Three Kings

Sebastian had looked handsome at their St Paul’s wedding, in his morning coat and top hat. Oh, he had the thickness of late middle age, twenty extra pounds lodged solidly in his belly. But he’d still looked good back then. In the last five years, Sebastian had aged visibly; his hair was almost pure white now, with matching bushy white eyebrows, and twenty extra pounds had turned to forty. Alan didn’t really mind: he liked a solid man, and at the age of seventy-four Sebastian had surely earned the right to slow down a little and eat his fill.

Unfortunately, Sebastian minded, and that had its consequences in their rather desolate bedroom. Now his hand trembled a little, balancing the plate heavy with rice and curry, and Alan reached out to take it from him. Sebastian pulled away. ‘I’ve got it, Alan; don’t fuss.’

‘You should’ve eaten. The doctor said—’

‘Enough,’ Sebastian snapped. He took a quick breath, visibly steadying himself. ‘It’s almost time for the news – we can watch together.’ He handed Alan a cold beer, and then they were moving back through the door, heading into the sitting room, with its comfortably worn leather furniture and the big TV. ‘How is she doing?’

Alan let it go, settling down on the couch beside his husband. ‘It won’t be long now, I think. Tomorrow or the next day.’ The curry was sharp and sweet, the way he liked it, with a little vinegar tang to balance the heat. Sebastian dark-roasted the spices, ground them himself, giving the curry a rich flavour surpassing any local takeaway. The TV news was still covering the recent football results: Watford continue their winning run, following recent promotion back into the Premier League … Alan’s days of dreaming of Olympic gold were long past him; no one would call him a serious runner now. But he still enjoyed following sports.

Sebastian took a long draught of his beer. ‘And the rest of the royals? How are they taking it?’

‘Henry is practically chomping at the bit. How Margaret managed to raise a son like that …’ Would Elizabeth’s child have been any better? If they’d given him a chance?

‘Well, Richard’s a decent enough chap. Did you see him?’

Alan answered carefully, ‘Yes, the Duke was there, of course.’

When he’d first started dating Sebastian, their relationship had been open. Sebastian had an insecure streak, though, and after a few too many angry fights, Alan had agreed to monogamy. It simply wasn’t worth arguing. He’d held to it, mostly, until the affair with Richard. Sebastian had caught him, not long after it first started, and that had almost been the end of their relationship. A crystal chess set, a gift from Richard, had ended up shattered in pieces on the tiled greenhouse floor. Alan’s perfect memory replayed the scene on command: Sebastian shouting, ‘How do you expect me to compete with a fucking prince?’ Tears that he refused to shed stood in his eyes.

Alan had eventually persuaded Sebastian to forgive him, promised never to slip again. The problem, Alan had reasoned at the time, wasn’t the affair itself – that had gone on quite pleasantly until he’d been caught. He’d been sloppy, that was the problem. That’s why Sebastian had been hurt. He didn’t want to hurt his husband; Alan loved him. But Alan had seen no point in confessing when he and Richard shared a few stolen moments, here and there, over the years.

Of course, lately, it’d been a bit more than that. Richard had grown ardent, intoxicatingly passionate. Sometimes, Alan thought he should confess it all: confession was good for the soul, they said. Did jokers still have souls? A morbid thought for a sombre night.

‘Alan?’ Sebastian leaned forward, tapped Alan’s arm.

‘Sorry – just thinking of Margaret,’ Alan said hastily. ‘Her family’s gathered around the bedside in proper fashion. Perhaps I should have stayed …’ The news was shifting now, onto the weather. Cold and rainy, with more cold and rainy to come. Appropriate for mourning at least.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. ‘What could you do there, really?’

All manner of things, like searching for a lost heir. Not that he could discuss that with Sebastian. There had been times over the decades, when little bits of Silver Helix business had slipped out; that was inevitable in a long relationship. But this news was potentially explosive; Alan couldn’t risk a slip of Sebastian’s tongue. It was almost as it had been, back during the war, when they’d worked on the German ciphers at Bletchley in complete secrecy. Alan had long ago learned how to keep his mouth shut.

Still – ‘There are things I should be working on.’ It wouldn’t hurt if Sebastian thought there was a good reason for his late nights.

Sebastian shrugged. ‘I’m sure, but I’m also sure the Crown can spare you for a few hours. It’s not as if you’re running the Silver Helix. You can have a decent meal, and get some sleep, and in the morning, maybe you can sort out that leaf mould?’ He gestured out of the window to where the summer house sat at the far end of a row of trees. The birdfeeders had all been recently filled, and Alan knew that in the morning a host of birds would be swooping down and squabbling over the bounty. Robins and goldfinches, starlings and crows. ‘You promised you’d take care of that this weekend – the snowdrops will be smothered if you don’t, and my shoulder …’

Alan frowned. ‘You’ve been overdoing it.’ He took a long draught of his beer, savouring the bitter taste that lingered on his tongue. Sebastian’s new brew was even better than his last. ‘Maybe it’s time to talk about retirement again? I make plenty for both of us, you know.’ Alan idly calculated the odds – yes, if he stopped work tomorrow, they could live quite comfortably on his investments. Probably indefinitely, barring catastrophes – but with the mind that the wild card had gifted him, Alan should be able to avoid any of those .

Of course, Sebastian probably wouldn’t make it that much longer. Seventy-four. Sebastian’s parents had died in their seventies, and his grandparents notably earlier. Alan couldn’t help calculating the odds. Mortality tables had a certain grim fascination to them. Yes, his husband probably had no more than ten or fifteen years left – Alan’s mind flinched away from that thought. He couldn’t quite picture his life without Sebastian in it.

As for Alan himself – who knew? He was one hundred and eight this year, but didn’t feel old yet – he felt, in fact, much as he had in his twenties. His card’s turning might have brought him many more decades of life – or he might drop dead tomorrow. There was no way to calculate that.

Sebastian was frowning at him. ‘Make plenty for both of us? What are you saying, Alan – that your work is more important than mine? Just because you get paid more?’

‘I didn’t say anything of the sort, Sebastian, and you know it.’ Alan fought to keep his tone even, not letting the irritation through. That would just escalate marital snippiness into an actual squabble. Alan did get frustrated with the imprecision with which most people spoke. Sebastian should know better by now.

His husband turned away, and was staring at the TV screen now, deliberately. Punishing him. ‘I care about what I do, Alan. I may not be a human computer, but I’m good at my work, one of the best.’ His voice rose a little. ‘Have you seen the new maze garden at Buckingham Palace? You can view it from Margaret’s windows – have you even bothered to look? It’ll take several years to fill in properly, of course, but I designed it specially for her to enjoy …’

‘I’m sorry – I just haven’t had time …’ to look at plants , was what Alan carefully didn’t say out loud. ‘But I’ll look tomorrow. Maybe I can find enough time to go for a walk in it …’ with Richard , which he also didn’t say.