‘Constance,’ Bobbin said as he walked around to face her. ‘Constance, please, luv. It can’t be right. I can’t be the one.’
Tears began rolling down her cheeks. They stung from the cold. ‘Oh, Bobbin, you know it is. Noel and Turing would never make this kind of mistake. Not after Boyd-Brackenbury. They hid you well, didn’t they? They protected you. Oh God, what am I going to do without you?’
‘I can’t do it, Constance. I’m just an ordinary bloke.’
There was a moment when she wanted to scream, but coming hard on its heels was the realization that her ordinary bloke was anything but. His kindness, good sense, consideration, and deep sense of fairness were the very qualities that would make him perfect for this point in time.
She shook her head then touched his cheek. She was surprised by how warm it was. ‘Lord, Constance,’ he said. ‘We need to get you inside. Your hands are like ice.’
‘Not just yet,’ she said, caressing his cheek. ‘This is the last time we’ll be like this. Like ordinary people.’
‘Constance, don’t!’
‘You know it’s true. You’re the lost king. And you will do the right thing. An ordinary bloke is just what we need right now. Someone solid. And decent. And you are those things and so much more. We stayed so we could do the right thing by the country. Well, this is it, my darling. This is the sacrifice.’
‘I’d be gaining so much,’ he said, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. ‘What am I going to lose?’
She held his gaze. ‘You know what it is, Bobbin. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’
‘No, Constance,’ he said with real fear in his voice. ‘I can’t lose you now.’
Turing had gone to bring the King and Constance back inside. The MI7 agent lit another cigarette and said, ‘We’ve got a problem.’
Just the one? Green Man thought, but kept it to himself. Noel did not look in the mood for sarcasm. ‘Go on.’
‘You saw how Seizer was when he got the news?’
He tried not to smile at the memory. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Well, I don’t trust him. And I don’t trust Maven either. They’re angry, they have guns, and they know where we are. That’s a bad combination. And then there’s our mysterious Irish witch. She’s …’
‘I agree. What do you suggest?’
‘That we get out of here before trouble finds us. Do you have a place? Somewhere that Seizer doesn’t know about?’
Green Man frowned. ‘Seizer has been with us a long time but …’
‘You’ve got a place?’
‘Not a safe house exactly, but a sympathetic priest. I suspect he’d let us stay under his care for a night or two.’
‘Us? Hiding in a church?’ Noel rolled his eyes. ‘Perfect.’
‘I’m open to other suggestions if you have them.’
Noel shook his head and made for the door. ‘It’s fine, really. Let’s just get our king and get the hell out of here before things get messy.’
After a long sigh, Green Man stood up and followed him.
Friday
March 13th
IT WAS LATE BUT Green Man didn’t feel tired at all. Hope swirled in his chest, as welcome as it was unusual. They had found their king and though he wasn’t the most assertive person in the world, he was a good man. The symbol that his people – no, that all people – sorely needed. Apart from him and Noel, everyone had gone to bed. Turing and Constance on pallets in the rectory. Arthur upstairs in a room at the top of the tower where he and Noel could guard the stairs. The old church was quiet.
‘You still with us?’ asked Noel.
‘Yes. I was just thinking about Arthur and how best to help him.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I was trying to …’ He paused, unused to sharing such thoughts with a stranger.
‘Oh, spit it out, man. It can’t be any sillier than this entire cocked-up situation.’
Perhaps the lateness of the hour created the illusion of intimacy, or perhaps he felt the change in the air, the chance to be someone better for the new king. Or maybe he was just lonely. Whatever it was, the usual inhibitions fell away. ‘To write a speech. For Arthur, I mean.’
‘You good with words?’
‘I’m passable at delivering them, but I’m better at composing them. I used to be a speechwriter, a good one, back before …’ he gestured to his body, ‘this happened.’
‘Rather hard to imagine you as a normal chap, no offence.’
‘But I was. The very definition of normal. Well, for a man of my generation, anyway. I had a wife, a family, a steady job, a nice house, a car, a decent pension.’ He laughed. ‘Life insurance! It turns out they don’t cover jokers any more than my marriage vows did.’
‘I’ll give you the insurance,’ Noel replied, ‘those people are bastards, but jokers don’t get the monopoly on broken marriages. Trust me, we all have trouble there.’
They fell quiet for a while. Noel rubbed his hands together for warmth, then uncapped a flask of whisky and tipped some into his now-empty tea cup. ‘You want some?’
‘No thanks, I don’t drink.’
Noel’s face fell. ‘If any man had a reason … but have it your way. So tell me, how does a teetotal family man turn into a terrorist? You seem too bright to buy into all of the Fist rhetoric.’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I’m not the kind of chap who asks questions and doesn’t expect an answer.’
Green Man looked Noel up and down. ‘I see that. All right. I’ll tell you.’ Except, he didn’t. Not at first.
Noel took another sip of whisky. ‘Neither of us are getting any younger here,’ he drawled.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve not told anyone this before.’
‘Now you’ve got to tell me.’
‘After my card turned, things looked bleak. I had no job, no prospects, and no way to support my family. When I look back on it I realize I was in shock. I was certainly not in the right frame of mind to meet Churchill. Anyway, I did meet Churchill, and he told me that he needed me. I was a joker he could trust, you see, one that could infiltrate the Twisted Fists for them. He said that if I did that and helped to bring down the Black Dog, it would be a great service to my country. He also said that he’d provide handsomely for my loved ones and that when it was all over, he’d clear my name. He said he’d speak to Wendy, my wife, personally—’
‘And you believed him? That wily old bastard?’ Noel gave a sharp laugh.
‘I wasn’t as cynical as you back then. So, yes, I did what he asked. I got into the Fists, became one of them. I killed for them. Did everything they told me to, worming my way up the ranks until I became one of the Black Dog’s inner circle and found out what I needed to bring him in. That way I could come home.’
‘Funny, I don’t recall that happening.’
‘Quite. The trouble was, only Churchill and I knew the truth. When he died, there was no way back for me.’
‘You trying to tell me you didn’t have any choice?’
‘Of course not. There’s always a choice, I just didn’t have any good ones.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Noel, ‘even if you won’t.’
‘Believe it or not, I tried to make the best of things. To twist the Twisted Fists, if you will. We still kill, but I keep us to the code, and I try … it sounds naive to say it out loud, but I try to help people where possible. Not just jokers, but all the people our society abandons. I used to believe in the system. Now I believe the system needs to change.’
‘Yeah, things are pretty fucked up all right, and I’m certainly not the man to disagree with your methods, but I’m sorry you lost your children. That’s rough, believe me, I know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘Two. I imagine they’re about your age, actually. Christine, my eldest, has really made a name for herself. We always knew she’d do well.’ He sighed. ‘She hates me. Now she works for the
government, trying to bring people like me to justice. I don’t know what Roy does. I haven’t seen him since before all of this. In my mind, he’s still a little boy.’
‘You should go and find him. Children need their parents, no matter how old they are.’
‘He’s better off without me.’ Green Man held up a hand before Noel could protest. ‘Please. They have their own lives. Happy ones, hopefully. Roy and Christine don’t need me in them any more than they need the Silver Helix on their doorstep. I stay away because I love them. Let them live in peace.’
Noel was quiet for a while, a variety of emotions at play on his face, all suppressed and hard to read. ‘You told me about your kids but you never told me your name. Your real one. What is it?’
Green Man reached up and took off his mask. ‘Roger.’
‘Hi, Roger,’ said Noel, holding out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Roger fell silent. Noel uncapped his flask and poured another dash of whisky into his cup. He gestured with the flask towards Roger’s cup, which was filled only with water.
‘You sure?’ Noel asked. ‘If this whole thing goes wrong it might be your last chance to get pissed.’
‘If only I could. Alas, that’s something else the damned virus stole from me.’
The church tower was cold. Noel gave a shiver, rolling his shoulders to loosen stiff muscles. Beyond the stone walls he could hear the muted sounds of the Barbican Estate. He checked his watch: 2:20a.m.
‘If you want to take a bit of a lie-down,’ Roger began but broke off at Noel’s upraised hand and urgent look as a soft metallic tink filtered down from the tower roof. It was followed by a man’s scream from the floor above where Noel and Roger kept watch on the landing just below.
‘Shit!’ Noel snatched up his pistol and ran for the stairs. Arthur was sleeping on the top floor. Should have stayed in the same room with him. To hell with him wanting privacy. A regretful thought that was coming way too late.
He could hear Roger’s crashing footfalls behind him like the clatter of a thousand wooden canes on the stone steps. His ribs sent pain driving through his chest with each breath. Gritting his teeth, Noel kept running, taking the steps two at a time.
He hit the door to the upper room and bounced off, falling back against the big knave. Either Arthur or his assailant had locked the door.
‘Locked,’ Noel managed to croak out.
Green Man knotted one enormous fist, and slammed it into the door. Wood splinters flew into the room beyond, two hard kicks and the rest of the door was reduced to flinders. Noel darted through. Arthur lay on a pile of blankets now turning red from the slashes on his forearms, stab wounds in his chest, a long cut down one cheek and a shallow slash across his throat.
Noel’s peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement to his right. He twisted hard to the side, groaning in pain as his ribs protested. The sharp turn sent the leather coat flaring and his attacker’s blade slashed across his side, cutting through his sweater and deep into his flesh.
He screamed and tried to swing around to bring his pistol to bear but Roger was blocking his shot. Sweat bathed Noel’s face and his vision seemed to be narrowing.
Noel caught a glimpse of the assassin. It was Maven, dressed for wet-work in tight-fitting leather, nothing to grab on to apart from the climbing harness she was wearing. The rope extended out of the window where the glass and woodwork had been carefully cut and set aside, allowing her to wriggle through.
Roger attempted to grapple with her, but he was too slow. She darted to the side, and threw her blade at Noel. Her aim was excellent, but instead of burying itself in his eye the knife was blocked by Roger throwing out an arm. The knife stood quivering in his hardened flesh and then Maven was sprinting for the window.
Noel fired, but pain, exhaustion and blood loss were taking their toll. Maven gave a grunt as she smashed through the window, sending the remaining glass and woodwork sparkling against the night sky, but wherever the bullet had hit it clearly hadn’t incapacitated her. She vanished up the side of the tower and they heard her footfalls running across the roof.
He watched the floor coming up to meet him, but before his face connected with the wood he was caught by Roger.
‘The King,’ he managed to croak. He vaguely heard Constance and Turing calling out in grief and alarm as they ran into the room. Then blackness swallowed him.
‘Oh, God! Oh, God. Oh, God,’ Constance mouthed as she ran to Bobbin’s side. She wasn’t sure if she was whispering it or screaming. There was nothing but a terrible rushing sound in her ears.
It was pandemonium. She knew that Noel had been injured, but that didn’t matter right now. She had only one thought – Bobbin.
It seemed as if it took forever to get to his side. He was sprawled on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. She slipped on it and landed hard on her hands and knees next to him. It didn’t matter. She rocked back onto her heels. Her bloody hands fluttered over his body.
‘Constance,’ he said weakly. ‘Not exactly what I signed on for.’ He coughed.
‘Oh, God,’ she thought. She couldn’t scream. Not now. ‘Ambulance!’ she shouted. ‘Ambulance. Someone call the ambu—’
‘Can’t. Curfew.’
‘What do you mean, curfew?’
‘Can’t go out. Can’t get an ambulance. Too many questions.’
She glared at Green Man, then at Noel, then at Turing. ‘This is all your fucking fault. Every one of you. We’d never have known about him being king if it weren’t for the three of you.’
‘Constance …’ Turing began.
‘Get my bag,’ she growled.
‘What?’ Green Man asked.
‘Get my fucking bag! Now! Make some use of yourself.’
She looked back at Bobbin. ‘It’ll be all right, my dear,’ she said, taking his hand. Both their hands were sticky with his blood.
‘This isn’t how I thought I’d die.’
‘You’re not dying today,’ she snapped. She was feeling better now. Drawing on her anger helped.
Turing returned with her bag. She shook the contents onto the floor, caring nothing for where they fell, except for one thing. Her sewing kit and special shears fell out last, thudding onto the wood.
Her hands trembled as she began threading a needle. ‘Get some whisky, rubbing alcohol, anything that’ll disinfect this. Now!’
Green Man ran to Noel, rummaged through his jacket, then pulled out a flask. He slid it to her. She grabbed it, unscrewed the top, and doused the thread and her hands.
‘This is going to hurt like the Devil, Bobbin,’ she said. ‘But it must be done. It’s the only way.’
‘Best do it quick, then,’ he replied. His voice was unsteady.
There was a deep wound on his cheek, but it wasn’t the real danger. With a deft hand, she cut his shirt away. Gashes covered his chest. She pinched one of his wounds together and began to stitch. After a moment, the world fell away and it was just her and him and her power. She would make him whole again. She had to.
‘How could they have found us?’ Constance asked angrily, her eyes red with weeping. It was near dawn.
Alan rose to his feet. ‘I think – and I know this is going to sound a bit mad – I think it has something to do with the crows.’
Noel frowned. ‘What? Do you mean the ravens? At the Tower?’
He shook his head. ‘No, no. I said crows and I meant crows. They’re everywhere – at the palace, at Westminster Abbey, at our house – even outside the windows at Richard’s flat. I’ve never seen so many damned crows. It must be some sort of wild card. Somehow all our secrets have been coming to light.’
Alan’s mind was racing. A million miles a minute, all the pieces clicking into place. ‘I thought it was just … bad luck. Word of a joker prince getting out when Margaret had told only me. Who told Henry? Who shot the old woman on the Queen Mary? Sent the police into joker neighbourhoods? So many things going wrong for us. I even thought it was some kind
of fate, the consequence of losing the true king. Utter nonsense.’
‘It was Finder who sent me to the Queen Mary. Warned me of an assassin,’ Green Man broke in.
‘And I had an informant send me off to the ship—’
‘Just in time for us to meet,’ added Green Man to Noel’s statement.
‘And it was Finder who approached me with the information about Sissel,’ Noel continued. His tone was low and dangerous.
Turing didn’t have the whole picture yet, but he was now sure that Finder, and crows, were intimately involved. Some joker power, setting one group against another, leading to the current chaos, but what could she possibly hope to gain? Did she have her own claimant to the throne? Could she have found Elizabeth’s child and suborned him? Finder was Irish. Did the answer lie across the Irish Sea?
‘Noel. You have to go to Ireland.’
Noel stumbled as his feet hit the slick pavement of the car park. It was another raw day. The stitches in his side pulled as he threw out an arm to help him balance. At least the cut was on the other side from the broken ribs. And the wound wasn’t as bad as he’d first feared. The faintness had been due more to exhaustion and the multiplying injuries. The air smelled of petrol, the sea, cooking cabbage, burning tyres and damp wool. He was in his Lilith form because he didn’t want to wait until after sunrise to jump to the Irish city. And indeed as he straightened his leather coat a faint light began to glow on the horizon and his Queen of the Night melted away with a grinding of bones.
He had landed in the car park of the Thiepval Barracks that housed the FRU, the Force Research Unit, a branch of British Army Intelligence. The building was one of those faceless modern monstrosities that had replaced the older barracks after a massive bomb had levelled the place back in ’87. The only relic of that event was a burned tree trunk that for some reason hadn’t been removed. Some sort of memorial?
Thus far he had not been spotted by security because of course their gaze was focused outward, over the high metal fencing. Though in this world of wild cards someone would soon spot him. He unlimbered his Helix identification and walked towards the entrance to the main building.
Three Kings Page 30
