Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

Once I had sufficiently recaptured my breath to form whole sentences again, I said: “You saved me. I ought to thank you.”

“No need.”

“How come you weren’t affected? By the sneezing powder?”

“My respiratory system is vastly superior to yours. I can go three hours without having to draw breath.”

“Remarkable,” I said, even now incredulous. “And Mr. Jasper did all this just by giving you a pill?”

Barbara nodded. “Despite his considerable personal failings, Jasper is the most brilliant chemist of his generation. The Directorate takes only the best. The prodigies. The wunderkinder.” Her eyes passed over me as though she’d suddenly remembered something. “And you, of course, Henry.”

She walked on.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re tracking the Domino Men. We’re following their spoor.”

“But we’ve lost them! This is pointless.”

Unspeaking, she strode ahead.

The long night had turned into early morning and the first glimmerings of dawn had just begun to dilute the grayness of the sky when we chanced upon a side street filled with parked taxis clustered around an all-night cafe like piglets at a teat. We had been walking for what felt like hours and I suggested to Barbara that we at least take the opportunity to get a coffee. I had even begun to wonder whether she required sustenance at all in the traditional human sense, so I was surprised when she quickly concurred with something approaching gratitude in her voice.

I’d rolled down my trousers and ditched the old school tie so that when we walked inside, I looked normal again — or at least able to pass for it. The place was filled with cab drivers amongst whom there appeared to be little or no camaraderie. They sat in their ones or twos, morosely clasping plastic cups, scanning the sports pages of yesterday’s newspapers or gazing dead eyed at the smeary blankness of the Formica table tops. Even the appearance of Barbara in their midst occasioned little more than a rustling of tabloids, a weary leer and a single, pathetic wolf-whistle which shriveled into nothing after my companion’s gaze flicked across the culprit. I got us a couple of coffees and we sat together at a table by the window.

“Do you remember when I started at the office?” she said, after we’d both swallowed a mouthful of what turned out to be surprisingly decent coffee.

All of a sudden, her voice sounded different and I experience a stab of hope. “Barbara?”

A brief flash of a smile. “Barbara’s always here, Henry. Even if it doesn’t seem that way. But I asked you a question. Do you remember my first day?”

“Of course.”

“You were kind to me. You showed me the file room, that sweaty woman in the basement. You introduced me to Peter Hickey-Brown.”

I pushed aside my memories of everything which had happened since then — from my grandfather’s collapse to the carnage at Diabolism — and I ventured a smile. “God, that man’s a prat. Do you remember — he tried to impress you by naming all the gigs he goes to?”

Barbara tried to laugh at the memory. It was a painful thing to hear. A forced rasp, a throaty hiss, a mechanical chatter.

“I’m glad you remember,” I said softly.

“It’s strange.” She sipped her coffee. “There are parts of Barbara’s life I can recall so clearly. Her father — my father — taking me to church on Christmas Eve. Midnight mass. The way his hand felt in mine. But I can’t remember if Barbara ever kissed anyone. I can’t remember what happened to her after she went to lunch with Mr. Jasper.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know how I can explain this to you. Somehow my memories are so infused with those of the woman they call Estella. She had such a life, Henry. She’d avert national disaster and scarcely blink. But I’m not either of them now. Not fully Estella. Nor fully Barbara.”

I gazed at her, partly in admiration, partly in fear. “Jasper seems to think you’re some kind of superhuman.”

She snorted. “You know what I think I am?” she asked. “Honestly?”

“Go on.”

“I think I’m a cul-de-sac. I think I’m a dead end.” She got to her feet. “And I think I need to try to pee.”

As Barbara walked into the back of the cafe I suddenly remembered something. I fumbled for my phone and punched out a text message to Abbey.

So sorry. Been a horrible night.

Can’t wait to see you again.

I pressed send although I didn’t expect a reply for several hours.

Barbara returned from the bathroom. I tried to draw her back into a discussion of the transformation which had overtaken her but it seemed that our moment of intimacy had melted away as quickly as it had arrived. She asked if I’d like another coffee. I said yes, and whilst she was ordering at the counter my phone shuddered in my pocket to announce the arrival of a recent text message.

So glad you’re ok. Can’t wait to see you too.

Sorry I didn’t tell you about Joe.

I missed you holding me tonight.

Then, best of all, the letter X repeated three times.

“Girlfriend?” Barbara asked, setting another coffee in front of me.

“Maybe,” I said. “Not sure, to be honest.”

“Is it the girl we met? I mean — that Barbara met. Your landlady?”

I nodded.

“Have a little happiness together, Henry. Grab it while you still can. You’re lucky.” Barbara stretched herself out felinely. “I know that’s not for me.”

“Surely,” I said, “looking like you do…”

She just stared ahead. “You know that they fought over me…”

“Who fought over you?”

“Dedlock and your grandfather. I can’t quite recall the details. Not yet. But I know that there was a struggle. Backstabbing. Treachery. Nothing changes. Jasper wanted me, too. He tried to touch me.”

“Jasper?”

“I say only that he tried, Henry. He made the attempt. That’s all you need to know.”

“And Barnaby? What about him?”

“Barnaby’s dead,” she said flatly. “They killed him.”

“Who?”

Rather disgustedly, she spat into her coffee. “You know their names.”

Suddenly, mercifully, Barbara’s PDA bleeped for attention. She seized it and grinned. Two small spots of black had reappeared on the screen.

“Gotcha.”

I felt a paroxysm of fear. “Where are they?”

“Oh, very good.” Barbara laughed, and this time it sounded almost natural. But there was no happiness in her laugh, no genuine mirth. “Very droll.”

“Barbara,” I said softly. “Where are the Prefects?”

“You know the address. We both do. They’re at One Twenty-Five Fitzgibbon Street.” Now Barbara’s laughter sounded a hairsbreadth from tears. “They’re at our old office.”

B the time we got to the Civil Service Archive Unit, it was almost nine o’clock and a stream of gray-faced men and women was slouching despairingly into work. The safety officer, Philip Statham, walked straight past and didn’t even recognize me.

Barbara was outlining the situation to Dedlock. His voice crackled in our ears. “What are they doing in there? What the hell are they doing?”

“I think this is it, sir,” Barbara said. “I think they’re here to find Estella.”

“You know something?”

“Nothing concrete. Just ghosts.”

Engrossed in their conversation, I slowly became aware that someone was shouting my name.

“Henry!” Miss Morning was walking along the pavement toward us, clutching a carrier bag. Strangely, she appeared to be smiling.

The croak of Dedlock in my head: “Who is it?”

Barbara told him.

“What does she want?” he spat.

Miss Morning reached us, still brandishing her plastic bag like she’d won it at bingo. “Tell that unhappy old man that I have our salvation in this bag. Are the Domino Men inside?”