaks kept us in detention so long.”

“Asses.”

“Swine.”

“Rotten brace of polecats.”

“I say,” said Boon, and I had a terrible feeling that he was looking at me. “Isn't that Henry Lamb?”

“Beards! It’s old lamb chop.”

“Lamb chop! Over here!”

Had they been able to raise their arms, no doubt they would have waved.

For six long minutes they stood there, keeping up their ceaselessly see-sawing conversation, their endless, babbling cross-talk, until they were marched at gunpoint into the back of the armored van.

As the door clunked shut, a man in uniform jogged up to Steerforth. “Sir?”

Steerforth looked irritated at the interruption. “What is it, Captain?”

“We’ve got a civilian, sir. She’s asking to see Lamb.”

“I thought we’d sealed the whole street off.”

Spots of color appeared on the man’s cheeks. “We’ve no idea how she got in. It seems she…”

“Yes?”

“It seems she slipped through…”

“Keep her detained until after this thing’s over. Least she deserves for poking her nose in.”

“She knows more than she should, sir. She’s naming a lot of names…”

Before Steerforth could reply, an elderly woman trotted impatiently out of the fog. “Henry? There you are, dear. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

She advanced on Steerforth. “You must be the new boy.”

Steerforth looked affronted. “I’ve served the Directorate for fifteen years.”

“Like I said. The new boy.”

“Everyone,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “This is Miss Morning.”

“Thank you, dear,” the old lady said. “They know who I am.”

Dedlock was shouting. “Who’s there? Steerforth, let me see.”

Mr. Steerforth looked as though he were going to be sick. “Now, sir? Does it really have to be now?”

The growl of the head of the Directorate: “Let me in.”

Poor Steerforth. He convulsed once, twice, three times, his face squeezing and contorting in agony.

“Miss Morning?” he said. The body was Steerforth’s but the voice, cracked and bitter, belonged unmistakably to Dedlock. “Time, it seems, has not been kind to you. Or even mildly understanding.”

Miss Morning thrust out her chin pugnaciously. “And how is life underwater, Mr. Dedlock?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re about to do something very stupid indeed.”

“I’m doing what is necessary to win this war.”

“The Prefects don’t give a jot about your war.” They’re playing a larger game.”

Steerforth’s face was turning a terrible scarlet color. “I’ve outmaneuvered them.”

“Come now. You’ve done no such thing. This situation is entirely of their own devising.”

“I am the one in control here.”

The old lady sounded tired. “Oh, but they’ll escape.”

“Escape?”

“Of course, they’ll escape. They’re the Prefects.”

Steerforth turned toward the soldier. “Captain, make sure this presumptuous secretary is put in a holding cell.” The captain place a hand, slightly squeamishly, on Miss Morning’s shoulder but she scarcely seemed to notice.

“Why can’t you see?” she said. “This is their fog.”

“Move them out,” Dedlock snarled before, all at once, Steerforth’s face sagged back into its familiar lines.

We stood and watched, transfixed in solemnly respectful silence, as the armored vehicle reversed out of Downing Street, turned laboriously and began to progress down Whitehall, creeping through the fog.

“You mustn’t let this happen!” Miss Morning said, jerking at my sleeve.

“What can I do?”

Perhaps I am retrospectively crediting myself with too much perspicacity but I was unable to shake the feeling that what we were watching was somehow less than real, that we were just spectators and that all of this was merely an illusion.

“Dedlock!” Miss Morning was almost shouting now. “Unless you finish this right now, people are going to start dying.”

In monumental indifference to the old woman’s warnings, the vehicle continued its stately progress down Whitehall. Bikes rode close by on either side. Dozens of guns were trained at it, ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble.

It was then that we noticed something was wrong.

It began as a trickle, a thin line of red smoke, curling out from under the doors. I watched it grow larger, as though a fire had been lit within. Then great clouds of red smoke were pouring out, streaming into the fog, staining the night scarlet.

Dedlock bellowed in our ears: “What’s happening?”

“I see it!” Steerforth ran toward the van as it skidded to a halt, and the rest of us followed.

Dedlock: “What the hell’s going on?”

Miss Morning appeared by my side. “It’s happened already. They just couldn’t help themselves.”

The old man was screaming out his fury. “Mr. Lamb?”

“I don’t know,” I snapped. “I can’t make anything out in this fog.”

As we drew close to the vehicle, Steerforth opened the door and clambered inside. The fog made it impossible to be certain what had happened, although, of course, I think I already suspected. All of us did, I suppose.

At last we were close enough to see.

Jasper was talking to his master. “Its’ bad, sir. It’s really bad.”

I stared into the van and saw the truth of it. The vehicle was empty. The prisoners were gone. The Prefects had vanished in a puff of smoke.

Miss Morning turned away. “It’s finally happened,” she murmured, her voice shot through with bitterness. “The Domino Men are loose.”

What happened next was chaos in its purest form.

Cries of panic and disbelief, Dedlock screaming in our ears, the rattle of weapons, the jabber of gunfire, the bellow of Steerforth’s commands as he screamed phrases so dismayingly hackneyed I thought I would only ever hear them on television. “Secure the perimeter!” “Go, go, go!” “Damn it, I want them alive!” And all around us, the ceaseless swirl of fog.

Mr. Jasper had turned the color of chalk. “How did they do it?” he asked. “How was it so easy?”

“It’s a game,” Miss Morning murmured, a grim kind of satisfaction in her voice, a melancholy I-told-you-so crouched behind each syllable. “It’s always been a game to them.”

Steerforth turned to the soldier who still stood, stricken with shock, by his side.

“Captain, give me a status report.”

In the palm of his right hand, the soldier clutched a PDA which displayed an electronic street map of Whitehall.

“They’re on the move, sir.” He stabbed a finger toward two smudges of black that were barreling across the screen. “They’re heading toward the roadblock.”

“Then we can still catch them.” We all heard it then in Steerforth’s voice — that awful Ahab mania. “I need twenty volunteers.”

The pit bull of the Directorate got his volunteers that night — more than he had asked for. All the killers who were there lined up before him — brawny men in khaki, the kind who’d been good at games at school, now trained to murder on the say-so of the state. The captain was amongst them and as he strode across to join the others he trust his screen into my hands. I began to protest but he pressed it toward me with such insistent vigor that I felt I had no choice but to accept. It made me uneasy, this piece of high technology which turned men’s lives into pixels and reduced mortality to a mouse click.