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.’
Westminster, 1994
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, mak
ing 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.