Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

“Don’t stress. Nothing heavy. I’ve got a coupla buddies I’d like you to meet, that’s all.” Streater picked up a towel abandoned on the floor and tossed it over to him. “You looking for this?”

“I can’t go out,” said the prince. “I’m meant to plant a tree at a primary school this morning.”

Streater made calming motions with his hands. “Mate… Mate…” He slid something out of his pocket — another syringe loaded, inevitably, with the candy sizzle of ampersand. “You want some of this?”

Desire twisted inside him and the prince, submitting again to the demands of his new, remorseless mistress, could only nod dumbly.

Streater’s answer was a wolfish smile. “Then you’re coming with me.”

“…I need some now.”

“You can’t even wait till we’re in the car?”

“Streater, please.”

The blond man cupped his hand over his left ear. “Can’t hear you, chief.”

“For God’s sake, man. Please.”

“OK then.”

With the terrible proficiency of the expert, Streater rolled up the prince’s sleeve, tapped a vein and plunged in his syringe. A tiny pressure on the plunger, a murmur of ecstasy from Windsor and the thing was done, already easier than before, a little more seductively natural every time.

“Come on, then,” Streater said as the prince, now dazed and wide eyed, rebuttoned his shirt sleeve.

“Streater? I had a dream last night…”

“Yeah?”

“About a little boy and a gray cat.”

The blond man shrugged. “With this shit inside you,” he said, “with this gunk gumming up your veins — take it from me, that’s only the beginning.”

No one tried to stop them as they walked out of Clarence House, strolled into the staff parking lot and climbed inside Mr. Streater’s effluent-brown Vauxhall Nova. Dimly, the prince wondered why not a single person had lifted a finger to challenge them, why they had done nothing to save him from himself.

In fact, the incident of his departure had gone unnoticed. There was gossip promiscuously exchanged amongst the household servants, there was tittle-tattle in the scullery, idle talk amongst the grooms and scandal whispered in the ears of ladies’ maids — but remarkably not a single one of them ever went to the press about it. Although if you knew of the reprisals conducted in secret by the House of Windsor against those it considers disloyal this might not seem so surprising.

“Do you like it?” the blond man asked once Arthur was inside and staring vacantly through the windscreen, past the grime and squashed flies which the wipers had formed into protractor-neat curves and whorls.

“It’s a nice car,” Mr. Streater.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong.” Streater turned the key in the ignition and started, quite unnecessarily, to rev the engine. “This isn’t a car. It’s a pussy wagon.” He smirked. “I’ve lost count of the quim I’ve had in that seat you’re sitting in right now.”

Arthur flinched.

With ridiculous rapidity, they drove out of the parking lot, squealed down the length of the Mall and braked extravagantly before the gates, whose guardians, long inured to the whims and eccentricities of their employers, allowed them to pass without comment.

Streater wrestled the steering wheel toward the City. “Something the matter, chief? Something on your mind?”

The prince turned his heavy-lidded eyes toward his companion. “My wife, Mr. Streater. I think she…”

Streater had to coax him. “Yeah?”

“She and Mr. Silverman. I think they may be…”

“Yeah? What are they doing?”

Arthur screwed up his face. “I think they may be having” — his voice diminuendoed to a whisper — “…relations.”

“So they’re shagging?”

The prince gazed mournfully at him. “I think it’s just possible that may be the case, yes.”

“Unlucky, mate. Having your missus get schtupped by another bloke. But you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean, Your Royal Highness, is that you let her get away with too much shit. You gave her everything she wanted from the get-go so there was nothing left for you to bargain with. She got bored. Birds are like that.” Streater broke off to honk at a schoolgirl. His tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his lower lip. “Wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating prawn crackers.” He wound down the window and bellowed a suggestion of staggering vulgarity.

The prince hardly seemed to notice. “Tell me, Mr. Streater,” he murmured. “And in this matter I should appreciate your candor. What would you suggest?”

“Treat ’em mean, mate. I’m not saying that’s an original thought, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Women like to know who’s boss. There’s a reason why blokes like me get ore pussy than we know what to do with, while blokes like you end up with your wife tupping around behind your back. You know what that is?”

Slowly, solemnly, the prince moved his head from side to side.

“It’s because you’re afraid of women and I’m not. I know how to play them and I know how to give them what they want. It’s a game, Arthur, and the sad thing — the bloody tragedy of it — is that blokes like you just never learnt the rules.”

“So am I to take it, Mr. Streater, that you’ve never been in love?”

In the kind of voice which made it very clear that he would answer no more questions on the subject: “Just once.”

On Shaftesbury Avenue, Streater swerved blithely into a bus lane and the prince inquired where they were going.

“Not far. I promise.”

“But I am to plant a tree today. The children are expecting me.”

“Sod the children!”

The prince just blinked. “What was that?”

“Sorry,” Mr. Streater muttered. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to blurt that out.”

Streater brought the car to a halt just outside the bleak terminus of King’s Cross station in a space reserved for emergency vehicles, switched off the engine, yanked open the glove compartment, pulled out a ragged, faded baseball cap and passed it to the prince.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your disguise, chief.”

The prince was just becoming used to this unfamiliar thing perched on his head when the doors at the back of the car were flung open and a couple of fat men squeezed themselves inside, along with the smells of grease and roadkill.

One of them shuffled his bulk forward to stare at Arthur. “This him, then?” he said in a mockney growl. “Bugger me, he’s uglier than I expected.”

The other one thrust a cardboard container running with oil and slime under the nose of the heir to the throne.

“Golden arches?” he asked, bafflingly.

Arthur never learnt to tell these two apart. They seemed almost identical — both thick necked, both jowly and unshaven, dressed in grubby shirts, frayed jackets and stained raincoats. They both smelt the same, too — of the street, of bad money and of corruption.

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector George Virtue,” one of them said. “This fat wonker’s Detective Sergeant Vince Mercy.”

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the prince, only just keeping the incredulity from his voice.