know I’m not her, but you can count on me.’
‘I know,’ she replied quietly. There was a hitch in her voice and a lump in her throat that made it hard to swallow. The vicar kept droning on and Constance thought she might scream, Get on with it, you git!
At last, the vicar finished, and the mourners began to make their way past the coffin. White flowers – lilies, chrysanthemums, and gladioli – were lovingly placed around the casket. She saw Green Man begin to make his way through the crowd carrying a delicate bouquet of violets.
It made her like him a little, but only just a little.
It pained Green Man to arrive anything less than early, but it wouldn’t do to be hanging around. He’d learned long ago that the trick to maintaining any kind of mystique was to give people as little time to talk to you as possible. And so, at the very last minute, he slipped in quietly at the back of the cemetery.
Manor Park had lost none of its gravitas over the years. Even under a drab London sky it managed to look stylish and timeless, from the clusters of mature oak, ash and birch trees to the wrought-iron gates tipped with gold, to the neatly kept grass. Where many places of this calibre would have turned their back on the resident jokers, Manor Park and the rest of the East End had welcomed them with open arms. To them, jokers were just another quirk of an already vibrant community.
A good-sized crowd had assembled to pay their respects to Glory Greenwood. She’d been something of a star during the sixties, and always popular. That was the thing about being different: to be accepted you had to be easy on the eye, and for the most part harmless. Glory had been both, and charming with it. A little bit of brightness in the East End that would be sorely missed.
He allowed himself the slightest smile as the crowd became aware of him. Furtive glances were cast his way and a little ripple of reactions passed out from where he stood. He watched carefully, noting which faces seemed pleased, which afraid, and the few that were openly hostile – he’d make a point of talking to them later.
Somewhere nearby, Wayfarer would be sitting in an innocuous-looking van with the engine running. A few of the more discreet Fists were also around, ready to run interference if need be. It was unlikely anyone would be crass enough to move against him here, but it always paid to take precautions. In his pocket, his phone was set to vibrate if Wayfarer got word of trouble. The old code: one buzz for police, two for armed units or military, and three for the Silver Helix.
So far it had stayed as quiet as the park itself.
His turn soon came to step up to the grave, several of those already in the queue giving up their places out of respect. Among them he saw one of the few nats present: Constance, alongside Bobbin. They stood together, almost like an old married couple, but not quite. Green Man favoured them with a slight nod as he passed.
Despite the sombre nature of the day, it felt good to be outside. Too much of his life was spent cooped up inside the back of vehicles or below ground. He relished the feel of the wind on his body: he was virtually immune to the cold these days, and was delighted when rain fell on him.
When he reached the grave he stood for a while, head bowed, to give the impression of deep thoughts and feelings. The truth was he hadn’t really known Glory at all. Their lives had followed very different paths. She’d always seemed too much of a hippie for his liking. He much preferred tidy, practical people. And she would likely have found him dull.
Still, regardless of any personal feelings, it was important that Green Man be seen to care and, in a vague way, he did care. Jokers like Glory were rare and important to the cause. The world would always see him as a monster, but she’d been able to touch people, joker, ace and nat alike. She was the other side of the coin. The Twisted Fists could fight the worst of humanity, but they would never win over the best of it.
He stooped down, and left his bouquet of violets.
When he made his way out, he saw some of the old jokers laughing together as they shared stories of their time with Glory. He saw them hold each other, their misshapen bodies leaning together for support.
And he envied them.
Alan Turing stood outside the door to the Queen’s bedchamber, collecting himself. She had summoned him, and he had come at her command, as always.
Margaret had been so beautiful as a girl. Beautiful and wild. An eighteen-inch waist, the papers had reported, and the rest of the figure to match, plus a face lovely enough to paint. Both before and after his card had turned, Alan had felt no flicker of desire for the stunning princess, but he had appreciated her beauty, like a work of art. And though time had worked its ravages, buried in the wrinkles of ninety lay the lovely bones of the girl who had flirted her way across Europe. Pregnant Elizabeth had surely been relieved when Townsend had actually proposed to Margaret; marrying a divorcé was still scandalous back then, but better than a babe born out of wedlock. She’d thrown her considerable weight behind the match, and the marriage, a mere seven months after Elizabeth’s own, had featured the most splendid of cakes.
A flowering of British beauty, British glory, such a relief after the ravages of the war followed by Wild Cards Day. And then, things fell apart, as the poem said. Had Yeats known, somehow? The centre did not hold: Elizabeth’s baby was born dead, followed a few years later by Elizabeth’s own passing, her health broken by the birth. She had fought so long, so hard, their princess, and the country had been heart-stricken. When George VI died a year later, Margaret had been so distraught that she’d needed sleeping pills for months. They’d tried to keep that out of the papers, but to no avail.
Still, in the end, she’d rallied. Young Henry to live for, and then Richard following a few years later. Twenty centuries of stony sleep put back to rest by a rocking cradle? Margaret I, ruling over a realm that had been, for the most part, peaceful. And if she had her lovers on the side, as some whispered, Townsend never said a word, and so neither could anyone else. He’d loved her to his grave, his wild girl, and now, finally, she would follow. Alan turned the doorknob, pushed open the heavy door, and entered.
The Queen’s crimson bedchamber, crowded with relatives and quiet murmurs of conversation, was lit by candles. Electric lights hurt her eyes. The flickering light caught the gilt of framed paintings on the walls, a long pageantry of prior kings and queens, with Elizabeth prominent in the room. Had Margaret spent her entire reign under her sister’s stern gaze? Never quite good enough, proper enough, to satisfy? Yet Margaret had held England together, through the advent of the wild card, where other countries had faltered – surely Elizabeth would give her points for that? The candles lit shadows in the forest-green curtains that draped the bed, edged in royal purple and gold. On the flower-embroidered coverlet, the Queen’s hand lay, the thickness of middle age dissolved through her long years, until it was thin again, the skin gone papery.
Alan Turing had served George through the war, and Elizabeth after, served as well as he knew how, but it was Margaret he had loved. Something in her wild heart called to his own, though so few could see it, cloaked as it was in his skin gone metallic, and his mind that had always worked more like a computer’s than most. Yet Alan was human after all, and when the Queen called to him in a thin voice, his heart squeezed in his chest. Ah, this hurt.
‘Alan?’
He spoke over the tightness in his throat. ‘I’m here, Your Majesty.’
