Part 4
Belfast, 1994
ROGER PAUSED AT THE door. It struck him that it had been a long time since he had gone to someone else’s room for a meeting. It was stranger still to feel intimidated. He didn’t dare pause for long though, Sir Winston Churchill was not the sort of man to be kept waiting.
As he raised his hand to knock, he saw his shirt had snagged on a shoot growing from his forearm. A careful tug of the sleeve dealt with the problem but not his irritation. He’d only had it trimmed two weeks ago. Honestly, his body was more effort to manage than his garden, and that was saying something.
Getting to Churchill was harder than ever, and if he hadn’t had the old man’s assistance it would have been impossible. The Silver Helix were here in force and on high alert, though for what, Roger had no idea. It made him nervous. He had no wish to meet the lumbering Captain Flint, let alone the Lion, Enigma, Redcoat, or the other aces in residence.
Normally this door would be manned, but at the prearranged time the hallway was empty. Nobody else knew he was coming, and there were to be no witnesses. Ironically, if he really were a terrorist leader of the Twisted Fists, this would be the ideal time for an assassination attempt.
But he was not, and in a few hours he wouldn’t even be a spy any more. He would be free of Green Man, the Fists, the violence, all of it.
He knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ said an unmistakable voice.
Churchill seemed much the same as when they’d first met. A little less hair perhaps, a little wider, but still commanding. He leaned heavily on his cane as he stood to shake Roger’s hand. ‘Barnes.’
‘Sir Winston.’
‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Cigar?’
‘No, thank you.’
Churchill nodded and eased himself back into his chair. ‘Are you getting taller, Barnes, or is time playing tricks on my memory?’
‘I’ve gained a few inches over the years.’ He’d had to have new suits tailored because of it. His neck had grown thicker too, enough to force him to adjust his collars. Not to mention the growths on his right arm and the persistent shoot that kept sprouting from the old gunshot wound in his chest. But it was unlikely Churchill was interested in those details, so he kept them to himself.
‘If only it were a few inches in my case,’ said Churchill, patting his belly for emphasis. ‘Doubtless you have many questions, but given our lack of time, I will take the liberty of asking the most important one first. Do you have it?’
Roger took a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and passed it over. ‘Black Dog is here in Belfast for a few days, alone. He’s come for something big but even I don’t know what it is. The top items on the list are the safe houses he’ll be using while he’s here, the bottom ones detail his options on his way out of Europe.’
Roger had a lot more than that of course. Apart from the Black Dog, he knew more than anyone about the assets of the Twisted Fists: the identities of every member of the UK cell, their plans, their allies, enough to bury them. The list he’d given Churchill didn’t contain any of that, however. While he was sure the great statesman would keep his word, it seemed prudent to hold a few cards back in case he needed to bargain further down the line.
Churchill slapped him on the arm. ‘Good man! This calls for a drink.’ He was halfway through pouring his own glass when he added: ‘Are you sure you won’t join me in a brandy?’
‘Yes, Sir Winston, but I appreciate the offer.’
A glass was raised towards him. ‘Here’s to the end of the Twisted Fists and another triumph for civilized society!’
Roger smiled politely and waited for Churchill to have a sip. ‘When can I go home, sir?’
‘Soon, Barnes. Soon.’
‘With all due respect, why not now? My mission was to give you Black Dog. I’ve done that. It’s taken nearly a decade but I’ve done it.’
Churchill put down his drink. ‘Now hold on there, Barnes. What you’ve done is give me a piece of paper, nothing more. Should this paper enable us to capture the Black Dog, I will personally oversee arrangements to send you swiftly back to where you belong. However, it is not my way to uncork the champagne before the race is won. If the Black Dog manages to evade capture, as he has done many times in the past, we will need you in position, right where you are, more than ever.’ It made sense. In Churchill’s position Roger would probably do the same but he didn’t like the feeling of being used. ‘How long?’
‘I would have thought that was clear, Barnes. As long as it takes, and not a minute longer.’
‘Can I ask how my family are?’
‘Safe and sound.’
‘I … how are they managing without me?’
‘They’re troupers, Barnes. They’re fine and they want for nothing. As promised, I have seen to it that all of their financial needs are taken care of.’ He began to cough, eventually taking another long sip of his brandy when the fit subsided. ‘Excuse me. Now, tell me about the Black Dog.’
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I don’t know.’
Churchill coughed again, more for effect this time. ‘My hearing must be going. I thought you said you didn’t know what he looked like, which would be ridiculous, given that you have been taken into his confidence.’
‘He’s always masked. I’ve never seen his face. To the best of my knowledge, Sir Winston, nobody has.’
‘How are we to apprehend a man when we don’t know what he looks like? Even if we do apprehend someone in a dog mask, how will we know we have the right person?’
‘Trust me, you’ll know if you get him. He’s not like other people.’
‘I need specifics, man. How is he different? How?’
‘I don’t know how to describe it other than to say he’s a leader. I’ve never met anyone like him.’ In truth, he had, but Roger was sure Churchill wouldn’t appreciate being compared to a terrorist. ‘In terms of specifics: he’s tall, over six foot, and well built. His accent is an odd blend. I’d say he’s spent considerable time in the Middle East and the United States. I’d guess him to be in his forties but given that he’s a joker, I’ve no idea how much the years show in his face.’
‘What about his mutation? Has he shown any abilities?’
‘None. I know he’s had military training of some kind and I’m certain he is capable under pressure.’ Roger could see the scowl on Churchill’s face growing. ‘But that doesn’t matter. You know where he’s going to be. All you have to do is watch the safe houses and you’ll soon have him. There won’t be many people of his stature going into those precise locations in the next few days.’
Churchill knocked back the last of his brandy. ‘I suppose we will find out one way or another. Are you sure this information is reliable? I’m going to have to pull a lot of strings to be able to operate here on such short notice.’
He had been certain until Churchill had asked the question and now he wasn’t sure at all. However, he was damned if he was going to lose another ten years, so he said: ‘I’d stake my reputation on it.’
This got a nod from Churchill. ‘So be it. Now, you need to leave here before Captain Flint comes back, and I need to get myself to the Belfast Hilton.’
The Roger of old would have left without another word, but as Green Man, he had grown unaccustomed to dismissals. ‘And when you get Black Dog, what then?’
‘Then you leave word in the usual manner and we will come and collect you.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
They shook hands again and Roger made for the door. As he opened it, Churchill tapped his cane on the ground, making Roger turn. ‘Nail your patience to the wall, Barnes, and keep an ear to the ground. It won’t be long now, I assure you.’
Over the next few hours Roger was glad for his mask, otherwise his face would surely have given him away. For nearly ten years, he’d lived in constant fear of being discovered as a spy by the Black Dog, but somehow he’d learned to deal with it, throwing himself deeply enough into running his cell of the Twisted Fists that he often forgot it was all pretence.
The day when he could leave the Fists had seemed so distant that he’d half suspected it would never come, and somehow that had made it easier to be Green Man. Now that he was finally on the cusp of going home, he found himself thinking about his old life with painful clarity. It was as if Roger Barnes had been hibernating through the horror and now he was waking up again.
He wondered about Wendy. He’d always pictured their reunion as a joyous thing but would it be? She was very conservative in her tastes and he was a giant tree. Quite apart from the fact he would be an embarrassment to her in public, there were various aspects of their relationship that, in biological terms, could not function as they had before. Given the choice, she’d probably rather remain a widow.
He hoped Christine and Roy would be more open-minded but the truth was he had no idea. The last time he’d seen them, they’d been children. They’d be strangers now.
They’d get through it though. No matter what they’d thought of him, he’d swoop back into their lives on the back of Churchill’s glowing endorsement. Wendy loved the man almost as much as Roger did. He’d be like a hero in an adventure story, one of the ridiculous ones that his children used to like so much. He very much hoped that was still the case.
The knock at the door made him jump. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and that meant something bad had happened. ‘Come in.’
Wayfarer stepped inside. He knew she had to wear the sunglasses but wished that she didn’t, as it made her much harder to read. ‘When did you get back?’
‘About half an hour ago,’ he replied, not liking her tone. ‘Is there a problem?’
Her jaw dropped. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Clearly.’
‘Where have you been? The news is everywhere!’
He placed his hands flat on the desk to keep them from shaking. This had to be it. Churchill must have used his information to bring down Black Dog. He tried to remain nonchalant. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Black Dog! They’re saying he’s killed Churchill.’
The world seemed to spin around Roger. His fingers bored down, making the surface of the desk crack. An image of Wendy appeared in his mind, then faded. He tried to bring it back again but couldn’t. When he reached for thoughts of his children, all he could conjure were pairs of shorts covered in ice cream. No smiles, no faces, nothing to hold on to.
Without Churchill there was nobody to vouch for him. Without Churchill there was nobody to explain his actions over the past decade, to transform criminality into heroism, brutal murder into patriotic service. There would be no pardon. No redemption. No reunion.
He was trapped.
The desk groaned under the pressure of his hands, threatening to splinter.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Wayfarer.
‘Out,’ replied Roger, dismissing her while he could still control himself enough to do so. He needed space to think and the privacy in which to express panic. It all made sense now: the secrecy around Black Dog’s visit, the fact that he’d worked alone. Churchill had an odd status in the Fists. He was no joker but he was no nat either, and was still a hero in the minds of many. Black Dog wouldn’t have been sure if the others would back him, that’s why he hadn’t told anybody of his true purpose.
Roger had thought it coincidence that both of his masters were in Belfast at the same time, but the truth had been far more sinister. He put aside thoughts of his own losses to consider what this meant. Had Churchill organized the strike against Black Dog before he was killed? Had anyone found the list Roger had given him? If one of Churchill’s people had they might still bring the Black Dog down. If Black Dog had found it, however, then Roger was in serious trouble.
There was no way out. No way back to what he was. To survive, Roger would have to double down on everything he’d achieved for the Fists. He’d have to wear the mask of Green Man for real, forever.
He took a long hard look at what that would mean and shivered.
Another knock at the door made him jump just as much as the first. When he spoke, however, his mask was in place, his voice as calm as ever. ‘Come in.’
Wayfarer did so and closed the door behind her. ‘King Brian wants to see you. He says it’s urgent.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘He doesn’t seem himself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s dressed differently and he’s nervous, he didn’t stop moving when I spoke to him. And …’
Her hesitance was playing into his own nerves. ‘And?’ he snapped.
‘And it’s the first time he’s actually looked at my face when he talked to me.’
‘I’d have thought that a good thing.’
‘It is, but …’
‘Out with it, Wayfarer. I cannot abide an unfinished sentence.’
The words poured out of her. ‘But he’s obviously scared. I think something awful is about to happen. Are you sure you want to go and see him?’
‘Given that we’re his guests, we can hardly say no.’
‘Yes, it’s just that I don’t trust him.’
Nor do I, he thought, but to run would be to invite suspicion. I need to keep my head in the lion’s jaws a little longer. Perhaps King Brian suspects me, perhaps he doesn’t.
This was out of his comfort zone. Planning, preparation, minimal risk, in these things he excelled. Chaos and chance taking did not suit him. It’s a good thing I don’t have to worry about blood pressure or heart attacks any more, or I wouldn’t last the day.
A few minutes later, he stepped into King Brian’s room, leaving Wayfarer instructions that if he didn’t return within the hour she was to flee. The leader of the Belfast cell of the Twisted Fists had changed dramatically since they’d last met. He’d shaved off his beard and exchanged the usual fancy attire in favour of a worn tracksuit and hoodie. From a distance he’d pass as a child, so long as nobody looked at his face. A few of the Fists liked to joke about Brian, but Roger had always had respect for him. Anyone with his disadvantages who could hold on to a position of leadership had to be taken seriously.
Brian was pacing as he arrived, making quick, impulsive turns.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Roger.
‘Wrong? Fucked is what it is. Totally fucked.’
This is good. He seems worried about things other than me. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’
Brian shot a look in Roger’s direction, but over his shoulder rather than at his face. Someone was behind him. He felt it like a bolt of lightning to the spine, and knew who it was even before he turned: the Black Dog.
He realized he’d been wrong. This was not good, not good at all. Trapped between Brian and the Black Dog, he had no choice but to turn and face the muzzled mask.
Roger had wondered if Black Dog was a mantle worn by more than one man. The founder of the Fists should be old now, and yet the man before him projected a sense of physical as well as personal power. It would be practical too, allowing the Black Dog to be everywhere at once, and if nothing else, symbols were much harder to kill than people.
However, he was in no doubt that this was the Black Dog he’d met before. There was something compelling about him, and when he spoke, his voice was unmistakably rich. ‘Churchill is dead. The papers are saying we did it.’
Within the mask, Black Dog’s eyes were cast in shadows, unreadable. Roger had no idea what he or King Brian knew about his true agenda or what this meeting was actually about, and it was unbearable. ‘Did we? Kill him, I mean.’
Brian stopped pacing to give a bitter laugh. ‘Are you kidding me? They used a helicopter to do it, a fucking gunship. Do you see any helicopters around here?’
‘No.’
‘Right. Though I could use one about now. The Silver Helix are going absolutely mental. No telling what they’re going to do but it ain’t going to be pretty.’
‘If we didn’t move against Churchill, do we know who did?’
The Black Dog and Brian exchanged a look and Roger realized that there was a loop and he most definitely was not in it.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Black Dog. ‘The public has no idea what is really going on, nor do the press. They’re blaming us because we’re easy targets, just as they always do. I know the truth, however. I have for a long time.’
Roger waited to be enlightened but nothing more was said on the matter, instead, Brian appeared at his side. ‘Look, I hate asking for favours, but me and my people need a place to lie low until this has all blown over, somewhere in England. Can you help me out?’
‘Surely you’d rather use your own safe houses than mine?’
‘Can’t.’ He and Black Dog exchanged another look.
There was a pause and Roger decided to push. ‘If you want my help, then at least tell me what sort of danger you’re in.’
‘We’re compromised,’ said Black Dog. ‘There are spies in the Fists.’
Oh God. Here we go. This is why they brought me in. Stay calm, Roger. Stay calm. There’s a chance they don’t know it’s you. Don’t give yourself away. ‘Spies?’ He tried to sound surprised. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. Information is slipping out to other organizations. There are hostile eyes in Jerusalem and Belfast, and possibly London as well. Check your people, Green Man, check them well.’
‘I will.’
‘I’ve tried to keep the other cells out of this but there are random factors beyond my control. King Brian has learned too much, and as such, is now a target.’
‘I can protect him.’
‘Be sure that you do. He has something important to take care of.’
‘Is that why you asked for me?’
‘Not entirely,’ the Black Dog said. ‘I won’t tell you why I’m here or what I’m working on, but I will say this: when I leave for Jerusalem, it may be for the last time. Forces are in play that even I cannot predict. If things go well, you will know soon enough. If they don’t, whatever happens, the Twisted Fists must endure.’ He put a hand on Roger’s shoulder. ‘They must have a leader. And that leader must be recognized by the others and obeyed.’ He looked at Brian. ‘Do you understand?’
‘What? Him? That’s—’ The Black Dog stared at Brian long enough to make the little man swallow. ‘Sure, I hear you clear as day. I’ll back him up. We all will.’
Black Dog’s muzzled mask swung back towards Roger. ‘Do you understand?’
Did he understand? The devil wanted him to take his place, to become the very thing he was supposed to bring down. The thought of it was suffocating.
And yet, if that happened he’d be able to complete Churchill’s mission, even though the old man wouldn’t be around to see it. He could go to one of the Silver Helix. If Churchill had shared his secrets with anyone, it would be them. And even if he hadn’t, Roger could give them Brian as a gesture of goodwill, and then the rest of the Fists shortly after. They’d have to deal with him even if they didn’t want to. Perhaps there was still a chance.
He met Black Dog’s stare. ‘Yes. I understand.’
It seemed as if the whole of England had turned out for Winston Churchill’s funeral. Westminster Abbey was packed, as were the streets around it. The police were doing their best to keep order but the crowds were so large it was like trying to control the currents in the ocean.
Roger was among them, feeling alternately anonymous and exposed. He wore dark glasses to hide his wooden eyes, and a long coat, gloves, scarf, and hat to cover the rest of him. What little skin was left visible he had lightened with make-up. A serious inspection would spot something odd immediately, but everyone was swept up in the pomp and ceremony of the day.
Churchill was an icon, a symbol of British pride that harked back to an older time. He’d seemed immortal: certainly his ace had enabled him to remain proactive for over a century. Like everyone else here, Roger felt the loss keenly, and had come to pay his respects.
Ideally, he’d have watched the ceremony itself but the Silver Helix were all inside the Abbey and Roger couldn’t get close. Worse, both the Helix and the authorities seemed to be on high alert. It wasn’t just that they wanted to ensure the funeral went smoothly, it was as if they were expecting trouble. There was a tension in the air that transmitted to the crowd. Even the trio of mangy-looking crows on the rooftop opposite seemed to be waiting for something. He had the feeling it had something to do with the people behind Churchill’s death, but knowing so little about the situation left him feeling helpless and out of his depth.
And so he found himself adrift in the crowd, trying to see as much as he could without drawing attention to himself.
A line of policemen formed a living fence on either side of the road, allowing cars to drop off important visitors. Roger was close enough to recognize various members of the royal family, foreign dignitaries, high-ranking military officers, lords, politicians, and the ex-Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. They were all so close and yet so far away, like images from a vivid fever dream. Even if the police weren’t in the way, it would be impossible for him to enter their world again.
And then, some time after the famous guests had been escorted into the Abbey, he saw a black cab arrive, and three small figures in sombre dress get out. Two women and a young man, none of them much over five foot tall. He could catch only snatches through the lines of people, hints and flashes, gone even as his brain tried to decipher them, but he knew what he was seeing.
Wendy! It was his Wendy! That meant the smart young woman next to her had to be Christine, and that slight young man little Roy. He felt the ghost of the urge to cry, but no actual tears came, the ducts dry since his card had turned. His family were alive and well. Churchill had told him so, but until now a part of him had feared the worst.
They’re still together. The thought was bittersweet. I should be with them. I should have been with them. All these years, I should have been with them.
The sense of loss was physical, as if someone were crushing his chest. He’d missed his children growing up, he’d missed a decade of their lives. A decade! And for what? For a mission that no longer had a leader. It suddenly struck him that Wendy had been forced to raise Christine and Roy alone. What must that have been like? What must she think of me? A man who abandons his family. A traitor to his country. A monster.
His usual reserve broke like a dam, shattering under the sudden swell of emotion. Without thinking, he pushed forward, jostling people left and right as he struggled to keep sight of them.
The black cab pulled away and the three started to walk towards the great arched entrance. He could appreciate Christine’s excellent posture, and that Wendy was wearing her hair differently, but he couldn’t see their faces. So he pushed forward again, making several people shake their heads at him, and one of the policeman turned in his direction.
Little Roy still had his side parting. Roger nodded in approval. A sensible haircut suggested a disciplined boy. His suit looked good, though the boy would probably grow out of it before he needed it again. Wendy wouldn’t care about expense on a day like this, however. He wondered how she was surviving financially. Had she had to get a job or was Churchill’s support enough? And had arrangements been made to keep the flow of money going after his death? Roger resolved to find out.
All too soon they had gone from view, joining the throng of guests inside the Abbey, leaving him bereft. He knew he should melt back into the crowd before someone noticed him, but he couldn’t make his feet move. Though his tear ducts no longer worked, he found that his body could still go through the motions, and he sank to his knees, hand clamped to mouth to stop from crying out.
‘Sir?’ said a voice.
He looked up to find that one of the police officers had detached themselves from the line and come over to him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Roger could feel his scrutiny like unwanted hands on his skin. It was important that he end this conversation and slip away before the officer realized who he was. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, trying to hide beneath the brim of his hat. ‘I’m a bit overwhelmed by it all.’
The policeman crouched down next to him and put a friendly hand on his arm. ‘You’re not the only one, sir. He touched a lot of lives.’
‘Yes,’ Roger agreed, ‘he certainly touched mine.’
‘You knew Sir Winston?’
Roger smiled. ‘I’m proud to say I did.’
That was his mistake. None of his preparations had covered his teeth. The policeman unconsciously leaned away, his eyes widening. ‘Wait, you aren’t right.’
‘Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m here with the best of intentions. I just wanted to pay my—’
‘You’re a bloody joker!’
‘—respects.’
‘Oh my Christ, you’re him!’
‘Please keep your voice down,’ said Roger as he stood up. ‘I’ll go.’
The policeman’s truncheon came up smartly, striking Roger on the side of the head. He didn’t feel it, but the blow knocked the hat off his head and broke the glasses he wore so that they hung lopsided on his face.
‘It’s … it’s the Green Man! Hey! I’ve got the Green Man!’
Heads began to whip round to see what the commotion was about and Roger realized that if he didn’t act quickly things would become disastrous. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble,’ he said, holding up his hands to emphasize the point.
Unfortunately his words were drowned out by the shouts of nearby people, each one whipping the mood further from solemn, and closer to outrage.
‘He’s one of them Twisted Fists what did in Churchill!’
‘Bloody terrorist!’
‘Killer!’
‘Joker scum!’
As Roger tried to stay calm, there was a loud click as the policeman snapped cuffs on his outstretched wrists. The one on his left locked shut, but his right wrist had grown back too bulky for the cuff and it remained open.
‘Please!’ he said. ‘I just need to talk to—’
But he never finished his sentence. Hands were grabbing for him and the policeman was trying to force the handcuff closed on his right wrist, shouting loudly for back-up as he did so.
This was just what Roger was trying to avoid. He needed more time to gather information on the Fists before the police took him. A public arrest was the worst possible outcome; the Fists would go to ground, rendering his information useless. He also knew that Twisted Fists did not have a good time in prison.
He grabbed the policeman and pulled him close, lifting the man off his feet as he did so. ‘I’m sorry.’
The policeman moaned as Roger swung him around his head like a flail, cracking a few skulls and gaining himself some space. He then threw the officer at the crowd and charged in the opposite direction. A few brave souls grabbed at him but he knocked them aside with a sweep of his arms and they fell away like wheat at harvest time.
Other officers were trying to converge on his position but were struggling to do so quickly. Whistles were blown, and voices raised, only to be drowned out by the distant sound of screaming. It would only be a matter of time before one of the many Silver Helix aces made an appearance and then he’d be in real trouble.
But somehow, miraculously, none of them came. In fact nobody seemed to be following him any more. Then he realized the sounds of screams and gunfire were coming from the Abbey – nothing to do with him at all. For a moment he paused, shocked by the idea of automatic weapons being discharged in such a sacred place. The desire to go and check on his family was almost overwhelming, but he crushed it. If Captain Flint and the Silver Helix couldn’t contain the problem, no one could. All he would do is add to the chaos.
As he continued to plough through the masses he told himself he wasn’t being a coward. He told himself he was taking the only correct and prudent course of action in the circumstances. He took no satisfaction from being right.
A few minutes later he stumbled from the edge of the crowd and into the streets. Wayfarer was waiting on a motorcycle nearby. She passed him a helmet as he climbed onto the back.
Mercifully, she didn’t say anything, the manner of his arrival being all the briefing necessary. The engine roared, the motorcycle leapt into action, and seconds later they were weaving through the traffic, gone.
London, 1994
There had been no word from the Black Dog. Roger secretly hoped for the worst. It was the best chance for him to get his life back. If the leader of the Twisted Fists fell and he was put in charge, he could give the whole organization over to the Silver Helix in one go. If the Black Dog returned from Jerusalem, the best Roger could do was wait and hope that a chance came later. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could face waiting.
What he needed more than ever was something to wait for, a guarantee that on the day he finally got free, Wendy and Christine and little Roy would still be there for him.
That was why he was sitting in the back of yet another battered old van waiting for nightfall. He was going to pay his family a visit. He’d tell Wendy the truth, or at least as much of the truth as he thought she could handle. She deserved to know the truth.
His fist clenched.
And I deserve for her to know the truth.
Finding their address hadn’t been easy. They’d moved house at least once since he’d lived with them, and were no longer in the phone book. However, Roger had accrued a lot of favours over the years, and the rest of Wendy’s family hadn’t been so well hidden. Once he’d found her brother, it was just a case of tapping his phone and waiting. Wendy’s behaviour hadn’t changed: like clockwork she called on the first day of the month after dinner. Once he had the time of the call, he was able to have his ‘friend’ Mr Manzoor trace it via some old contacts at British Telecom.
Only Wayfarer had come with him. He hadn’t told her why they were here and she hadn’t asked any questions. It made him appreciate the privilege of his position. The power of it. So far, he’d used that power for the Black Dog and Sir Winston, may he rest in peace. Tonight, he would use that power to help himself.
Just this once. This one evening with my loved ones, and then I’ll suffer for as long as it takes to see this through.
He stepped out into the night, telling Wayfarer to wait for him here and under no account to follow, no matter what happened.
She nodded, professional as ever. ‘I’ll be on the other end of the phone if you need me.’
He looked at the blocky piece of plastic in his hand and frowned. It seemed as if the world was losing all sense of style. Of course mobile phones had their uses but did they have to be so ugly? ‘Good,’ he replied, ‘I’m not expecting trouble, but if you see anything, call me.’
He wouldn’t answer, but the number of rings would tell him what he needed to know: one ring for regular police, two for riot troops or military, three for Silver Helix.
‘Will do. Good luck.’
He stopped to look at her. She didn’t usually wish him luck. Had he let slip how important tonight was? Or was he reading into things? He was undeniably nervous.
Better not to say anything, he thought, and strode away from the van.
The clouds were thick, blotting out the moon and stars, and a thin drizzle misted the light from the lampposts. He took a couple of turns, checking to see that he wasn’t being followed, before turning into a leafy estate.
The new house was set back from the road in a nice part of Northwood. Trees and high hedges ensured the residents’ privacy. Once past the leafy walls, he saw a crescent driveway dividing a well-manicured garden. On the way to the front door he stopped, arrested by the sight of a small kennel that couldn’t be seen from the road.
‘Could it be?’ he murmured, and crept over.
The small silhouette of a sleeping terrier was just visible in the pale light coming from the house.
‘Oh, William, you poor old thing.’ They’d bought him as a puppy seventeen years ago and the children adored him. ‘What are you doing out here, eh?’ The dog had always liked company, and usually slept by one bedroom door or another. No doubt Wendy had exiled him here for some toilet-related misdemeanour. It was tempting to stroke him, but if William woke up, he might start barking. Better to come back once he’d talked to the others.
Roger had spent an embarrassing amount of time deliberating what to wear for the occasion. It had been one of the hardest choices of his life, and he’d gone back and forth between several suits before making a final decision. The Green Man mask was in his pocket. He’d partly taken it out of habit, and partly because he didn’t want to give Wayfarer any cause for suspicion.
He ran his fingers over it now, enjoying the feel of familiarity. As much as Green Man had done wrong, he represented a more confident side of Roger’s personality; rational, purposeful, strong.
I must be all of those things tonight and more, he thought.
There were fresh flowers in the baskets by the door, artfully arranged. Wendy’s handiwork, no doubt. She had always had an eye for decor.
He allowed himself a smile, a deep breath, and then he rang the doorbell.
Footsteps.
A light in the hall came on.
He wondered who was coming. Would it be Wendy? One of the kids? What if she’d remarried? The idea hadn’t even occurred to him until now but it made so much sense. It would probably be someone tall. Wendy always admired their taller male friends when she thought he wasn’t looking.
But no, the hazy shape through the frosted glass panels in the door did not seem tall or male. He heard the rattle of a chain, then two keys being turned in the lock, and then the door opened.
It was Christine.
She looked up at Roger and her mouth fell open. He was delighted to see that she had inherited his teeth rather than Wendy’s, though that was tempered by how tired she looked. Her face seemed too thin to be healthy.
‘Christine,’ he said. ‘It’s me. I’ve come back.’
She stared at him, the seconds ticking by as she fought to contain a number of expressions. Finally she said, ‘Dad? Is that really you?’
‘It is. Can I come in?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I just want to talk. I know you’ve probably heard things and I know that I don’t look exactly as you remember me. But I can explain it all if you’ll give me a chance.’
She held on to the door, ready to close it if necessary. ‘We’ve been told not to talk to you.’
‘Give me ten minutes with you and your mother, five even. After that if you want me to go, I promise never to bother you again.’
The door opened fully. ‘Five minutes.’
‘Thank you.’ He wanted to hug her but it was too soon for that. He’d have to take things slowly and carefully. They’d all be like wild animals ready to start at the slightest provo-cation.
She led him through the hall and into the front room. The house was bigger than their last one but much of the decoration remained the same, Wendy’s floral stamp finding its way into the landscapes, wallpaper, and lampshades.
Christine directed him to one of the chairs. ‘Are you … do you sit?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then sit down. I’ll go and talk to Mum. I don’t know if she’ll come down. She’s …’
‘I’ll leave it in your hands. Is Roy here?’
‘No, he’s on a school trip.’
‘That’s a shame. I’ve missed him too.’
Christine didn’t say anything to that and retreated back to the hall.
Left to his own devices, Roger started examining his surroundings, hungry for any information he could glean. He recognized the two contemporary art books on the coffee table. Wendy had picked them up from a holiday in France and he would bet good money that she’d never opened either of them.
There was a display case containing various school trophies and certificates. Christine had kept up with her dancing, but he also saw her name on cups for several martial arts, horse riding, and clay pigeon shooting. Roy’s efforts were harder to find but he did see some certificates for participation in chess tournaments.
This is good. My daughter is an over-achiever. My son has a good mind, and my wife’s spirit remains undaunted.
He started to wander the room, finding photographs of holidays, birthdays, and significant successes. Not a single one contained Roger, his wedding photograph conspicuous by its absence.
And then he saw the silver-framed picture in pride of place over the mantelpiece. It showed his children, both younger, posing with the Lion. Christine sat in his left palm, Roy in his right, and the ace was holding them effortlessly while performing a slight shrug for the camera. William was in the photo too, his front paws resting on the Lion’s leg.
They were all smiling, even the dog, each set of white teeth like a knife in his guts. His fingers creaked as he ground his fingernails into his palms.
It should be me in that picture. Me!
When Christine came back into the room, he had returned to his chair, outwardly composed.
‘Mum’s a bit shocked but she says she’ll try and come down.’
‘I’m happy to wait.’
Christine went to the furthest chair from Roger’s and perched on the edge of it. She attended to her feet for a moment and then seemed to remember he was there. ‘Uh, would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh.’ She stood up, having barely sat long enough to leave an impression on the seat. ‘I’m going to make a pot so it’s no bother. Mum will want one when she comes down.’
‘In that case, a cup of tea would be lovely.’
Christine bolted from the room, leaving Roger wondering how he would ever bridge the gap between them. The grandfather clock ticked loudly as he sat there, the only sound save for the background whistle of a kettle.
In truth, he would have loved to be able to enjoy a cup of tea, but he’d been unable to stomach it since his card turned. These days he subsisted on water and sunshine.
Five minutes later, Christine returned with a tray of cups, and a plate of digestive biscuits. Her hand shook as she poured. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know how you take it.’
‘Black, please.’
They sat holding their cups in silence, neither of them drinking. ‘Mum might be a while. She’s putting her face on.’
‘That’s fine. Perhaps we might talk while we’re waiting for her?’
‘Okay.’
‘I have so many questions it’s hard to know where to start.’ He gestured at the cabinet. ‘I see that you’ve graduated and that you have excelled in many different areas. It makes me proud.’ She grimaced. Was that meant to be a smile? He pushed on, trying to keep things upbeat. ‘But I’d like to know so much more. What you do for a living, what you do for fun, how the last ten years have been. All of it.’
‘You said you could explain things,’ she replied.
‘Yes.’
‘I think you should do that first.’
He glanced towards the ceiling. There was no sound or sign of Wendy coming down. ‘That’s fair. Well, as you know, everything changed the day my card turned. I was reported as a threat and the Silver Helix came and picked me up.’
‘Why didn’t you tell mum?’
‘They didn’t let me. I was taken away and put in a cell.’
‘Like prison?’
‘Worse. I wasn’t even given a phone call.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense. Everyone has rights, jokers included.’
‘That’s true but …’ he leaned forward and was relieved to see that she didn’t flinch back ‘… Churchill’s intervention changed all that.’
‘Churchill? The Churchill?’
‘Yes.’ He told her about the meeting and how he had agreed to go undercover in order to bring down the Twisted Fists. She nodded as he spoke, hesitant at first but with growing conviction. He realized that, deep down, Christine must want to believe him. Emboldened, he kept going. It felt good, like a great weight were being lifted from his shoulders.
‘And now I’m trapped,’ he concluded. ‘Only Sir Winston knew about me.’
‘There must be someone else,’ she argued. ‘Like Captain Flint or the Prime Minister. Or an encoded file that was to be released on his death.’
‘If there is one, I was never told about it.’
‘What was it like being in the Twisted Fists?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
He was suddenly aware that he wasn’t talking to a little girl any more but to a grown woman, one that was intelligent and capable. ‘All right, I will. Can I just say, Christine, that it is so good to be with you again. Now, the Twisted Fists, where should I—’
He was interrupted by the horrible tinny ring of his phone. Police?
‘So sorry,’ he said, genuinely embarrassed.
It rang a second time. Armed units?
‘You can get it if you want.’
A third ring, then silence. The Silver Helix!
‘I’m sorry. Really I am, but I have to go.’
‘What? But you’ve only just come back! You can’t just go again.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve already had much more than the five minutes you gave me.’
She did the same. ‘That doesn’t matter. You have to stay. If you leave before Mum comes down, you’ll destroy her.’
‘It will be worse if I stay, believe me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’ll take me away and I won’t ever be able to come back.’
‘Tell them what you told me. Make them understand.’
He shook his head and moved towards the hall. ‘I wish it were that simple.’ For a moment he thought she was going to try and block him going, but she changed her mind at the last minute and let him pass.
He moved quickly to the front door, trying to decide on the best route back to the van, when he heard the sound of barking. It was William. Something had woken the old dog up. They’re already here.
Consumed by thoughts of escape, he turned and rushed towards the back of the house. The door to the front room was still open and he caught a glimpse of Christine standing by the window. Her posture was straighter, as it had been at the funeral, and she was talking in a low voice.
‘… leaving. Alone. Do you have visual?’
If he’d still had a heart, it would have broken in that moment. ‘I’ve been such a fool. You called the Silver Helix, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘But I thought you understood …’
‘I do, better than you know.’ She started to name names, each one familiar to him. Each one, a bullet: ‘Jason Abbott, Shawn Weeks, Jenny Bell, Tristan Dove, Kay Livingston, the list goes on. All dead because of you. I’ve committed every one of them to memory. Oh yes, Dad, I know what you are and I know what you’ve done, and I’m going to make you pay.’
She’d played him and he’d fallen for it. There had never been any convincing her, he saw it now. Wendy would be the same. All these years he’d been clinging to a dream that didn’t even exist. Churchill was gone. His family had turned on him. What did he have left?
Before he could complete the thought a pair of strong arms wrapped around him and a bearded chin appeared at his shoulder. It was the Lion. A turban-topped tower of muscle had walked right up behind him and he hadn’t even noticed.
Roger was far stronger than most people, but he had never pitted his strength against an ace before; moreover, he was pinned, with no leverage, his arms trapped by his sides.
‘You have some wire, Chrissy?’ asked the Lion.
‘Yes,’ she replied and sprinted upstairs.
They knew each other well, he realized. The Lion was known to be good with children. Churchill had probably asked him to keep an eye on his family as a favour. Clearly, the ace had gone above and beyond in his duty. Roger knew he should be grateful, but all he felt was bitterness and rage.
He tried to shake off the Lion but the ace seemed to anticipate his efforts, shifting his grip with ease. Any moment now, the police would arrive, or more of the Silver Helix, and he’d be done. It was so unfair.
The wooden mask pressed against his wrist, as if to remind him it was there. It didn’t matter that he’d done the right thing nor what he’d sacrificed. All that mattered was who was stronger. Roger Barnes was weak, a pawn to be used, but the Green Man was a different matter. He had the power to make real change. He raised people up. He brought them down. People respected the Green Man.
That was what he had left. The things he had built.
My followers.
My contacts.
My organization.
Green Man didn’t need tea or biscuits or cosy chats on the sofa. Green man didn’t need the world to play fair.
He lifted his legs, braced them against the wall, and then kicked back. The plan was to slam the Lion against the opposite wall, but at some point in the manoeuvre the Lion had let go and dropped to safety. There was an explosion of plaster and brick and dust, and the next thing Roger knew he was lying on his back in the kitchen.
The Lion stepped through the newly made hole to join him. From a glittering sheath, the ace drew his kirpan, nine inches of curved steel. Despite his age, the Lion looked fit and strong. Roger could see some grey in the other man’s beard, but other than that, the years had been kind.
The observation only served to fuel Roger’s hatred further. He swung for the Lion but was way off the mark. In return he received three slashes from the knife. They did not get much beyond the fabric of his clothes but Roger knew that each one would leave a scar of bark or give rise to some new shoot.
He met the next slice directly with his right hand and grabbed the blade. The Lion let it go without a fight, taking the opportunity to pepper Roger’s body with punches. Each one rocked him, though he barely felt any pain.
It went on like that for a while. Roger would take a swing, miss, and the Lion would roar before unleashing a flurry of punches, each one making solid contact.
Christine came in through the kitchen door rather than the hole in the wall. In one hand she held a coil of wire, in the other, a handgun. She threw the wire to the Lion, and raised the gun at him.
‘If you think that’s going to stop me, you don’t know me at all,’ he snarled and ran at her, but the Lion was faster, and dived between them.
Just as he had expected.
There was a satisfying crack as Roger’s fist connected with the Lion’s ribs, folding the man in two. Then another crack as he struck the Lion on the back of his skull, driving the ace to the floor. The combination of hard wood and enhanced strength was brutal.
‘Stop it!’ yelled Christine. ‘You’re killing him!’
He stamped on the man a few times, just to be sure. He hadn’t heard of the Lion being supernaturally tough, but he wasn’t going to take any chances of him getting back up.
She unloaded the gun into his back. Six shots, six hits, and, in a way, he felt them all. Each one reinforced the point that her father, Roger Barnes, was dead to her.
He reached into his pocket, brought out his mask, and fixed it to his face. ‘It didn’t have to be this way, you know.’
She backed off when he turned towards her, reloading the gun with practised ease. A part of him was appalled but another was satisfied. He would never have her love, he saw that now, but at least she hadn’t written him off. ‘In a way,’ he said, ‘I should thank you. You’ve opened my eyes. I don’t have any more illusions.’ He gestured to the crumpled ace. ‘Look closer. The Lion isn’t dead, but if you fire a single shot at me or speak a single word, that will change.’
She lowered the gun and then her head, part nod, part submission.
As he walked out, he realized that he had no idea if Wendy was really upstairs or not. A moment later, as he stepped into the night, he realized it didn’t matter any more. By the time he got back to the van he could hear the wail of sirens in the distance. ‘We’ve finished here,’ he said to Wayfarer as he climbed into the back.
The grumbling of the engine rose and the van pulled away. ‘I’ve just got word,’ said Wayfarer. There was a pause, long enough for him to know that it was something big. ‘The Black Dog’s gone down.’
‘Is the source reliable?’
‘Yes. They got him in Jerusalem. Word is, he was betrayed by his own people. Can you believe it?’
‘Sadly, I can. Even the Fists can suffer from traitors and spies. I told the Black Dog years ago that he should be more discerning with who he recruited.’
In the dark, Roger smiled to himself. The way forward was clear now. Churchill was gone, the Black Dog was gone. Nobody had mastery of him any more. He was free to shape the Twisted Fists as he saw fit.
It struck him that he would have to write a speech for himself. Something to inspire the other cell leaders. He would draw upon Thatcher’s words of nineteen eighty-four as a starting point. It seemed fitting somehow. He’d use the same message of righteousness, the same stance of power, but twisted. The words came easily to his mind as if summoned:
This year, as before in our history, we’ve seen joker men and women with brave hearts defying violence, scorning intimidation, and defending their rights to uphold our laws.
By their action, we have seen a new birth of leadership in the Fists. And that is the most important thing, the most enduring thing, that will come out of this betrayal in Jerusalem.
And we demand, that violence against jokers does not pay and be seen not to pay. Let violence against us cease or let the law of five for one be kept. That is the spoken and unspoken hope and wish of millions of our fellow citizens.
The time of the Black Dog was over. Now was the time of the Green Man.
