‘… 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.’
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 chance 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