On a nearby road, an ambulance shrieked past. Then, several more.
‘Oh, God,’ whispered the Green Man, dropping her arm. ‘Soldiers. How many soldiers have died tonight?’
Fourteen.
Badb was intimately familiar with the British Army and knew they could be relied upon for a good atrocity when they lost a few of their own. Whether it was an ‘accidental’ death in custody, or the cold-blooded hunting of panicked civilians through the streets of Derry, the goddess had seen it all and found it satisfactory. This time, the weight of vengeance would fall on a joker community that already felt itself under siege.
Yes. Her visit to Britain had begun well. But the death toll would need to be a lot higher if she were to foment an outright civil war.
She snuggled against the hard sides of the Green Man as he led her to ‘safety’. Crows flew through the dark. They nestled next to windows in palace and prison alike. And she, eternal, pitiless, flitted from one to the other, watching, always watching.
‘And you will be the only one working on my clothes?’ Henry asked again.
It was the third time he’d questioned her on the topic since she’d arrived at Buckingham Palace. They were in the private residence. Constance was well-acquainted with the residence from her years of dressing the Queen. ‘That’s what Turing and the Lion told me,’ he continued. ‘My valet will give you a list of what I need. You understand, of course, that everything must be handled only by you.’
Constance’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sew the clothes myself, sir,’ she replied. ‘That’s how my ability works.’ She wanted to escape now that she had his measurements, but until Henry was finished with her, she couldn’t.
His bride-to-be sat primly on one of the matching gold-and-white damask divans. Her legs were demurely crossed at the ankles. She was intended to be Henry’s perfect wife, though he already had one of those. Forty-three years married and now he was replacing his current wife with this silly young thing. Constance wasn’t certain just how silly the girl was, but she was ridiculously young; young enough to be Henry’s grandchild. And only someone very silly would have consented to marry him.
The Silly Young Thing poured tea and Henry took the proffered cup, barely acknowledging her. Constance took the moment to show Henry fabric swatches.
‘You decide,’ he said briskly, sitting on the divan opposite the SYT. ‘I’m certain the suit will be impeccable. Your work for my mother was always of the highest quality. You have me pondering, Miss Russell, what is it about your employees that makes them so unique that you are willing to drive clients away because of them? After all, with their, ah, infirmities it must be difficult for them to perform their tasks.’
‘Well, they work very hard, sir,’ she said, trying not to let her dislike of him slide into her voice. ‘And often their … infirmities … give them more skills at their jobs rather than not.’
‘But then that’s not fair to humans, is it? There isn’t a level playing field when one group has extra talents.’ He shook his head. She seethed.
‘Sir, respectfully, I would remind you that I have a wild card, indeed one that you are availing yourself of this very moment.’
‘But you’re an ace,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Aces are different, aren’t they? And so useful. It’s a completely different matter.’
His hypocrisy was breathtaking.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I am certainly useful. I’ve been useful to the Crown for over forty years. But, sir, I must begin work on your suit if I’m to complete it in time for the funeral.’
For a brief moment, Henry glared at her with a shocking amount of animosity. She’d overstepped the mark. Even so, she glared right back at him.
‘Perhaps you should consider making me an entire wardrobe,’ he said tersely. He set his tea cup down with a clatter.
Not while I still draw breath, Constance thought. How do you think you’ll make me do that? I’m an old woman. We’re hard to frighten.
‘I’ll consider it, sir,’ she said, trying her best not to lose her temper.
‘Very well,’ Henry said, pushing the button to summon his valet. The door swung open. ‘Please show Miss Russell out,’ he said.
Constance gathered her things and followed the valet. As she walked to the waiting car, all she could think was that the palace felt terribly empty with Margaret gone. Henry’s presence did nothing to change that.
No matter what Henry, Turing or the Lion wanted, this would be the only garment she would ever make for Henry.
It was a small meeting late at night and for the first five minutes a very quiet one. It took place in Westminster, where MPs stayed late in advance of a tight vote on defence cuts, exacerbated by several resignations from the Cabinet.
Birds sheltered themselves from the wind just outside. One of these was a crow.
Badb watched the Home Secretary reread the casualty figures in front of her, while Turing and a stiff-backed Singh waited at her pleasure.
She snarled. ‘I want the Green Man gone.’ She paused. ‘Wait!’ She pointed at her secretary. ‘Time for your tea break, isn’t it, Prashad?’
‘Of course, Home Secretary.’
She waited until he’d left the room, her lacquered fingernails tap-tapping on the table like a flock of chickens pecking grain. ‘I want him gone, and I don’t mean in prison.’
‘Home secretary? If I may?’ Turing straightened in his chair. ‘It would be a waste, he—’
‘Compost him if it makes you feel better, Turing. We have fourteen families in mourning, and we’re lying to them about how they died. Add to that the bloody Italian news spreading muck about a joker king, it’s only going to get worse.’
‘A joker what?’
‘Oh, that shut you up, Turing, did it? It’s all rubbish, of course, but it’ll stir up the fr—’ She paused, perhaps aware of who she was talking to. ‘It will stir up all kinds of trouble, that’s all I’m saying, and we need him gone. You hear me? Gone.’
Turing’s eyes met those of Singh. The latter nodded, as though to say, ‘you speak for me in this’, and Turing nodded back.
‘I have read the reports from the attack. The soldiers blundered into traps. The Green Man did little more than defend himself. And you didn’t even order it, did you, Home Secretary? Army Intelligence took this upon themselves …’
She banged the table. Badb couldn’t see her face, but could well imagine a snarl on it. ‘Don’t think they’ll be getting out of this scot-free either. There’s one little hothead in there who’ll spend the rest of his career removing leeches from his underwear. But now the Army want a head. A wooden one. And with this fiasco going on,’ presumably, she meant the defence cuts, ‘we’d better give it to them, you understand me, gentlemen?’
They did, but Turing dared to shake his head.
‘Home Secretary, what the Army are asking for …’ How clever of him not to point out that it was she herself who had just given him the order. Turing could be quite the diplomat when his husband wasn’t involved. ‘What they’re asking for can’t work. We need the Green Man to stay in place.’
‘You are fucking shitting me.’
‘I am happy to provide you with the figures, but, my analysis shows that the frequency of violence committed by the Fists has shrunk dramatically since he replaced the Black Dog. Meanwhile, tip-offs to the authorities have led to the arrest of the more … unreasonable members of that organization.’
‘He’s keeping them in check?’
For the first time, Singh spoke, his voice resonant. ‘It is we who keep him in check, in a way. I myself protect his family and he knows it.’
‘So, where do they live?’ she asked.
The tall Sikh smiled slightly and shook his head. ‘These days the Green Man is little more than a crime boss, acting to keep jokers safe in situations in which our own police happen to look the other way. Which occurs all too often.’
Her nails began tapping again, angrily this time, but Turing, w
ho did not always share Singh’s urges to be scrupulously honest, took over. ‘At least, let us wait a while, Home Secretary. Jokers make up a significant portion of our population and many of them, in addition to their unfortunate external appearance, possess dangerous abilities. My analysis indicates that they are on the point of an explosion. I believe the Green Man’s authority is all that’s keeping the lid on things.’
‘Fuck your analysis,’ she said. But Turing and Singh, who could both see the expression on her face, visibly relaxed.
The Green Man, it seemed, would be left in place for now.
Charlie Soper lived just outside London in the commuter belt town of Chesham. It was nestled in the rolling hills of Buckinghamshire, and Noel reckoned it would be green, leafy and charming come spring. But it was a cold March night near midnight and sleet was icing the cobblestones when he teleported into the market square. Fortunately the images on the innumerable picture-sharing apps proved to be accurate, and no one had parked a delivery lorry in front of the clock tower. A dog barked in reaction to the soft pop of his arrival.
Noel had managed to suss out Soper’s address, a task that had taken hours, but the man was clearly a professional – damn him – and had scrubbed virtually all trace of himself from the net. Which meant that Noel was arriving in the square rather than teleporting directly into the man’s home.
The sleet pecked lightly at his face as he allowed his body to shift back to his normal form. For some men, finding Lilith standing in their abode at eleven thirty at night would be alluring, but Noel suspected that Soper would not be one of them. Also Noel hoped this would be a professional conversation, and Lilith made men forget to be professional.
He checked the address, fired up his map app, and started walking. In a simpler time he would have stolen one of the cars parked along the street, but he hadn’t brought along a laptop and didn’t want to take the time to hack a vehicle’s security system. It was bitterly cold and he wanted to get this over with since he had left Jasper alone at the flat. If things went well Jasper would never know he had been gone.
It was a redbrick house in a terrace of houses offering an anonymous face to the street. Noel located the correct door, and noted the glow of light from behind the curtains at one of the upstairs windows. An archway between the houses led to a car park with detached garages. Apparently the MI5 pension was sufficient to provide for rather plush home ownership.
As he approached the back door Noel looked for cameras and a security system and spotted neither. Pulling out his lock-pick case he paused for a moment to contemplate why he was electing to break into the house rather than knocking on the front door.
Rivalry with the other service had been part of the culture at MI7, born out of the dismissive attitude towards the aces by the nats who controlled MI5. Was he trying to prove that he didn’t need special powers for his craft? To show his lack of respect with a break-in? Or hoping for a violent reaction from Soper that could be met with equal violence? He decided the last one was the most likely reason. Henry’s demand, the grinding court case, guilt over his marriage, all had him longing to hurt someone.
Decision reached, he made quick work of the lock, carefully turned the doorknob, slipped inside, and found himself in a kitchen. The only illumination was from the LED clock on the coffee machine set to brew at 6a.m. Noel stepped into the hallway and checked at the sight of an elderly man dressed in a bathrobe over pyjamas, leather slippers on his bare feet, and a hand in one pocket.
‘Ah, Mr Matthews, good evening. Filthy weather,’ he said as walked past Noel towards the kitchen. ‘Cup of tea or something a bit stronger to take away the chill?’
Noel’s wish for violence vanished, replaced by amusement. The man was a professional and Noel liked professionals. ‘How about both? Put a splash of something stronger in that tea.’ He followed Soper back into the kitchen, and leaned against the door jamb while the old man set up the kettle and tossed teabags into a pair of mugs.
‘So, to what do I owe this visit?’ Soper asked.
‘A mutual acquaintance told me that you are the man who knows where all the bodies are buried over at MI5.’
‘And which particular ones do you want unearthed, Mr Matthews? Aren’t you more commonly in the business of creating them?’ The high whistle of the tea kettle interrupted him. ‘Also word has it that you are no longer in the old firm,’ Soper said as he filled the mugs.
‘To quote the Godfather – just when I thought I was out …’ Noel accepted the mug.
‘Alcohol is in the study,’ Soper said, and led the way.
Noel studied the room, noting the smell of tobacco, the worn upholstery on the arms of the large armchair, the dust on the mantle. This was a man’s space. Though a woman had clearly picked the furnishings, no trace of her could presently be observed. Widower or divorcé? Noel wondered.
Soper selected a bottle from an array on a sideboard, and poured in a liberal dollop of whisky. He then settled into the worn armchair and waved Noel to the couch. ‘So, you’ve been pulled back in.’
‘Not officially.’ Noel paused for a sip of tea. ‘I’ve been tasked by a particular gentleman to make inquiries about an event in late 1948.’
‘Watch it. I’m not that old.’
‘And I’m not that young, but no matter. You were DG at Box after that unpleasantness in 2000. You had access to everything, and you have a reputation as a man who likes to have leverage, and secrets make the best leverage.’ Soper didn’t respond, just watched Noel over the rim of his mug. This was also the problem with professionals … they knew how to play the game. ‘Look, did you come across anything regarding the royals in November of ’48?’
Deep lines appeared in his wrinkled cheeks as Soper began to smile. ‘It’s pretty clear who’d have taken an interest. Also why you would be selected to make inquiries.’
Noel set aside his mug. Time was passing and he wanted to get back to Jasper. ‘Was the brat born alive or not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck.’ Agitated, he stood and began to pace. ‘Anything else you can give me? Physical attributes? Who took him? Where they took him? And you seem bloody pleased about this.’
‘Why not? That family always find a way to top up their rotten bloodline, don’t they?’ He reacted to Noel’s expression. ‘Blimey, don’t tell me you’re a monarchist.’
‘I was raised to honour crown and country. I killed for them—’
‘And I’m sure they were appropriately grateful,’ Soper said, sarcasm edging every word. They locked gazes for a long moment, then Soper said, ‘All I know is that the infant was alive and given into the care of an MI5 agent who was told to handle it.’
‘So do you reckon the problem was solved back in ’48?’ Noel asked.
Soper sucked in a deep breath, blew it out again. ‘The Oxbridge lot will tell you that no Englishman of that era would murder an infant …’ He gave a shrug and Noel just snorted. Soper gave him an approving look. ‘If whatever psychopath they picked from the pool found he couldn’t do the deed, I should think they’d have taken the baby somewhere else. Somewhere his presence wouldn’t cause a fuss.’
‘Yes, I think I see.’ Noel drained his mug. ‘I’d best be off. Thank you for the tea.’
‘You can use the bloody front door this time,’ Soper responded.
Noel smiled, transformed into Lilith, and teleported away. He rather enjoyed Soper’s final expression.
Thursday
March 5th
JUST AN ORDINARY MAN, walking his three-year-old daughter through the park. Birds sang half-heartedly for the miserable spring, but the child threw herself laughing in among the daffodils. Each one had to be smelled separately, after which, she thanked it and gave it a name.
Badb had been like that once. She remembered little now of the bog near Rann na Feirste where she’d grown up, but sometimes she dreamed of tiny fields, startlingly green, with the great peak of Errigal scratching at the sky. Would this little gi
rl live through the chaos to come? Would she grow up to murder her doting father, as the goddess had done?
‘Don’t look around,’ she warned.
The bodyguard obeyed, but the girl did not, recoiling in horror behind her father’s knee. His whole body stiffened.
‘I shouldn’t talk to you,’ he said. ‘I was interrogated for hours.’
‘I got you out,’ she replied. She still had enough dirt from her FRU days to accomplish that much. ‘Did he reward you? The King?’
‘Green Man got away,’ he whispered. ‘But … but, yes. I thank you.’
‘I have more,’ the goddess said, allowing a note of ‘excitement’ into her voice. ‘But this is for the King’s ears and nobody else’s, you understand?’
She flicked to a nearby crow so she could see the look on his face. Terror: his pale skin sagging around eyes that blinked as rapidly as the wings of a bee. Most satisfactory. She saw anger too. He’d thought he was done with her. But no, no. Badb was not one to leave her pawns idle on the board.
‘I don’t want any more help. You … you have no idea. Fourteen men killed? The soldiers were on the verge of a rampage. No joker would have been safe, but …’
But the Met had got wind of it first. Badb had learned that much. ‘You’re not in Belfast now!’ the Commissioner had said, terrified De Vere and his merry men were about to tear the city to bits. As they would have. Most inconvenient, thought Badb. The meddling of the police threatened to set her plans back by days. ‘Tell His Majesty this. His own brother conspires with the Silver Helix to bring him down.’
‘What? I … I can’t be involved in such things. I can’t.’
The little girl started crying.
‘You can. You are.’
Badb slipped away then. Deeper into the bushes.
How wonderful if the two princes moved into open conflict. Oh, she knew well that kings didn’t rule Britain any more. It was all Prime Ministers and the like. But nobody knew better than she how willingly people fought and died for mere symbols. For flags or books. For temples and long-dead prophets. Yes, yes. And it would get even better if the joker prince proved to be real.
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