years! Henry – Henry, take them all away … need to speak to Alan.’ Margaret had to pause between breaths, but decades of command held, and the family dutifully filed out. Henry, soon to be king, with his young fiancée. Richard and Diana and their children as well. Richard’s young grandchildren had been spared this death-watch. Finally they all left Alan alone with Margaret.
‘Come here.’ She raised a hand, and Alan hurried across the room to take it in his, careful not to press too hard.
He listened as Margaret spoke, her words slipping out of coherence, rambling at times. But he’d known her a long time; even if she dropped words here and there, it was easy enough for him to fill in the gaps. ‘Henry is too rigid … blinkered. He clings … to pride and privilege … might have pulled a kingdom … on the battlefield, but … not what England needs now.’
Turing couldn’t disagree with her assessment of Henry. Yeats had said it best: The best lack all conviction, while the worst / are full of passionate intensity. But Henry would be king; somehow, England would survive.
Margaret’s soft voice rambled on. ‘And my Dickie’s … an attractive man – you know that, Alan …’
Intimation in her voice – she couldn’t possibly know, could she? His metallic skin could not flush, but Turing felt the heat rise in his face. But the Queen was already moving on.
‘But I don’t know … the strength to hold the throne … the figure that England needs … symbol of our past, our future. When the throne falters, England falters!’ She sighed, a pale hand fluttering on the richly worked bedspread. ‘I didn’t understand that … a girl … Elizabeth worked so hard to show me … almost too late by the time I learned. Alan – you must find the other.’
There was a gap Turing didn’t know how to fill. ‘The other, Majesty?’
‘The other heir. Lizzie’s little boy. He wasn’t right, you know. But still. Maybe better than my boys.’ Margaret was pushing herself up in the pillows, her eyes blazing now, almost feverish. Her words came fast and sharp, despite the tears trembling in her eyes. ‘You can assess, Alan, better than anyone else. You have seen decades of history, fought in our wars, served multiple rulers. You will likely see many more – you can judge better than any other living man. How would he be, for England?’ Margaret sank bank on the pillows again. ‘… such hopes for my sons, I tried to raise them right, but the demands of the throne …’
And then she was crying, his Margaret, tears slipping down soft cheeks. Alan’s heart turned over in his chest, listening to her speak on, babbling about this other, lost, child. Was this some figment of her old age, a dream fancy? Margaret had been so strong, so young and beautiful. It was impossible, what she asked. Even if Elizabeth’s child actually existed, the country would never accept some random individual to take the throne of England, however toothless a power that might be in these modern days. A secret heir, and her own sons passed over for him! If Richard found out, he’d be furious.
Alan Turing patted Margaret’s hand helplessly, and listened to his queen ramble on. He couldn’t do much for her now, but as long as she asked him to, he would listen.
The house smelled of food brought from a nearby pub. It was far from Noel Matthews’ first choice of cuisine, but it was infinitely preferable to his mother trying to exercise her culinary skills … which were nil. His father, a stay-at-home invalid, had done all the cooking while his wife went off to teach at Cambridge, but since his death Amanda had relied solely on takeaway and frozen dinners heated in the microwave. It showed in the fact her big frame was now packing more weight than the last time he had seen her. While he set the table she was busy opening the containers and placing serving spoons in the shepherd’s pie, the Brussels sprouts, the blackberry and apple crumble, and the green salad Noel had insisted she add to the order.
‘Darling, while it’s lovely having you home and seeing my grandson, what you’re doing is rotten and you know it,’ Amanda was saying.
A sharp pain at the hinge of his jaw reminded Noel to unclench his teeth. ‘There was an easy solution. Niobe just had to agree to move back to Britain with me.’
‘Her family is all in that New England area—’
‘Yeah, and they’re all complete arseholes. Why she suddenly decided she needed to reconcile with them is beyond me. She seemed to think Jasper changed everything for them, but he’s an ace and they’ll hate him as much as they hate her for being a joker because they hate wild cards. Why she can’t see that—’
‘Because the ties of blood are strong. You’ve separated a child from his mother, Noel. I can’t approve of that.’
‘Can’t I be both?’ he quipped with bitter irony in a reference to his intersex status.
‘Now you’re being an arsehole. Go and get Jasper. Dinner’s ready.’
He checked the cosy study where he had spent so many hours with his father, then Jasper’s bedroom. His son was nowhere to be found. Old habits leapt to the fore and he found himself gripping the butt of the pistol that he always carried and checking the knives secreted about his person. Could this be some of the many enemies he had made as an elite assassin for Britain’s ace spy agency, MI7? Or could it be the Silver Helix itself come for a little payback?
He felt a cold breeze and ran to the back door. It had blown open. His heart was hammering as he rushed into the back garden, fallow now as the final day of a miserable February drew to a close. The fact that it was sunset meant he was unable to teleport if there should be a threat. He cursed under his breath and headed down the slope towards the River Cam, where fog was rising off the water like the waving tendrils of a witch’s hair.
A small figure squatted by the river’s edge. Noel slumped with relief and joined his son. ‘It’s cold and wet out here, Jasper. You should have a coat.’
‘I just wanted to see the fog. It’s so weird,’ the boy said. ‘It’s like it’s alive.’
‘Well, dinner is ready.’
Jasper nodded and stood up. At nine years old he was becoming coltish, all legs and elbows. Noel dropped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.
‘Dad, are we going to go home soon?’
‘Well, technically this is home too. I have the flat in London, the place in Paris—’
‘But they’re not really home because … because …’ He looked up hesitantly. ‘I really miss Mom.’
‘We’re … working on it. I just want you to be a good Englishman as well as an American, which is why I want to live here for a while.’
‘So why doesn’t Mom want to come here?’
The memory of wet smears on the carpet where Niobe’s and his three little ace homunculi had died in a hail of bullets flashed across his memory. Niobe pressing a hand to her chest weeping, remembering the pain of the bullets that had killed her children.
‘I’m not sure,’ he lied. She’s also worried I’ll fall back into my old ways, he thought. He remembered how he had reached for his weapons in a moment of panic and had to acknowledge that
