Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

I moaned a frantic greeting.

My rescuers grinned. “Hello, sir!”

“What ho, old top!”

The ginger-haired man yanked the tape from my mouth and I yelped in pain.

“You look a bit peaky, sir!”

Oh God.

“Please,” I muttered. “Please… Please help me… I know we’ve had our differences. But for God’s sake, let me go.”

One of them giggled. “Sorry, lamb chop. That’s not really on the cards.”

Boon looked around him and smacked his hands together cheerfully. “Where’s the little lady, then, sir?”

“Where’s the missus?”

“Popped out, has she, sir?”

“Gone to borrow a cup of sugar?”

“Please…” I said. “You can see what’s happened here. Please untie me. That’s all I ask.”

“Oh no, sir.”

“Couldn’t do that, sir.”

“Point of fact, this is how we expected to find you, sir. This is where your grandpapa told us you would be.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, wriggling my arms beneath the rope.

“He liked your ladyfriend when he sold her the flat, sir.”

“Thought she was quite a dish, sir.”

“Thought she’d be perfect.”

“Perfect?” I said. “Perfect for what?”

A wide grin spread across Boon’s face. “Perfect hair, sir,” he said. “With which to set the trap.”

Hawker pulled at each of my hands, wriggling them free from the tape and exposing my wrists.

“Now then, Mr. L,” said Boon, “have we ever told you about our penknife?”

“It’d be queer if we hadn’t, sir,” Hawker chortled. “We tell most of the chaps. It’s got a bottle opener and a corkscrew and a how-de-ye-do for getting stones from horses’ hooves.”

The pressure on my bladder had grown intolerable until, miserably, I felt a warm piss spurt into my pants and start to soak my trousers.

Hawker dug into his blazer pocket. With evident pride, her produced a long knife and brought it close to my left wrist.

I screamed. “Please! What are you doing?”

Boon sniggered. “We’re good boys.”

“We’re the sturdiest chaps in school.”

“We’re only doing what your grandpa wanted.”

Cold steel on my skin”

“I shouldn’t fret, sir.”

“Buck up, Mr. L!”

“It’s all part of the plan.”

“All part of the Process.”

Hawker cut into my wrist, slashing downward in swift vertical motions, following the path of the vein. Blood bubbled up. With hideous expertise, he did exactly the same to my other wrist.

As I screamed, Boon touched the brim of his cap. “’Fraid we’ve got to dash, sir.”

“But we want you to know it’s been a real pleasure.”

“We’ve had ripping fun”

“Such larks!”

“Such japes!”

“Ta-ta, sir!”

“Tinkety-tonk!”

With the smell of fireworks and sherbet dip, they shimmered and disappeared, and I was left alone in that wretched room, already too weak to cry out, watching my life pool away from me onto the floor. I stared down until I couldn’t bear it any longer. I closed my eyes, lost myself in the pain and sucked in a few last breaths.

A short while later, my heart stopped beating altogether and I burrowed down into the darkness.

I’ve just seen what I wrote yesterday. Obviously, you realize what’s happened. The other storyteller (the interloper, the spite merchant) has returned and I no longer have complete control of my pen.

So this is it, then.

A race to the finish.

Unexpectedly, I opened my eyes.

It was as if waking up from an unusually vivid and visceral dream. I felt groggy and dazed and there was a sour taste in my mouth by the symptoms were no worse than those you might expect from a medium-strength hangover.

I was still bound to the chair but there were no cuts to my wrists. They chafed against the duct tape but they weren’t bleeding now, nor did they even appear to be grazed. Of the Prefects, there was no sign.

The pieces of tape which tied me to the chair seemed suddenly easy to remove. They slipped away like shrouds.

I stood up, shaky, slightly nauseous, quivering with pins and needles, but otherwise conspicuously unharmed.

I thought of what Miss Morning had told me about Estella — of how her skin had healed right back up again after the Directorate had bled her to the point of death. I remembered, too, what she’d hinted about the history of this place. I wondered about what my mother had uncovered in the bedroom, the significance of those sigils, signs and symbols, wondered about exactly what had been done to me in those operations I’d undergone as a child.

A couple of minutes ensued during which I tried to dismiss everything that had happened since Joe and Abbey had left as a hallucination or nightmare, but deep down I knew that something had been done to me, something set in motion. I even knew its name. Like everything else, Granddad had made sure of that.

The Process.

We count ourselves as no friends of his but in the final analysis it must be said that Henry Lamb was poorly used. The things that he allowed to be done to him were immoderate and inhumane. But the real tragedy lies in how bovinely he accepted it all.

Even now, his humiliations are far from at an end.

I took my leave of the flat and strode outside. The snow had finally stopped but its fall had rendered London strange and unfamiliar. The drones were everywhere. I couldn’t see them but I could sense them, moving past me, bustling onward, hastening into the center of the city. They seemed to be saying something and gradually I made it out — the same chant, heard over and over in a mantra of fierce joy.

“Leviathan! Leviathan! Leviathan!”

But for the first time in weeks, I no longer felt afraid. For so long, fear had been a part of my daily life, a car alarm whine which had swayed my every decision, stifled my imagination, stunted my morality.

I had only stepped a few meters from my front door when I saw it. Almost completely hooded in black snow, it was still immediately recognizable from the corkscrews of white hair which emerged like unusually hardy plant life through the darkness and the nose which jutted out like that of some ancient statue discovered in the dust.

The body of my grandfather.

As understanding began to percolate through my system, I felt to my knees with the same force as if I’d just been struck hard on the back of my legs. Tears crept from my eyes. I made no sound but began, reverentially, to scrape away the snow from his face, a patient archaeologist revealing, inch by inch, his cracked and weary features.

Then I heard the cry, much closer than before.

“Leviathan! Leviathan!”

With it, I could hear their raggedy breathing and smell the weird electric tang of their sweat. Slowly — very slowly — I looked up.

There must have been twenty of them at least, arrived like hooligans at a wake, all with flushed pink faces, all shambling toward me in the kind of frantic clump you get emerging from a tube station at rush hour. “Leviathan… Leviathan…”

I struggled up. ‘Can’t you fight it?” I asked a big bearded bloke in a postman’s uniform who appeared to be leading the charge. “At least try.”

He growled and lunged. “Leviathan… Leviathan…”

I was just beginning to wonder if it might be about to end here, after all, at Granddad’s side, when the postman’s head erupted, unexpectedly prettily, in a fountain of pink and red. He didn’t have time to cry out before he toppled to the ground, everything from the neck up a leaky scrag of gristle and bone.

I turned around. An old brown Vauxhall Nova had pulled up outside my flat and there was a man who I thought I recognized hanging out the driver’s window and holding a smoking gun.