Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

Jasper delved into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a silver pill and, like a soothsayer picking through the skeleton of some sacred animal, held it aloft for our scrutiny. “In this pill,” he said, “is the essence of the best field agent in the history of the Directorate. It only needs to be ingested for the subject to begin the transmogrification into a second Estella.”

“How remarkable,” Dedlock murmured.

“How wicked,” Miss Morning snapped.

“What exactly are your objections?” Dedlock asked Miss Morning.

“That boy’s grandfather would be appalled by this blasphemy,” she said. “It’s illegal and immoral. It disgraces the memory of a woman who gave up everything she had in the hope of keeping this city safe.”

I noticed that the old man couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. “The Blueprint Programme is already sanctioned. But I’ve made it very clear that our subject must be a volunteer.” He splashed toward Mr. Jasper. “You understand that? A volunteer. We’re not barbarians.”

Jasper rolled out his answer, smoothly prepared. “Naturally, sir. But bear in mind that we’ll need a woman in excellent physical condition, someone with a lively, eager mind, someone… clean.”

“Clean? What are you talking about — clean?”

“Trust me, sir. Estella was a formidable woman. Anyone we choose will be grateful for the improvement.”

Miss Morning was practically spinning in fury. “Disgusting. These methods are beneath you.”

Dedlock sighed. “We do whatever it takes. You understand me? Things have changed since you were last in the game. The world is much less genteel now.” He swiveled in my direction. “Mr. Lamb?”

I was starting to hope he had forgotten me.

“I want you to go to the hospital. Hawker and Boon have unfinished business with your grandfather and it’s just possible they might try to see him. Don’t look so worried. I’ll put a security detail on you. Morning? Have you anything useful to contribute?”

The old lady looked defiant. “I’ve a lead of my own I’d like to follow.”

Dedlock stared suspiciously at her. “Very well. I’ll see you all back here at six o’clock. Jasper, I expect to see your hunter. Now — get to work!”

There then followed an embarrassing ten minutes of small talk and chit-chat as the pod took a little age to complete its revolution and reach the ground again.

When we stepped out of the Eye, Jasper was still wearing that same look of smug vindication. I think I knew even then, although I lacked the slightest sliver of evidence to prove it, that he had been waiting a long time for the programme to go ahead and that all this suffering and death had ever meant to him was a chance to test his wretched theories. For this, I never forgave him. The rest of his betrayals I can live with, but for that, for his part in the inception of Blueprint, I can’t imagine I’ll ever find a shred of clemency.

Miss Morning, still denouncing the rank immorality of the man in the tank, walked away down the South Bank, off to pursue her nebulous lead. I can’t say I was unhappy to see her go. She was starting to unravel, sinking into confused, directionless rage, and I found the spectacle of it upsetting. It would have been better for her if she’d never got involved with the Directorate again. Better, perhaps, for us all.

“Jasper?” I said.

The baby-faced man, urgently tapping into his mobile phone, didn’t look up. “Shouldn’t you be with your grandfather?”

“I wanted to ask…”

“Yes?”

“This Blueprint Programme. This pill of yours. Who are you going to feed it to?”

“Don’t get yourself all tied up, Henry.”

A horrible suspicion had begun to claw toward the forefront of my brain. “You are going to find a volunteer, aren’t you? Dedlock — he said it’s got to be a volunteer.”

“Leave it to me, Henry. I’ve given Blueprint a lot of thought.”

“I’ll just bet you have,” I said. “Christ, you’ve been grooming someone, haven’t you?”

“Look.” Mr. Jasper was gazing over my shoulder. “Isn't that your landlady?”

He was right. Abbey was strolling over the grass toward the Eye. She smiled, waved, and I waved back, but when I turned around to confront Mr. Jasper he had already disappeared.

Abbey drew close enough to kiss me — a brief meeting of the lips and, to my surprise, a swift intrusion of tongue.

“Hello,” I said, once she had stepped away.

“What’s that?” she asked, staring suspiciously at my earpiece.

I shrugged, sidestepped the question. “It’s for work. But what are you doing here?”

“I’m up in town for a meeting. Wondered if you were around for a quick coffee. I was going to ring but, well, here you are.”

“Love to,” I said. “But I’ve got to go to the hospital. See my granddad.”

“I thought you were working.”

“I am. It’s… it’s kind of connected.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’d love to meet him.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Course I’m sure.”

“He’s not at his best at the moment. Not very chatty.”

Abbey laughed. “Come on. We’ll get the bus.”

The 176 belched toward Dulwich, hissing and snarling through the sullen traffic. The bus was almost empty, and despite my situation, there was something rather pleasant in sitting on the top deck with Abbey whilst everyone else was hard at work. The world of the Prefects, the Directorate and the Blueprint Programme suddenly seemed a world away, something pulpy and ridiculous which had happened to somebody else. The grotesque reality of it all was brought back only when I turned in my seat and noticed the black car that was following us — Mr. Dedlock’s promised watchman.

“Hope I didn’t wake you this morning,” I said.

“Course not. But I was impressed you were up so early after last night.”

“I had to go to work.”

“God. This promotion… They’re pushing you hard, aren’t they?”

I shrugged. “Making me work for my money, I suppose.”

“Money?” she said. “Is that why you’re doing it?”

“No, not just the money,” I admitted.

She nodded sagely. “Job satisfaction. That’s what I like, too. It’d be wonderful to do something important. Something really worthwhile.”

“What, like charity work?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure, to be honest with you. Perhaps I’ll know it when I see it. I’d just like to make a contribution.”

“I think I understand.”

“I’ve missed having you around the flat,” Abbey said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too,” I replied, and we sat in contented silence, enjoying whatever mysterious connection it was that we had begun to share. Naturally, I had to go and ruin it.

“Abbey?”

A soft smile. “Yes?”

“Who’s Joe?”

The smile fled from her lips to be replaced with a trembling impostor. “Where did you hear that name?”

“You whispered it this morning. You called me Joe.”

Abbey didn’t reply but only stared out the window, her pretty face filled with sadness and regret.

“Abbey?” I said. “Abbey?”

“Joe’s no one.” She mustered a feeble, unconvincing smile. “He’s a ghost, that’s all. Just a ghost.”

Strutting into the Prince of Wales’s private bedroom without even bothering to knock, Mr. Streater shouted: “Chief! Get your glad rags on! We’re going out!”

Arthur wandered in from the bathroom, his scanty hair still heavy and dripping with Brylcreem following his tragically inexpert attempts at styling it.

“Out?” said the prince, searching around for a towel. “What do you mean ‘out’?”