"I am ashamed of my century,
but I have to smile."

-Frank O'Hara

Sweat beaded on Alan's forehead, although it was freezing cold in the empty barn. He did not know how he had got there, only that the only way out was right in front of him. All he had to do was win a game of chess.

His hand hovered above the chess board and manoeuvred to the horse. He pondered, withdrawing his hand.

Biting his lip, Alan ventured a glance at his opponent. The machine on the other side of the chessboard was flashing its lights. Monotone beeps echoed through the room. How could he ever win against a chess computer, against mathematics?

Simple. He drummed his fingers against the ground, not even thinking about the next move.

The machine started beeping louder and louder in protest. It almost sounded angry. Because Alan knew there was one thing a computer couldn't stand. Namely the inertia of humans. The pondering and doubting.

He did not know how long he had been locked up, or how long it had been his move.

He let his hand slide agonisingly slowly along the pieces. As expected, smoke started coming out of the machine.

The self-destruction process had been initiated out of desperation. Alan had won.

He had never been able to relate to a machine so badly.

His dream faded slowly, like a typical English fog cloud. The sound of the machine transforming into a ticking time bomb gave way to that of clattering iron.

Alan opened his eyes immediately wishing he was back in his dream. A few rays of sunlight shone through the steel bars of his cell. In the dream, he had also been locked up, but could at least pretend that reality did not exist.

"Good morning." The voice sounded remarkably tender. And familiar.

Groaning, Alan turned his back away from the door. His eyes had to get used to the sudden explosion of light as the door opened.

The first thing he saw was a cocky crooked smile he had missed so much.

"Hugh?" Rubbing his eyes, he sat back up on the prison bed.

"What have they done to you?" Hugh draped his vest around Alan's shoulders, who gratefully pulled it tighter around him. "Listen, I got here as fast as I could from Bletchley. I paid your bail, let's get you out of here as soon as possible."

Alan stood up. "Did you pay money to get me out of jail?" He was overcome with emotion. He had been staring at the wall of his cell for the past day, with an empty feeling in his stomach, ignorant of how long he had to be here and grumbling about all the wrong decisions. Was it his fault that Arnold was also in trouble? He still didn't know.

"Until your trial." Hugh clicked his tongue. "I should keep track of how many times I've saved your neck. Let alone how much money you still owe me."

Although Alan was stared at by a gaoler in the corridor, he laughed. Extra loudly, in fact. He hugged his former colleague and whispered a thank you in his ear.

The jailer snorted. Alan recognised him, by the distinctive side parting in his grey hair, as the one who woke him up at night for his own pleasure. Although they were not all bad, one had even brought Alan a fresh apple once. He had never eaten anything so delicious.

He had to restrain himself from bursting into tears, because the truth was that he was scared. In the deep emptiness in his chest swirled a fear of what would happen to him, which grew bigger and bigger during his pre-trial detention. On top of that came the fact that he did not know where Arnold was or how he was doing. He looked around, at the other cells, hoping to catch a glimpse of light blonde hair.

"Your friend is also in here somewhere," Hugh replied to his unspoken question. He shook his head at Alan's hopeful glance. "We can't get him out, he won't accept other people's money for bail."

"Too proud," Alan muttered furiously.

"And the chap had no savings himself, I asked around. Apparently, he was fired on the spot."

Alan stopped dead in his tracks. Arnold had been so afraid of losing his job. If you do that, my life will be over. My father's too. He balled his fist, nails digging into his palm. It wasn't fair.

"How did you know I was arrested?" he asked, changing the subject, fighting his tears.

"Ah, that's the bad news." Hugh cast him a sidelong glance.

"What was everything else then? A light-hearted coffee klatch?"

Hugh ignored that. "Your brother called me. He's coming here for the trial. He didn't sound happy in the slightest."

With concentrated precision, he readjusted the green carnation in his vest, if only to enervate his brother. The flower served as support, even if no one would know its meaning. The trial could begin at any moment. Deep down, Alan already knew how it would end.

"John," he began for the third time that morning. "I know you're a lawyer and think you know everything better, but I'm a grown man. I don't need your help."

His brother frantically rubbed the sweat off his moustache. "Nevertheless, it is your own fault that you are here. How utterly foolish of you to simply admit that you had intercourse with a man." He whispered that last part, as if uttering those words would send him straight to hell. "They had no proof."

"The cops set me up." He was the one who insisted on going to the police for the burglary, now he had to accept the consequences.

John pointed to the courtroom doors. "Listen, you can't lie in there."

"I never lie. If you knew me you would know that," he argued.

"If you say you're innocent, you're lying."

"But I am innocent." Alan looked up from the flower in his vest pocket.

John shook his head. His glare spoke of betrayal, even his own brother didn't have his back. "You still don't get it, do you? The offences you committed are punishable, so you are guilty. Did you really have a relationship with a man?"

Alan continued to stare at him.

"Oh heavens, maybe you're right and I don't know you at all." John buried his face in his hands. "You just don't seem like the type."

"I have no idea what you mean."

At that moment, footsteps echoed through the corridor. The first thing Alan saw was a man in a white wig, followed by a policeman and a small boy with almost as light hair as the barrister, who dared to glance at him.

Alan immediately cocked his head to the other side. He could not face Arnold. If Arnold had to spend another day in prison because of him, he would never forgive himself.

He heard his name being called and squeezed his eyes shut.

John jabbed his finger alongside Alan. "That type. A fag. Surely you're not so hopeless to lower yourself to that."

Alan got up and fended off John's attempt to straighten his vest. "In fact, I am and I wouldn't want it any other way."

He wanted to walk into the courtroom, meeting his fate, but was stopped.

John looked him straight in the eye. "I have not been the best brother and I am sorry, but you must promise me that you will do your best in there. I can't defend you, so the best you can do is nod."

Alan nodded. As a perpetrator of a sexual offence, he had forfeited his right to legal protection; he was on his own.

Still, he had no intention of keeping his mouth shut. He turned on his heel and walked into the hall.

The judge's voice was hoarse as he spoke. "Alan Turing, a person of the male sex, has committed an act of gross indecencies with one Arnold Murray, another person of the male sex."

This time it was Alan who glanced at Arnold. The boy sat crumpled on the other side of the aisle. Preferably, he wanted to jump over the speaking chair and hug him thigh. But that was the very reason they were sitting here in the first place.

The rasping voice drew his gaze forward again. "From Turing's five-page statement, this conviction cannot be disputed." The judge's black robe reflected the colour of his eyes, which were fixed on Alan. "It was almost poetically written, you have a talent for writing."

Behind him, he heard two men laughing.

The judge continued, in a more serious tone. "I believe Mr Turing thought what he did was right."

Because it is, he wanted to shout. Arnold's bowed head stopped him. He had to control himself. Say what they wanted to hear.

"But it's not very realistic of him to think that such an unequal relationship could develop as a love affair between two free people."

Alan shuffled uncomfortably on the wooden bench. Their relationship had never been unequal; he would never abuse his power. Arnold knew that, but the boy did not contradict the judge. His father, sitting in the audience, must have forbidden him to say anything, that must be it.

"Do you have anything to say?" The entire room stared at Alan as he rose.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother sitting there. This was a game of chess he could not win. As in his dream, every move he made would be a vain attempt. John knew that. Alan opened his mouth.

With a meaningful glance, John shook his head, knowing his little brother was not going to listen to his advice.

"Have you ever read Alice in Wonderland, Your Honour?"

John buried his head in his hands.

"At the end of the story, a trial also took place. Someone had eaten the Red Queen's tarts. She demanded that the perpetrator's head would roll on the ground that very day."

"I don't see how this is relevant," the judge countered.

"Did that person deserve to be beheaded?"

"No, that's ridiculous. There should be no punishment for that."

"And yet here we are facing a lesser crime. Stealing cake is downright rude. But my only crime is loving someone and expressing that love."

The room was enveloped in silence as Alan sat back down.

"That is a very ludic comparison, but irrelevant. I am following the law and clause 42 in the 1885 Code, it says you committed a criminal offence. Do you deny that?"

Alan bowed his head, the words stuck in his throat. If he pleaded guilty, he would let them win. On the other hand, he did commit the acts.

"No, I won't deny it."

Alan heard blood pounding in his ears, the rest of the session passed by in a blur. He managed a smile on his face as Hugh stepped forward in his defence. He told him that his friend was an asset to the nation. That Alan was exceptionally honest and sincere.

Even his neighbour had appeared out of thin air. Roy Webb explained how Alan often looked after his baby and how much he trusted him.

The words passed Alan by; the judge wouldn't believe it anyway.

Whatever he would say, he would not be able to talk himself out of it. But maybe he could still save Arnold. He had to try.

Alan got up without permission and spoke over the judge's protest. "Our relationship was indeed unequal. Arnold needed money and would do anything for it. I used him as a puppet."

For the first time, his lie sounded firm, perhaps because there was a grain of truth in it. Alan fixed his eyes on the judge's black irises, lest he see Arnold's gaping expression.

He was vaguely aware of the jeers coming from Arnold's father, who proudly proclaimed that he was right after all. His son was just doing it for the money. What a relief. The judge enjoined silence in the hall.

Alan straightened himself only when the clang of the wooden hammer resounded, which was then lifted up towards Arnold. "It has become clear to me that this young man was influenced. Therefore, I am acquitting him, provided he will behave properly."

Arnold's eyes flew to him, in his gaze a storm of emotions. Relief, fear, maybe even heartache.

The smile on Alan's face disappeared as the judge turned to him. "You do understand that you will be subject to punishment?" He nodded. "This form of mental illness is normally fought in prison, but a more modern solution has also been found for it. Hormone treatment could cure your illness. The oestrogen will extinguish your unnatural urges."

Alan let out an agonised laugh. He had heard of such treatments before. In concentration camps, the Nazis had experimented with such hormones on homosexuals. It was cruel. Years of his life had been spent defeating Germany and this was his thanks? To still be subjected to their torments?

A memory of Chris flashed past before his eyes. He would never be able to fulfil the dreams they had shared together in prison.

So he chose the latter option, because one day he would be proven right. One day, loving a person would not be a crime. The only question was when? Until then, he only had to wait for the machine to destroy itself. And so he would win the game of chess after all.

The fresh cold wind blew in his face as Alan left the courthouse. He felt like he was entering a completely new world. Though he did not yet know why. Maybe because he hadn't expected to be able to feel the outside air again.

But then he saw Arnold standing there and his heart skipped a beat. Never would they be able to take his feelings away from him.

With his head held high, he walked past the blond boy, their hands brushing against each other. He was convinced that would be their last touch ever. They could not risk ever seeing the other again.

Then Arnold turned his hand and grabbed his wrist. Alan was dragged along and pulled into a hedge. They stood in a flower bed between the court and the stares of pedestrians.

"I couldn't let you go without thanking you." Arnold's fingers did not let go of his wrist. The black nail polish had faded during his time in prison.

"Because of what happened in there? I couldn't drag you down with me."

Arnold looked different. When he shook his head, no earring moved with it. His eyes were as empty as the first time he saw him.

Alan was filled with horror when he realised what that meant. In there, he might have been the one who had received punishment, but Arnold had lost something much more precious.

Himself.

He was back to square one. The way he clenched his jaw told him that he would never be the same Arnold again. That now even he no longer knew what love was.

Alan took the flower from his vest pocket and placed it behind Arnold's ear. "A green carnation. People say the colour is abnormal, a mistake of nature. That's precisely why I think it's one of the most beautiful flowers."

He had borrowed the symbol from Oscar Wilde. He had also been imprisoned a century ago for the same reason as them. In all these years, nothing had changed.

Arnold raised his hand to the flower, the other still around his wrist, his vacant eyes glassy, "I wanted to thank you because the elite usually look at me as scum, a puppet as you said yourself. But you Alan, you have always treated me as an equal, as a friend."

Alan stroked the boy's freckles with his thumb, as if they were tears he could wipe away. If only the sadness was visible on the outside, now the wounds went much deeper.

"Do you understand now why I don't value material things? My fancy medal and title meant nothing in there. But this," he shook Arnold's hand in his, "this does mean something. Something I will never forget."

"So," Arnold began, his hands crawling to the collar of his shirt. "This doesn't mean anything either?" He lifted the necklace over his head, removing one dog tag, which he slipped into his pocket. The necklace was handed to Alan, who accepted it speechlessly. "I'll never forget my Prof, who still can't flirt." A wavering smile played on Arnold's lips.

That gave Alan a glimmer of hope. Everything in him wanted to touch those lips, if only for one last time. But knowing all too well that Arnold was still his air, that he couldn't breathe without him, they let go of each other's hands.

He tightened his grip on the chain. With every heartbeat, every step that moved him further away from the boy, Oscar Wilde's poem echoed. The same verse he had muttered to Joan.

Each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die.