Future King
(Sample Chapter)
by Larry Pontius
The faint hissing
came from somewhere to his left. Corporal Phillip Aston resisted the temptation
to turn and look. He wasn't an ordinary sentry. He was a member of the King's
Guard; a living, breathing bit of British pageantry, buttoned up in crimson
tunic, black bearskin hat and stoic attention pose. The ultimate challenge to
skylarks.
On the other hand, it was growing dark, the hour when loonies crawled out of
their holes. And in this chill autumn in the third year of her Troubles, England
needed policing more than pageantry. In August, London's Bobbies had been issued
automatic weapons. They needed them with all the looters. And lanterns, too,
as often as the power was down.
The hissing sound
came again, and this time the corporal took a breath, stepped smartly out of
his guardhouse, and performed a left face.
"Bloody hell!"
he huffed out on a cloud of frosted breath.
The man was no more
30 meters away, standing a few feet from the stone facade of Buckingham Palace.
He was a small fellow, hatless, and wearing a dark overcoat that belonged on
a larger man. He had something in his right hand, pointing it toward the building.
"Aston?"
a voice rasped behind the corporal, snapping him around. It was Whitbridge,
the gangling lance corporal who had just been transferred to palace duty. Aston
shook his head, gave him a Stay hand sign, and turned back to business.
"You there!"
Aston shouted. "What are you doing?
The intruder glanced
in Aston's direction, but kept pointing whatever he held in his hand at the
wall, just below a second story window. Aston tried to picture the layout of
the palace in his mind. Where was the King to be tonight? On the second floor?
The north wing? He couldn't remember. "Stop!" he yelled again, moving
forward, unslinging his rifle from his shoulder. "Stop, I say! Stop or…"
The gunshot stunned
him! With the blast ringing in his ears he saw the man in the overcoat crumple
in silent slow motion. For a moment he thought his rifle had misfired, but that
couldn't be right. He hadn't felt any recoil.
"Oh, shit," Whitbridge whispered behind him, and Aston turned. The
kid was standing a couple of meters away, off to his right. He was all tangled
up with his rifle.
"Mary and Joseph!"
Aston breathed. "Are you mad?"
"The strap got
caught. Somehow I…the trigger…" Whitbridge stumbled. "I…I'm sorry."
The corporal wiped
at a slick of sweat that had appeared on his upper lip, and his training kicked
in. "Right. It's too late for it now. You go back to your guardhouse and
alert Sergeant Alsworth. Stamp on that red jigger in the floor. That rings a
buzzer in his office. I'll see what kind of a muck-up you've got us into."
"But…"
"Go!" Aston
ordered, pointing the way.
"I think I killed
him."
"I'd be bloody
well surprised if you didn't at this range! Now get back to…"
"I've got to
know."
"Get hold of
yourself, guardsman! You've been given an order. Follow it!" Aston moved
away, then stopped and turned back. Whitbridge was still there. The corporal
sighed. "Well, come on then."
The body lay face
down, dark blood still pooling at the head. Whitbridge was quite right. The
man was dead, shot straight through the neck. The bullet had apparently shattered
the spine.
"Oh, my God."
Whitbridge trembled.
Aston knelt down and
gingerly turned the man over so they could get a look at him. He was young,
not much older than they were. Thin and sallow faced. Dark hair. Faded blue
eyes, wide open in surprise.
"Who is he?"
asked Whitbridge.
"How should I
know?" Aston said. "A painter."
"What?"
The corporal lifted
a can laying next to the body in his gloved hand and turned it around to the
label. Simpson's Flat Black, it read. He pointed to a place on the wall directly
below the second floor window. "Looks like he was finished."
Whitbridge read the
words aloud: "Noting in England Woks."
© copyright 2002 Larry Pontius