Three Kings Page 5

  However, she didn’t back down as he had expected. ‘We need you.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘All right. Tomorrow.’

  Alan shoved his way through the coats in the closet. They were heavy with damp: it had been raining hard outside Buckingham Palace and everyone’s coats bore the marks. This was ridiculous. Richard might enjoy playing like children at games of Narnia – what’s in the back of the wardrobe? – but he also had a perfectly comfortable flat for exactly this sort of thing, and there was no need for the two of them to fumble around in the dark. Just as Alan was thinking that perhaps he should give up and just go, Richard was there, hot hands sliding down into Alan’s trousers, a warm, wet mouth on his, fiercely eager. For a little while, Alan Turing stopped thinking at all.

  Afterwards, Richard held up a phone, reflecting light and a camera so Alan could repair his make-up. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see a member of the Silver Helix looking badly tousled, or worse, silvery.

  ‘I’m really very fond of you, you know,’ Richard said, smiling. ‘My metal man.’

  Alan’s throat tightened. ‘Can you imagine the uproar if your wife caught you with a joker? I don’t know if it’d be better or worse than her catching you with a man.’ Alan could joke about it now, play it lightly, but he’d never forget how he’d been treated during the war. Eight decades ago, but his memory was perfect, every humiliating incident recalled in excruciating detail.

  Richard looked sober. ‘Worse, much worse. She and I have our understandings, but a joker might require additional negotiations. And if it went public—’

  Alan nodded. ‘Yes, that would be a problem.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Are you going to respond publicly to what Henry said?’

  His lover frowned. ‘I don’t know.’

  Alan was fond of Richard. The Prince had a good heart inside that broad-shouldered body, a cheerful generosity that people couldn’t help but love. But after all these years, their on-again, off-again relationship had allowed Alan to know the Prince a little too well. Sometimes Richard needed a push, to be the man he ought to be.

  ‘Dickie. You can’t let the world think England’s royal family supports your brother’s bigotry. Your family serves as the moral compass for the realm.’

  Richard hesitated, then said, ‘If I spoke up, do you think it would hurt my chances?’

  ‘Chances?’ Surely Richard didn’t mean …

  Richard reached out, put a hand on Alan’s arm. ‘You can see it, can’t you, Alan? Henry is unfit to be king. He will drag England back to the Dark Ages.’ He squeezed, and Alan’s malleable metal skin hardened in response to the abrupt pressure. ‘The people want a brighter, more civilized future.’ Richard was standing up straighter now, dropping his hand from Alan’s arm. The light of the phone cast his face into dramatic chiaroscuro. Handsome, with those thick blonde eyebrows and mane of flaxen hair – the very picture of a king. ‘I should make a statement, make it clear where I stand. The people of England would support me.’ And then Richard’s voice dropped once more, hesitation returning, so that he looked almost like a boy again. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Alan couldn’t resist running the calculations. It was an interesting strategic problem, considered in that light, without any regard for bloodline or right of inheritance. Who would be better for England, Henry or Richard? Richard, surely. Henry was cold, unfeeling – the sort who would cut you dead at the dinner table, would blithely ruin you and your family too. Afterwards he’d go straight to bed and sleep as well as an innocent babe, certain he’d done the right thing; men of his sort always did, by definition.

  Henry was elderly too – at seventy-one, he’d make an aged king, and would likely only survive for a few more years. No doubt that was the sort of maths that had made Henry set aside his wife of forty-five years. Was he so sure that young Emily would be able to give him an heir? But even if she gave Henry a litter of heirs, it would be a long decade and more before any of them would be old enough to succeed him. Richard, by contrast, was only fifty-five, a far more suitable age for a monarch, one who could serve England for a long, steadying reign.

  But would the people support him? That was less clear: there were too many variables. When Alan tried to calculate the possibilities, dozens of futures spun off behind his eyes. England triumphant, a land united. England in flames, torn apart by civil war. The stakes were frighteningly high, and he could understand why Margaret had desperately wanted there to be a better option. But some lost heir, with no training, to take the throne based solely on an accident of bloodline? Nonsense. Surely Richard was better suited than that? The people would likely agree; the odds were surprisingly in his favour. Alan frowned. ‘I cannot promise, but I think … they might actually support you.’

  Richard took his hand then, pressed it to his chest. ‘And you, Alan? Would you support me?’

  Another interesting question. Richard was far from a perfect man. Yet there was the warmth under his fingertips, and a man who had never flinched away from Alan’s joker attributes. Under his rule, the jokers would have a champion. Surely, for England’s sake, Alan Turing should support the best man for the throne? Wasn’t that one of the lessons he’d learned during the war, that sometimes the right path to follow wasn’t necessarily the lawful road?

  Richard’s hand was warm on his, his blue eyes steady and intent. ‘Alan? Are you with me?’

  Alan hesitated, then said softly, ‘I’m yours to command, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ And then Richard was kissing him again, wildly. The make-up would have to be redone, but Alan couldn’t bring himself to care. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to catch a decent breath. What had he just agreed to?

  King Richard IV. It did sound good.

  ‘What’s this do?’ Jasper asked. They were at the warehouse where Noel stored the equipment for his magic act.

  Jasper was standing next to a tall wardrobe, resting his hand on the polished black wood. Noel walked over to join him. ‘That’s where I make people disappear.’

  ‘But they don’t really disappear, right, Dad?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Am I going to go with you when you do the show?’ Jasper asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll miss school.’

  ‘Travel is also educational.’ Noel had a low opinion of American educational standards but so far Jasper seemed to be doing well at the private school, so apparently American private schools were keeping up standards.

  In late April Noel would be performing in Tokyo, an eight-day run on a big stage that required large equipment that supported the big illusions. He had already shipped the stage that would be installed over the theatre’s actual stage. Now he was inspecting the tools of his trade. Though in a world where people could ghost through walls, turn into thousands of wasps, actually fly, and (like himself) teleport thousands of miles in the blink of an eye or (like his son) braid and craft light into intricate designs, he wondered if there was still an audience for stage magic. In truth, he had started to abandon the bigger, flashier stunts in favour of close magic and mind tricks with cards and numbers. Those still had audiences oohing and aahing in wonderment. For some reason the Japanese wanted the big show and they were paying well, so he would oblige them. In his pursuit of sole custody of his son Noel had had to turn the day-to-day management of his Ace in Hand company back in Manhattan over to his assistant. He still drew a salary, but he had taken a pay cut so Dogsbody would get a rise. Which had necessitated a return to touring in order to maintain their lifestyle.

  Noel returned to his work and Jasper picked up a deck of cards and laid out a hand of solitaire. ‘You could do your homework,’ Noel tossed over his shoulder.

  ‘I know. Can you show me how to do a card trick?’

  Noel sighed, but he wasn’t really annoyed at his son’s interest. He came to Jasper’s side and gathered up the cards. It was hard to manipulate the car
ds slowly, but he tried to so that he could demonstrate how to control the placement of each one. ‘Now you try.’ He handed over the deck. The boy’s hands were a bit small to grasp the skill successfully but he tried until the cards suddenly fountained out of his hands, and he burst out laughing. Noel loved him for that. There was no pouting or fury, just enjoyment and a touch of self-deprecation. It was clear Jasper took more after his mother than his irascible father.

  ‘Let me show you how to pick a lock,’ Noel said as he removed his lock-pick case from his inner jacket pocket. They went over to the small door into the warehouse and Noel demonstrated. He started to hand over the tools when Jasper gave him an impish look.

  ‘I don’t need those, Dad. Watch.’

  He tried to reach for the setting sun but clouds had rolled in and he wasn’t able to make an effective plait. Noel turned on the flashlight function on his mobile phone and Jasper used that to fashion one of his creations. He then thrust it into the lock. Noel heard the tumblers fall and gave a sharp laugh of surprise.

  ‘Oh well done, you!’ He hugged Jasper close. ‘It’s getting late and cold. What say we stop for some takeaway and go home?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Noel locked the door again, and with his arm draped over his son’s shoulder they walked to where he had parked his Aston Martin. Is this my midlife crisis, he wondered. Or was stealing away his child more evidence of aberrant behaviour? Noel had always been coldly analytical until an infant had wrapped his tiny fingers around his thumb and he was lost. He dropped a kiss suddenly on the top of Jasper’s head. The boy looked up, startled, and gave him a shy smile but sadness lurked around the edges.

  ‘I love you, Dad, but I wish you and Mom would just … talk.’

  ‘We will. Eventually. And she’ll come around.’

  ‘That’s not talking, Dad, that’s telling.’

  Noel was stunned speechless. You are your mother’s child. Kind and empathetic. Is there any part of me in you? I suppose your intellect, but you will be a better man than me.

  ‘Get in the car,’ he said roughly. ‘It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.’

  Jasper turned on the radio as they headed towards their favourite Chinese restaurant, scanning through the stations in search of the music he liked – God help me, Noel thought, why must it be Justin Bieber? Perhaps he will outgrow it – when he heard the voice of the second son of Queen Margaret. ‘Wait. Stop.’ Jasper gave him an eye roll and the sigh that Noel had no doubt would become even more pronounced once he reached his teen years, but he complied.

  ‘… think it is kind to call my brother’s remarks unfortunate. I think that does not begin to describe them. Such naked bigotry has no place in our country, and it is simply unacceptable for divisive and hateful sentiment to be voiced by the King of England, who, as the head of our county’s government, should be setting a moral and ethical standard for the nation, not dragging it down into the gutter.’

  The BBC announcer returned to say, ‘That was His Grace the Duke of York commenting to our own Christy Walsh on his brother’s remarks earlier today. Wouldn’t you say that’s rather remarkable, David—’

  ‘Fine, that’s enough. Go find some music.’ Jasper complied and soon the latest pop tune was echoing through the car.

  ‘Do you think he’s right? What that duke guy said?’ Jasper asked.

  Noel sucked in a deep breath and blew it out in a gust. ‘I agree with what he said, but he shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘That’s kinda weird. I don’t understand.’

  ‘For better or worse, Henry is king. We owe him our allegiance and loyalty and I’m sure the Palace advisers are assiduously working to rein him in and clean up the mess from today. Richard is his brother, a representative of the House of Windsor, and he needs to shut up, stop undercutting his brother and let the Palace handle this.’

  ‘So you believe in all this king stuff?’

  ‘I do. I don’t think Britain would be Britain without the royals.’

  Monday

  March 2nd

  THE MEETING OF THE Twisted Fists was taking place in an old industrial estate. It had been left idle for years and was steadily being reclaimed by nature. Green Man saw signs that rats had taken up residence in one building, and a crow appeared to be nesting in another. Broken paving stones made the van rattle as it came to a stop outside the first in a row of abandoned warehouses. He and Wayfarer climbed out of the van and moved as quickly into the old warehouse as possible.

  Rust gathered in thick patches on its corrugated roof, and an array of holes perforated the walls. Through them, Green Man could see muted lights flickering within. He checked his watch. They would step through the doors at nine fifty-five, which would allow them to start at ten o’clock precisely. He might not work for the government any more, but that was no reason to let standards slip.

  The others were already inside. Not all of the Fists – such a gathering would be both impractical and far too dangerous – but a mix of those who had something to say, and those that would spread word of what transpired here to the other cells. A silence fell as he approached, but he noted that it was Seizer who had been doing the talking, holding court, or rather stealing court while he could.

  There was a pause as the two sized each other up. Not for the first time, Green Man took pleasure in the extra height his wild card had given him. It was a petty, primal thing, but there really was no substitute for being able to look down on someone.

  Seizer had been with Fists for as long as anyone could remember. His spine curved forward at the top now, and in his overcoat he looked like a giant beetle. Egg-sized growths of calloused skin grew all over his body, including a pointed set ringing his skull that Seizer (and nobody else) seemed to think was reminiscent of a crown. Over the day these growths would flake and fall off, only to reappear the following morning. A few discarded lumps of crust had collected by his feet, no doubt dislodged by some enthusiastic arm-waving. There was a particularly unpleasant smell to his discarded flesh that everyone was studiously ignoring. Despite this, the man carried himself with the kind of arrogance one could only find in the aristocracy.

  ‘And, at last, he arrives,’ said Seizer.

  Green Man refused to rise to the obvious bait; he knew damned well that he was on time. Or was this a broader barb? Wayfarer had told him that he’d been too absent lately. He decided it was better not to reply in either case, giving Seizer nothing but silence. The old knave made a gesture as if conceding the floor and moved to one side.

  Such a peaceful city, thought Badb. Compared to Belfast, that was. But wherever there were jokers, there was prejudice and fear. Hatred for those who already suffered the most.

  Who could bear such appalling injustice? Not the Fists, that was for sure.

  She found herself leaning against damp bricks in the East End of London. Such were the burdens of godhood that she aged many times faster than mortals did. And bled enough over the course of the day to fill a bath.

  She trembled, coughing as blood pooled in her belly and lungs.

  She would need to renew herself and soon. This was why she had come to the East End. Passions ran high among the Fists. There were always young jokers eager to give their lives for the cause of equality. The perfect tools to pick London apart.

  She closed her eyes. Never before had she tried following so many important people at once. Some, she had already lost track of when a bird was snatched by a predator or stuck in a crack. But she caught glimpses of Turing travelling alone in the back of a car – her biggest threat; of the younger prince pacing in a bedroom, eager, impatient, but for what? She would check back later, because suddenly, through the window of a rotting building, a wooden giant appeared: and she knew it had to be the Green Man himself! One of his joker kin stood before him now. Despite the thumb-sized boils that mottled his body, there was no mistaking the aggression in that stance, the scorn on that face. Oh, most satisfactory. A hero in the making, perhaps. A chan
ce for her to renew herself before it was too late.

  The room was already crowded with a mix of MI5 and Silver Helix members when Turing arrived, filling the seats of the long conference table. They’d arranged to have this meeting in the Silver Helix conference room, because MI5 would be chairing it. Of such uneasy compromises was government made.

  Singh said genially, ‘Turing, man, you’ve been avoiding me. Every time I see you in the hallways, you’re rushing in the other direction. What are you so busy with? You must give me a game some time; it’s been too long.’ Singh towered over the gathered security forces, a full head higher than most of them, with the bulk to match; when he stood up the top of his turban would brush the ceiling. With his deep voice, he commanded attention, and if pressed, Alan would admit to having entertained a few fantasies featuring the Lion. Tragically, Turing didn’t appear to be the Lion’s cup of tea.

  ‘Singh, I’ve told you,’ Alan demurred. ‘I don’t play any more.’ Singh’s chessboard sat ready at one end of the conference room, two comfortable leather wingback chairs flanking it, inviting. This set, he’d heard, was one that had come from India originally, had belonged to some maharajah or another, back in the day.

  ‘Hmm.’ The Lion frowned. ‘You think with that computer in your head, you would destroy me? My people invented the game, you know. Now bloody computers have made the whole thing pointless.’

  That was true, if your only purpose was to win. Alan had designed the first chess-playing computer program decades ago, and then trounced it soundly. All of that had changed, though. Now even he couldn’t beat the new chess-playing computers: they were more powerful than his card-granted gifts. But Alan had still loved playing with Sebastian. When they first became involved he’d been charmed by the openness of his play, his trusting nature. Sebastian hadn’t been willing to play him in years, though – I got tired of losing, Alan.