Knaves Over Queens

by George R. R. Martin

  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 ti
nny 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.

  The Ceremony of Innocence

  by Melinda M. Snodgrass

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed,

  and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned …

  Cambridge, 1996

  ‘So, you’ve brought us what? A mascot?’

  ‘A boy toy?’ another voice chimed in.

  Noel Matthews ground his teeth and forced himself to maintain his superior, faintly bored expression. It was his roommate, Prince Siraj bin al-Hussein, who bristled at the mocking. ‘This is Noel. He’s my classmate, my friend, and probably smarter than the whole lot of you put together. Since I brought him and I’m a member, you can bloody well deal with it.’

  The clubhouse of the Crabs, the notorious Clare College drinking society, was what one would expect from an exclusively male environment. It was cluttered with magazines and various kinds of sporting equipment, a club tie was tossed over the back of a chair, on another the accepted blazer to be worn by members. It smelled of tobacco, alcohol, microwave pizza, and male sweat.

  A figure unfolded itself from the sofa and drifted over to survey Noel. The young man was very tall, forcing Noel to look up to meet the bored brown-eyed gaze. A hand gripped Noel’s chin and turned his face from side to side.