Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

As Steerforth was yelping more orders, exhorting them to bring the Prefects back alive, Miss Morning was shaking her head. “What a waste,” she murmured. “And they all seemed like such nice young men.”

Steerforth must have heard because he spun around to face her. “They’re the best. They’ll run those bastards down. You have my word.”

“Those creatures are death incarnate, Mr. Steerforth. Take it from me — your men won’t stand a chance.”

The soldiers sprinted into the fog, and as I scrutinized the screen, I saw twenty spots of white hare after the Prefects’ trails of black.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Miss Morning said pityingly. “When will you people learn?”

The next few minutes were a study in impotence. Powerlessly, we watched as the white chased the black. We watched as the two colors met somewhere at the very tip of Whitehall and we watched as, one by one, the splashes of white were extinguished.

“No…” Steerforth whispered.

“Boys will be boys,” Miss Morning murmured with what, under the circumstances, I suppose should count gallows humor.

Dedlock was shouting in our ears again. “Are they dead? Are they all dead?”

Jasper tried his best to calm the situation. “It would seem so, sir, yes.”

“Where are they now?”

I consulted the PDA. “Moving out of Whitehall. Heading toward Trafalgar Square.”

“Then find them!” “Dedlock screamed.

A vein twitched in Steerforth’s temple. “Please, sir…”

“What is it, Mr. Steerforth?”

Despite the arctic tinge of the night, the man was sweating prodigiously. “I’m afraid, sir.”

“Steerforth! We do not have time for your soul-searching!”

Jasper moved to the burly man’s side and placed a hand discreetly on his arm. “You’re Mr. Steerforth.” His voice was gentle but underscored by steel. “You’re the hero of the Directorate. There’s nothing you’re afraid of.”

At the time, I assumed that Jasper was doing his best to support a friend and colleague, trying to cajole him into action. Now I’m not convinced that there wasn’t some other, darker agenda at work.

The voice of the old man crackled in our ears. “Stop bleating! Do your job!”

Steerforth seemed to come to a decision. He straightened himself up, pushed back his shoulders and snapped a reply: “Yes, sir!” Turning to the few of us who were left, he said: “I’m going after them. Who’s with me? Who’s bloody with me?”

“Steerforth?” Dedlock snarled. “Bring me their heads!”

“Yes, sir!” And again, filled with the unfettered joy of hara-kiri: “Yes! Sir!”

As Steerforth pelted into the fog, Jasper and I started, reluctantly, to follow.

I have never claimed to be a hero and I’m happy to admit that I was absolutely terrified. It wasn’t long before we came across the first of the corpses, the body of the young captain, contorted in death, splayed out on the Whitehall street like a doll abandoned by children who play too rough. I almost tripped over him and, at the sight, swallowed back a sick-bag surge of nausea and despair.

“What is it?” Dedlock bellowed in my earpiece. “What can you see?”

“Casualties, sir,” said Jasper.

“Bad?”

“Couldn’t be much worse.”

We walked on in silence, respectful though full of fear, treading through the fog past the ranks of the fallen.

Somewhere out of the billowing banks of mist came the voice of Mr. Steerforth: “I’m at the roadblock, sir. Everyone’s dead.” There was a swell of hysteria in his voice. “Did you hear me?” Everybody’s dead.”

“Mr. Steerforth!” Dedlock barked in everybody’s ears. “Moderate your tone!”

“Don’t you understand? Those things are loose in London. Nothing’s safe now. They’ll turn this city into a charnel house.”

“Clearly you’re not robust enough to cope. I’m taking charge of this operation personally.”

“With respect, sir-”

“I don’t give a tinker’s cuss for your respect,” Dedlock snapped. “Just give me what I want.”

“Please-”

It was too late. There was a grinding, crunching sound, the noise of clanking cogs and arthritic gears — and when Steerforth spoke again it was in the voice of Mr. Dedlock. There could be no question what had happened.

“Slaughter!” His voice was full of fury. “Slaughter on the streets of London.”

The rest of us hurried toward him, terrified of what we might find.

In our earpieces, Dedlock spoke again through Steerforth. “They’re heading toward Trafalgar Square. I’m going after them.” Then — “I can see them! I’m in pursuit.”

Somewhere ahead of us, he was dashing after the Prefects. It may have been my imagination but through my earpiece I was sure I could hear the malevolent lullaby of their laughter.

I can imagine how it would have gone, how they would have taunted and teased him, showing just enough of themselves — a flash of blazer, a glimpse of gnarled knee, a distant glint of penknife — just enough to keep him going, to feed him hope and lead him on.

We emerged at the mouth of Whitehall to find the roadblock in ruins and yet more tragedy, stumbled over in the fog.

Dedlock was screaming. “I can see them! I’ve got them in my sights.”

Jasper and I moved toward Trafalgar Square, where only the base of Nelson’s Column was visible, the great man’s view being mercifully obscured.

Steerforth was still shouting that he could see them, that he was going to bring them back and make them pay — although we could make out nothing ahead but endless fog.

Through our earpieces, we caught a fragment of conversation.

“Hello, sir!”

“You’re looking a bit peaky!”

“Not feeling yourself, sir?”

Much laughter at this, then a scuffling sound, then a thud, then a sickening crack.

Dedlock’s voice: “Forgive me. I have to leave you.”

Then, strangely, Steerforth’s again: “Please, sir. Don’t leave me like-”

He was interrupted by what sounded like a scream. There was an animal whine, cut abruptly short, the abattoir shriek of metal on bone. Then another sound, a bouncing, rolling noise like a bowling ball as it speeds toward the skittles.

Sometimes I dream about what we saw come wobbling out of the fog toward us, sliding over the tarmac of Trafalgar Square. I felt a powerful urge to vomit and even Mr. Jasper seemed to have tears (or something like them) swelling in his eyes.

It rolled to a stop a few centimeters before it reached me, saving me the embarrassment of having to halt its progress with my foot as though it were a child’s football kicked into the street.

Dedlock spoke again into my earpiece. “I think… I think Mr. Steerforth may have passed away.”

None of us replied. Jasper sank onto his haunches and, almost tenderly, picked up the disembodied thing. Still, there was silence.

“Apply yourselves!” Dedlock was shouting again. “Get me a status report.”

“The Prefects have disappeared,” I said flatly. “They’ve gone.”

“Gone?”

“They must have known we’d put tracers on them,” Jasper muttered wearily. “There’s only two of us left here, sir. What do you want us to do?”

Dedlock hissed. “I want you to find them!”

“With respect, sir. You’ve seen the casualties we’ve taken. You’d be sending us to our deaths.”

Then — a bitter order. No apology. No trace of sympathy. “Go back to Downing Street.”

We trudged forlornly to Number Ten, where Miss Morning was waiting. At the sight of what Jasper was carrying, she seemed to tremble on the edge of tears.

“Now you understand,” she said quietly.

Dedlock spoke again. “I’m sending in a whitewash team to deal with this mess. Our first priority must be to find the Prefects. They’re still our only like to Estella.”