“Tinkety-tonk!”
The schoolboys ran into the building and Arthur was left alone in the car with only a dead body cooling on the tarmac for company.
Seconds later, the door to the warehouse clanked open and Mr. Streater emerged, accompanied by the opening chords of some pop track or other.
“School’s out for summer…”
He stepped adroitly over the corpse and got into the car. “All right, chief?”
The prince wasn’t listening. “They killed him…,” he murmured.
Streater shrugged. “Looks like.”
“Your friends were useless. They vanished. They disappeared.”
“Who are you talking about. What friends?”
“The detectives. Virtue and Mercy.”
Streater smirked as he twisted the key in the ignition. “Never heard of them. I expect that’ll be the ampersand, squire. Hallucinations come as standard. They’re often personifications of whatever parts of yourself you keep repressed. I saw ballerinas, believe it or not. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.” He reversed the car quickly on the tarmac, turned and headed swiftly out of Islington, toward home. “Whichever way you slice it — it’s all going according to plan.”
Chapter 22
It was the last night of the Diabolism Club. After what unraveled there, I don’t suppose anyone had the stomach to carry on. The building was demolished, the ground concreted over, and I understand that there are currently plans to build some kind of monument, a memorial or a tombstone, on the spot where Diabolism used to stand.
It happened two minutes after Hawker’s salute and sixty seconds after all the lights in the building had flickered off. When someone eventually managed to get a couple of them going again, it was already too late. The place had turned insane. Adults dressed as children were screaming, sobbing, trying to escape; hundreds of liquored-up revelers frightened for their lives were charging for the doors in a stampede born of mortal desperation. Every one of them was sneezing. There was a cacophony of nasal distress. The air was filled with saliva, snot and tears, with mucus, spit and foam.
I was the lucky one. Immediately after the lights had gone out and just before that black, volcanic dust had sprayed down from the sprinkler system, I felt a soft hand clamp itself over my mouth and another apply itself firmly to my back and steer me toward the exit, jostling nimbly through the melee.
Later, I learnt that fifty-four people were hospitalized just trying to reach the door.
“What happened?” I gasped, once we were outside and Barbara had taken her hand away from my mouth.
The Directorate’s hunter raised a hand in her usual semaphore for silence. The weedy bouncer was still standing there, petrified and helpless, as his club vomited up its clientele.
Barbara snapped: “Call the emergency services. Tel them they have a disaster.” The man nodded stupidly and obeyed.
Whilst I did my best to calm a young woman whose nose had already started to spurt blood, Barbara, brisk and unflappable, spoke into her earpiece.
“Sir?”
The voice of Mr. Dedlock echoed in my head. “I trust you have good news.” He paused. “What is that rumpus?”
Barbara’s was a calm, still voice amongst the chaos. “The Prefects appear to have sprayed everyone inside the building with some sort of sneezing powder, sir.”
“Why on earth would they want to do that?”
“Why do little boys do anything, sir? For fun. For larks.”
“Where are those knobble-kneed bastards now?”
Barbara took out her PDA. “I can see them, sir. We can track them.”
“Then get after them!”
“People are dying here,” I said.
The old man was incensed. “If you don’t do your job, this city as we know it will cease to exist.”
“I’ll get the car,” said Barbara. “We’ll bring them in.”
“Do it.” A final snarl from Dedlock, then merciful silence in my head.
Barbara ran out of sight to get the car before I could think of anything to say.
I did my best to soothe the girl in my arms, tried to staunch the blood, told her to breathe deeply and think about not sneezing. After a while, it seemed to calm her, so I did what I could for some of the other victims until, at last, a fleet of ambulances blared onto the scene. I was easing a man whose body was close to rupturing into the arms of a paramedic when Barbara pulled me roughly to my feet. Her trench coat was back, billowing about her in the breeze.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
“But these people-”
“There’s nothing you can do for them.”
“Where’s the car? Where’s Barnaby? Where’s Jasper?”
The car is burning. Barnaby’s dead. And Jasper’s gone.”
Already, I was growing accustomed to Barbara’s delivery of bad news — catastrophe snapped out in telegraphic monosyllables. “Burning? Dead? Gone?” I asked, but she was already running. I left the paramedics to do their job and sprinted after her. “Barbara!”
She pelted on, ignoring me. There was a crackling in my ear and I heard the voice of Dedlock. “What’s happening?”
“Barbara: “We’re tracking them.”
“You mean you’ve let them get away?”
“The club’s in chaos. It masked their escape.”
Dedlock snapped some final, bitter instruction and broke the connection. The two of us dashed into the darkness of the city. Soon my breathing was ragged and I had an agonizing stitch in my side but Barbara, sprinting into the distance, appeared quite unaffected. I was about to lose sight of her completely when she gave a yelp of frustration.
When I caught up, she had stopped short and was staring at her PDA in furious disbelief.
I panted. “What’s happened?”
She struck the machine hard. “They’ve vanished.”
“What?”
“Disappeared. Dropped off the map.” Her shoulders sagged at the news and for a second or two I thought I caught a glimpse of the real Barbara, trapped behind that immaculate facade. “They’re playing with us.”
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.