“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.”
“More than that,” Miss Morning said. “They would tear this city apart simply because they’re bored.”
“There are other resources available to the Directorate,” Dedlock said. “I’ll see all of you again at nine A.M. at the Eye for a council of war. Until then — get some rest. Guards will be posted at your homes. You’re dismissed.”
Miss Morning, who, lacking an earpiece, had not quite been following all of this, turned to me and said: “Tell him I’ll be seeing him tomorrow.”
“Sir?” I said. “Did you hear that?”
“Why would I want her?” he asked. “What do I need with a bloody secretary?”
“Tell him I understand these monsters. Tell him I know what makes them happy.”
There was a long pause. “Very well. Bring her. I’ll see you in five hours.”
Soon afterwards, Barnaby arrived to take us home. Miss Morning and I clambered wearily into the cab but Jasper elected to stay behind, clinging to what was left of Steerforth with a disturbing tenacity.
As we drove, I saw that Dedlock’s whitewash team had already moved in — a phalanx of people in what looked like full-body anoraks, the personification of unsqueamish efficiency with their scrubbing agents and wire brushes, their sponges, sprays and tweezers. The street was lined with polyester bags the size of coffins, zipped up snugly to hold the dead.
We were negotiating the circle of Trafalgar Square when a van screeched past us, speeding toward the seat of power. I caught a glimpse of its passengers — more killers, tooled up and bristling with eager death.
“Jackboots,” Miss Morning murmured. “Dedlock’s reserves. The chase goes on.” She yawned and settled back in her seat, bleakly deferential to defeat.
We were too exhausted and distraught for much conversation, but as Barnaby drove us through the glum streets of Elephant and Castle, Miss Morning muttered: “I’ve seen them.”
“What? I’d been staring out of the window, doing my best to forget.
“Whilst the rest of you were gone. I saw them. They were watching it all.”
“Who was watching?”
“The three,” she whispered. “The three are moving again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know them, Henry. The Englishman. The Irishman. The Scotsman.” Even after all the lurid horrors of the night, at this I felt a peculiar frisson of disgust.
I turned my face away from the old woman and stared through the window. All I could see was my own reflection in the glass — a haggard, weary man with pity and accusation in his eyes.
Dawn was skulking over the horizon and the fog was just beginning to lift when Barnaby dropped me back outside the flat in Tooting Bec.
I let myself in, set the alarm to give me four hours’ sleep, unpeeled my clothes and sank gratefully into bed, wriggling under the cocoon of the duvet, hugging it close for comfort.
When I woke again it seemed like mere minutes had passed, although the officious chirrup of my alarm insisted that it was past eight o’clock and that I had less than an hour to present myself at the Eye.
To my surprise and delight, Abbey was in my bed. She gave a little groan at the alarm.
“Thanks,” she said when I switched it off. She moved close to me and wrapped her arms around my chest.
“You’ve come back.”
“Of course I’ve come back.”
I kissed her on the forehead and I think my hand may have inadvertently brushed against her breasts. She gave a husky sigh of pleasure.
“Oh, Joe,” she murmured.
For a moment, I wondered if I had imagined it, but then she said it again, quite clearly, as though to leave me absolutely no room for doubt, no merciful space for self-delusion. “I can’t believe you’ve come back, Joe.”
“Joe?” I wondered aloud. “Who’s Joe?”