The tragedy of it all — the sheer, mindless folly of these people’s actions — is brought home by the knowledge that we were only ever trying to help. However unfairly we may have been represented in these pages, you may be absolutely certain of the fact that Leviathan is here for one purpose only — we are here to tell you the good news.
Chapter 26
“Joe!” Abbey stood behind me in the corridor. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The blond man flashed a Hollywood grin. “Come to rescue you.”
My landlady blushed. “You’d better get inside. Shut the door. There’s things out there that—”
Like some laconic traffic cop, Joe Streater held up his hand to halt her. “They won’t bother me.”
“Why not?”
Streater shrugged. “Kind of a long story.”
Still flushing crimson, Abbey stumbled over her words. “Henry, this is Joe. Joe — meet Henry.”
The two of us glared at one another, both measuring and sizing up, the veil of civility already close to rending.
His examination complete, Joe gave me a dismissive smirk, and for this alone I could cheerfully have punched him on the nose.
Abbey touched me lightly on the arm, pivoting me away from the interloper. “This is awkward. I know that. Really, really awkward. But could you just give us a minute on our own? We’ll go in the sitting room. There’s some stuff we need to get straight.”
“Fine,” I said. “Dandy.”
Frothing with rage and envy, I stalked off into the bedroom, sat on my bed and took deep, calming breaths. What seemed like a thousand different scenarios suggested themselves to me, none of them remotely optimistic.
A few minutes later and feeling no better, I succumbed to the inevitable, got to my feet, tiptoed outside the sitting room door and tried my best to eavesdrop.
Streater sounded calm and laid-back, his voice wheedling and full of flattery. Abbey was less controlled, quickly sliding into tearful hysteria. I realized that I’d never heard her like that before. She’d always struck me as essentially unflappable.
Should we pity Henry Lamb? There’s something so pathetic about the man we can never quite bring ourselves to do it. The idea that someone like his landlady would ever look twice at him were she not recovering from the abrupt cessation of an earlier entanglement is palpably absurd. The idiot Lamb was never much more to her than a man-sized comfort blanket.
Even now, I’m not sure what passed between the two of them, but the first time I was able to catch exactly what they were saying, it was his voice that I heard.
These are the words of Joe Streater: “A new world is on its way. And if you wanna survive then you’ve gotta come with me. Stay here, and everything you know and love is gonna burn.”
I leaned closer, trying to hear more, but just as Streater finished his speech, the door was flung open and I scurried goonishly backward, almost tripping up.
Abbey hovered, tear stained, in the doorway. “Were you listening?”
I stuttered out a denial.
Behind her — friend Joe, grinning snarkily.
My landlady stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door shut on Streater.
“I can’t believe you were listening,” she said.
“Well, wouldn’t you?”
“Just give us a couple of minutes, OK? There’s lots of stuff we need to talk through.”
I spoke as evenly as I could. “I can imagine.”
“This is difficult for me. I’m confused.”
“Well, how do you think I feel?”
“Sweetheart, please.”
I managed a bitter sort of smile. “Do you know, he’s not at all how I expected?”
Abbey conjured up a little smile — tentative, hopeful. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“I didn’t think he’d be so fucking ugly.”
A long, brittle silence. “That’s disappointing.” There was a flinty pragmatism in her eyes which I’d never seen there before. “That’s unworthy of you.”
She opened the door to the sitting room and for an instant I caught an almost subliminal glimpse of Streater. I can’t be sure that this is what I saw or whether it’s something I’ve imagined since, filling in the gaps with all that I’ve learnt, but I’m almost positive that I saw him brandishing a syringe, filled with pale pink, effervescent liquid.
Then Abbey slammed the door and I saw no more.
You can imagine the true scene here. A pretty girl, resigned to sitting out the apocalypse in the company of a bloodless mummy’s by, is overjoyed at the arrival of an old flame. The contest is over, before it has begun, the better man is victorious and all that remains is to find a way to eliminate the lodger.
The rest was sound effects — a muffled declaration of affection, a wet, puckering sound, a moan of pleasure, a round of male laughter. The swift strides across the room, the snap of the door as it wrenched open and Joe Streater was back in my face.
“Henry Lamb!” he said, walking up to me. “Weird coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” I said, trying not to flinch. “No such thing.”
The blond man flashed another savage smile. Silently, as though this was just another chore to carry out, quickly and briskly, before getting on with the rest of his life, he punched me hard in the stomach. Unprepared for this eruption of violence, I jackknifed in pain. My mouth bubbled with nausea. Streater pulled me upright and then he did it again — administered another pile-driving punch to my gut. As I stumbled, totally unable to muster the least defense, I saw Abbey watching as her boyfriend expertly beat me up, evidently appalled, her hand hovering toward her face as though to ward off what she was witnessing.
Fancy that.
It is our theory that the girl was laughing and that the hand hovering near her mouth was merely a device to disguise her smile.
Streater dragged me into the sitting room, grabbed a chair from the table and forced me down into it. I made a grim, scuttling attempt at escape, which was quickly and permanently proved to be futile. Joe produced a thick roll of duct tape from somewhere (I wouldn’t put it past him to have brought it with him) and lashed me to the chair, taping up my hands and ankles with practiced efficiency, winding a strip tight around my mouth. Already there was blood on my teeth, the taste of metal and, with it, the promise of vomit.
When he was finished, Joe Streater winked at me. “All right, chief?”
Abbey put a hand on the blond man’s arm. “Is this really necessary?”
Streater answered her with a kiss and I had no choice but to watch as she met his lips with hers and gave every impression of liking it.
Joe came up for air. “Take me next door,” he said, his voice filled with casual authority, with the certainty that he would never be disappointed. My Abbey smiled and led him from the room.
The next few minutes were a little difficult, trussed up in that chair, immobile, tasting blood and shame in equal measure as, from next door, I heard it all. Abbey and Joe in their scrabble to undo shoelaces, the clink of belts being unstrapped, the rustle of clothes being torn away and then — the creak of the mattress, the persistent rhythm of the headboard, the moans and squeals and ululations of delight. I wonder if she enjoyed it. I wonder how she possibly can have done.
Of course she enjoyed it. How could she not? The fumbling ministrations of Henry Lamb, gauchely performed and inexpertly delivered, had scarcely raised her heartbeat. Her mind was ever on the lithe form of Joseph Streater. All the time she was with Henry, whenever the lodger kissed, caressed or tentatively nibbled, she was thinking of Joe. And when Streater took her to bed that afternoon, it was like coming home. It as a glorious, orgiastic vindication of her choice.
Once it was over, Abbey came to say goodbye.
She asked me if I was crying. Grimly, I shook my head.
“I suppose you must be wondering why… why I’ve chosen him and not you. It has to sting, all this. It has to rankle.”
Through the duct tape, I groaned in affirmation.
“I hate to say it, Henry, but in the end it wasn’t difficult.”
I groaned again.
“You’re too nice,” she said. “You’ve got to have a bit of steel in you and Joe… Well, Joe’s iron straight through.”
This isn’t you, I wanted to say. God, Abbey, this isn’t you at all.
“Joe knows what I want,” she said. “And the thing is — you never got to know me at all.” She smiled sadly. “But we’re still friends, aren’t we? We’ll be better as friends, I think. Better as mates.”
I shook my head.
“Listen, Joe and I have to go now. There’s a lot for us to do. I’m sorry. Truly.” She kissed me on the forehead and walked away.
I heard the smack of the front door, the snap of the key in the lock, and for a short while, all was silence.
I think I must have passed out. When I opened my eyes, it had grown dark, the blood on my wrists had dried to crusts and I felt a burning desire to urinate. But I wasn’t alone. I could hard people moving about outside.
Someone come to find me? Abbey returned, stricken with conscience? Granddad?
I heard the rattle of the door, footsteps coming toward me, whispers which spoke my name. A faint hope reignited itself within me.
There was light in my eyes. A torch in my face. Hands reaching toward me.
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.
Chapter 27
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.
Chapter 28
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 sy
stem, 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.
“Get in!” he yelled. “Get in the car!”
The drones had cowered back at the gunshot but already they had begun to regroup and were starting to move toward me, their new leader a fat man dressed from head to toe in pinstripe.
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