Three Kings. Группа авторов
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the city. Now there are multiple forces moving against Henry …’
As Turing said the words, Richard shifted beneath the covers, his hand tracing small, wicked circles in very distracting regions. Forces moving? Richard mouthed, and Turing shook his head, firmly, only to be further ignored. He took a quick, steadying breath and continued.
‘… I’m going to be here all night, I’m afraid, working with some of the MI5 chaps. Just put the telly on, maybe that baking show you like? That’ll give you something pleasant to fall asleep to. Yes, yes – tomorrow, lunch, I promise. Why don’t you make us reservations somewhere nice? Or I can do it – no, of course I don’t mind. I’ll go online right now and set it up; I’ll text you the details in the morning. But make sure you get some sleep; you’ll be an absolute bear at lunch if you haven’t had your rest.’
Roar! Richard mouthed, making claws out of his fingers.
Shut up! Alan mouthed back. Could you say that to your king-to-be? Apparently, because Richard was laughing now, silently, thank all the gods. Laughing and gesturing to Alan to hang up. Hang up!
‘I really have to get back to work now. Sleep well, husband.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘I love you.’ The truth was, Alan had never really been comfortable saying that sort of thing out loud, but Sebastian needed to hear those words every day. He’d even made Alan put in their wedding vows that they were not to let a day go by without saying, I love you.
He’d be lost without Sebastian. Alan just didn’t see why he couldn’t have Richard too. When vast amounts of property – actual kingdoms – were involved, then certainly it mattered who was spending time in whose bed, and what children resulted from it. But once you stopped worrying about which man had sired which baby, there was no good reason for cleaving only unto one other. Monogamy wasn’t logical; the heart wanted what it wanted.
All right, maybe his heart wasn’t the driving force here. Alan hung up the phone, finally, and reached for Richard, his dick already hardening – only to have the Prince slip away, laughing out loud.
‘Oh no, no, my lovely metal man. I want more from you tonight. You’re the smartest man in the world, and I – I should be king. How can we take the throne from my brother?’
It was a difficult problem. The simplest method, of course, would be to kill Henry. Turing had ordered his share of deaths as a member of the Silver Helix, but killing a king carried tremendous risk. Was Richard truly willing to take that step, to commit fratricide? There was little love lost between the brothers, but murder was surely extreme. Could Turing condone such a thing, assist with it, if Richard asked it of him?
Thankfully, he hadn’t asked it. Not yet. And there might be other options than murder. A sufficiently large scandal would force Henry from the throne. They had seen it with Edward VIII, after all: the country could not abide divorcée Wallis Simpson as queen, and so Edward had abdicated. There was precedent. The problem would be creating the scandal, as quickly as possible. Henry was still new to his throne, uncertain of his place. It would be far harder to unseat him once his buttocks were firmly planted on that royal seat.
‘Let me think about it, Dickie. There may be a way.’
Richard seemed ready to protest, to press for more – but then he subsided. He had, after all, seen Alan work on other problems before; he had some small understanding of the process. He murmured only, ‘Soon, Alan. Calculate quickly.’ And then he was sliding down the bed, disappearing under the covers. For a little while, Alan stopped thinking at all.
‘Bobbin,’ Constance began. They’d let the staff go home early and were closing up.
‘What is it?’ he replied. His smile was warm and kind. The patches of colour on his face – faded now – were as familiar to her as the constellation of freckles on her arms. Those freckles hadn’t been there when she was younger – age had left them in its passing. And age had left the gold rimming his eyes, eyes that crinkled even when he wasn’t smiling.
‘I need to tell you a few things,’ she began. She drew the curtains across the front windows and went around the room shutting the atelier down for the evening. ‘You should sit down,’ she said.
‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘But, do you want to go out to dinner tonight? I know you’re fond of the pies at Barley Swine.’
‘No.’ She sat down in one of the grey velvet, Danish-style armchairs arranged around the low catwalk where they often showed their pieces. He pulled one of the chairs around and faced her.
A queasy feeling settled in her stomach. Suddenly, it seemed like a terrible idea to tell him, but she knew she couldn’t keep her secret any longer.
‘What is it?’ Bobbin asked. ‘Something awful?’ He laughed and leaned forward. ‘Don’t be afraid. I don’t scare easily.’
It suddenly felt very warm and Constance peeled her cardigan off.
‘A long time ago,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘there were three of us friends.’
The memory was crisp and clean. It seemed as if the older she got the easier her youth was to recall.
‘Glory and I had another best mate when we was – were – growin’ up. Her name was Frances. She became famous, but not like Glory and me. She became famous because she was married to Reggie Kray.’
‘One of the Kray brothers?’ A shocked and slightly thrilled expression bloomed on his face. ‘The gangsters who ran the East End? Those Krays?’
Constance nodded. ‘What most people don’t know is that his brother, Ronnie, was an ace. He was also barking mad, and that made him having such a power worse. There’s not much to be done about an ace who is insane. Or even one a bit touched. And Ronnie wasn’t just a little touched.’
Constance rolled up her left sleeve. It had been almost fifty years, but the scars still hadn’t disappeared. They’d turned a silvery white, as if spider webs had been carved in her flesh, but they were still deep, the skin puckering around them. She held her arm out where he could see it. He let out a low whistle and reached to touch her, but she shrank away. The memory of what had created those scars, a terrible phantom pain, flared.
‘See, Ronnie’s ace was in his touch,’ she continued, rolling her sleeve back down quickly, fastening the button at the cuff. ‘If he thought about it, he could slice someone open all razor-like.’ It made her stomach flip again just to talk about it. She tried to make it sound matter-of-fact, but her voice betrayed her.
‘You might have told me that Ronnie Kray had taken it upon himself to carve you up,’ Bobbin said, reaching out to take her hand. She pulled it away. ‘There was no reason not to tell me. You can tell me anything.’
She cocked her head to one side, considering him. She knew him so well, yet she couldn’t be certain how he would react. There was only one thing to do and it was to get across this heavy ground as lightly as possible.
‘Bobbin, I killed Ronnie Kray. Well, Glory and I did.’
He stared at her, shocked. Well, what did you expect? she thought. Silence stretched out between them. It felt as if she was looking at him from the wrong end of a telescope.
‘But … Reggie Kray went to prison for killing Ronnie,’ he said at last. She stopped feeling as if he was moving away from her. At least he was still talking.
‘I know,’ she replied with a sigh of relief. ‘It wasn’t an easy thing to sort out.’
His face scrunched up. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How did it happen?’
‘I was trying to get away from them and Glory was trying to help me.’ The memories of killing Ronnie rose up with terrible freshness.