Three Kings. Группа авторов

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      It pained Green Man to arrive anything less than early, but it wouldn’t do to be hanging around. He’d learned long ago that the trick to maintaining any kind of mystique was to give people as little time to talk to you as possible. And so, at the very last minute, he slipped in quietly at the back of the cemetery.

      Manor Park had lost none of its gravitas over the years. Even under a drab London sky it managed to look stylish and timeless, from the clusters of mature oak, ash and birch trees to the wrought-iron gates tipped with gold, to the neatly kept grass. Where many places of this calibre would have turned their back on the resident jokers, Manor Park and the rest of the East End had welcomed them with open arms. To them, jokers were just another quirk of an already vibrant community.

      A good-sized crowd had assembled to pay their respects to Glory Greenwood. She’d been something of a star during the sixties, and always popular. That was the thing about being different: to be accepted you had to be easy on the eye, and for the most part harmless. Glory had been both, and charming with it. A little bit of brightness in the East End that would be sorely missed.

      He allowed himself the slightest smile as the crowd became aware of him. Furtive glances were cast his way and a little ripple of reactions passed out from where he stood. He watched carefully, noting which faces seemed pleased, which afraid, and the few that were openly hostile – he’d make a point of talking to them later.

      Somewhere nearby, Wayfarer would be sitting in an innocuous-looking van with the engine running. A few of the more discreet Fists were also around, ready to run interference if need be. It was unlikely anyone would be crass enough to move against him here, but it always paid to take precautions. In his pocket, his phone was set to vibrate if Wayfarer got word of trouble. The old code: one buzz for police, two for armed units or military, and three for the Silver Helix.

      So far it had stayed as quiet as the park itself.

      His turn soon came to step up to the grave, several of those already in the queue giving up their places out of respect. Among them he saw one of the few nats present: Constance, alongside Bobbin. They stood together, almost like an old married couple, but not quite. Green Man favoured them with a slight nod as he passed.

      Despite the sombre nature of the day, it felt good to be outside. Too much of his life was spent cooped up inside the back of vehicles or below ground. He relished the feel of the wind on his body: he was virtually immune to the cold these days, and was delighted when rain fell on him.

      When he reached the grave he stood for a while, head bowed, to give the impression of deep thoughts and feelings. The truth was he hadn’t really known Glory at all. Their lives had followed very different paths. She’d always seemed too much of a hippie for his liking. He much preferred tidy, practical people. And she would likely have found him dull.

      Still, regardless of any personal feelings, it was important that Green Man be seen to care and, in a vague way, he did care. Jokers like Glory were rare and important to the cause. The world would always see him as a monster, but she’d been able to touch people, joker, ace and nat alike. She was the other side of the coin. The Twisted Fists could fight the worst of humanity, but they would never win over the best of it.

      He stooped down, and left his bouquet of violets.

      When he made his way out, he saw some of the old jokers laughing together as they shared stories of their time with Glory. He saw them hold each other, their misshapen bodies leaning together for support.

      And he envied them.