To Kill the President Read online

To Kill the President

  By Colin Marks

  Copyright 2011 Colin Marks

  Special thanks to Mark Mitchell, Tanya Almeida and Allan Jardine for their editing magic, and to Katherine for her support.

  ‘TODAY I’M GOING TO KILL THE PRESIDENT. HE WON’T KNOW WHAT HIT HIM.’

  I turn the sheet of paper over in my hands. Blank. That’s all there is, two sentences, nothing else. Large upper case letters, the words screaming off the page.

  I look around my bedroom, everything else looks how it should. Just this paper doesn’t belong here; that white sheet so desperate for attention on my navy duvet. How did it get here? Why is it in my room? ‘The President’? My boss, Mr Jenkins? Our Commander in Chief? Who is going to kill who? Why?

  My head is shattered. I’ve been working long hours, taking any overtime that’s offered. I really don’t need this. James. It must be James. No-one else would come into this room. Could come into this room. It must be James. Did he leave it for me?

  The paper flutters down onto my bed as I race into his room. No-one there. I stride back into the hallway and shout through the house, calling for an explanation, but get answered by silence. No music. No TV. Nothing.

  What’s going on? James is always in the house when I get in, wasting his life on the sofa smoking or drinking. Any other day I’d be happy that he was out, doing something, but not today. Today I need answers. What’s going on here?

  I go back into his room. It’s dark, his curtains drawn as always. In the dimness I’m met by a complete shambles. Ashtrays and beer cans everywhere, clothes all over the floor, mess high and low. Where do you start looking in a room this chaotic? I quickly glance around. Through the darkness I can see the LED lights of a PC under his desk. I find the mouse, shake it and the PC jerks into life, the screen pulses, illuminating the room. As the computer settles and the screen focuses, I’m met by an image of the President of the United States of America. ‘THE PRESIDENT’ is THE President. James, James, James, what’s going on?

  The browser shows a local news site. I scroll down and quickly read that the President is making a visit to our city this afternoon. I noticed a Twitter tab open, clicking on it, his last message, his tweet or whatever the hell it’s called, just confirms everything.

  ‘i’m going to washington plaza, he’s got to be stopped, he’s out of control.’

  I stare at the screen. I’m frozen, confused. Surely that doesn’t mean what it says. I slump down onto his chair, repeating the phrases over and over in my head. ‘Got to be stopped’. ‘Kill the president’. James, no.

  James is going to kill the President. Our President. My President!

  I don’t understand. Where did it go wrong? I know it’s been a tough year for us, no, it’s been a nightmare year, face it. James found his mother dead on our bed. He came in from school and found her. It’s been hard for the boy, understandably hard, but it’s been hard for us both. He lost his mother, but I lost my Lauren, the only woman I’ve ever loved. That’s the truth, first time we talked, we both knew we were right for each other. And we were.

  But, James. Kids always grow-up so fast, but this year, it’s like someone grabbed James, ripped out his brain, or his spirit, and slotted in somebody else’s. The person who James was, the kid who bounced on my knee, the face with the perfect smile, gone, vanished, no longer here. It’s like having a stranger in the house. My boy who would beg me to go out in the yard and kick a ball around with him, throw some hoops, talking about college, girls, where did he go? He was replaced or stolen by a moody, short-tempered lookalike. His school grades collapsed, he got kicked out of the sports clubs and the supportive friends who tried so hard but could only take his abuse for so long drifted away. Now he’s only interested in drugs and hanging out with his dealer ‘friends’.

  How is he going to kill the President? What is he going to do? Gun. He’ll need a gun. I race back into my room, throw open my bedside cabinet. He’s done it, he’s taken one of my handguns. The Glock is gone and at least one box of ammo. Did he leave the .38 intentionally? Lauren bought that gun, ‘our defender’ she called it. It stopped a burglary, well technically an attempted burglary the Sheriff said, either way it’s kept us safe.

  Wait, the money box is open, it’s empty. What’s he doing? He knows money is tight, that was all our savings. When Lauren died the life insurance pay out was a bit, but not much. It only covered the cost of the funeral. We’d always assumed I’d die first. All those reports say working guys get it first, so we never insured Lauren above the minimum.

  James went mad, crazy, uncontrollable. He needed mental help so we arranged a session with the school psychiatrist. She said the anger was his way of dealing with the loss, ‘Intermittent explosive disorder’ she called it, but, man, overnight he changed. He couldn’t accept that we had no money. But even if we did, he’d just spend it on drugs now anyway. I tried to calm him down, but he was hysterical for weeks before alcohol found him.

  What should I do? He’s my son, my boy. Sure, he’s off the rails, but James can’t kill the President. I voted for him, he’s a good man, a family man. I can’t let James kill him. I love my son, but kill the President! No, I can’t let it happen. I’ve got to stop this, do what ever I can. Hopefully I can get to him early enough, persuade him, save him, hold him like I used to, see his perfect smile again.

  I look at the .38. Do I need this? Hell! What should I do? I grab my cell and call his, no answer, it rings straight to answer machine. The clock reports there’s an hour to go before the rally begins, before the President makes his address. I must stop him, have got to try. I can’t call the police, won’t, hopefully I can stop him before this goes too far.

  The .38 stares at me, taunting me, do I need it? I haven’t held it for a year. As a last resort I could wound him, drop him, before the police get a chance to do worse. I take the gun, check the safety and load it.

  I race out of the house into the car, and screech the wheels out the drive, heading towards downtown. I must stop him, must. If I do, we’ll sell the house, cash in the endowments and insurances. With that money we can move on, get out of this city and move to the country like Lauren always wanted. Lauren wanted a small farm, she wanted cows and chicken. I laughed, told her we couldn’t survive financially, and that the amount of work involved would be too much.

  Oh, Lauren, I miss you so so much. Why did you do it? Why did you kill yourself? Not an hour has passed that I don’t think about you. Lauren, I can’t cope, I need you. We were always able to talk about anything, everything, why couldn’t you talk to me that day? James found it so hard finding you like that, gun still in your hand. He’s never been the same again. I came in and he was just slumped against the wall, stunned, zombied out. Lauren, why didn’t you speak to me. I had no idea you were that unhappy. All you left was just a single sheet of paper with a single word, “GOODBYE”. I need to know why, why you did it, Lauren, why?

  The car screeches to a halt at the end of the downtown flyover, traffic is heavy. I look down Clover Street and can see the rally growing. I abandon the car and run, the .38 slamming heavily in my jacket pocket against my side, reminding me of its presence. Clover Street opens out onto Washington Plaza. The president is not on stage yet. The podium is occupied by a fat man in a suit, possibly the Mayor, talking sound bites and being rewarded with scattered applause. I push forwards, the crowd getting denser.

  I see a low wall and climb onto it. Scanning the heads as I catch my breath, I eventually see the blue Boston Red Sox cap and orange jacket he always wears. He’s looking around, scanning the crowd in all directions. I wave frantically; he turns back to face the podium. Did he see me? I must try and tackle him. I can hold him down with these pa
triotic civilians. He’ll be safe.

  But James is on the move. I push through the crowd to get closer. Looking up, I can see heads poking over the rooftops, police marksmen. I’ve got to get to James before they see him. He’s moving across in front of me, getting closer to the podium. A big roar goes up, a voice booms out of the speakers, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you, the President of the United States of America’.

  The podium is so near, stars and stripes flags fluttering either side of the presidential seal and James in a direct line to it. The crowd are deafening as the President walks up to the podium, right above James’ head. He’s only 10 yards away, I’m so close, only 10 yards behind him.

  I see James putting his hand into his pocket. He’s going for his gun. This has gone beyond the point of no return. I’m not going to let a marksmen kill my son. He’s my son! My son. If he’s going to die, it’ll be by my hand. I’ll do it, not a faceless, nameless police marksman.

  I draw my gun, our ‘defender’, the gun that killed Lauren. Now it’s going to take my son. The crowd’s going crazy, bustling, trying to see the President, the gun is almost knocked out of my hand. I hold it tighter, higher. Someone sees it and screams. People all around drop to the ground, scared, cowering.

  James spins round, sees me. Above his head the bodyguards rush towards the President. I raise my gun, level it at James. Please, let my gun make him change his mind. End this, raise your hands, James. Please, just raise your hands.

  His hand darts fast out of his pocket, my finger tightens on the trigger. His hand is empty, he points to me, shouts, ‘That’s him, that’s him.’

  In an instant it feels like I’m being punched, struck on the side of my head. Again, middle of my chest. I try to shout out, explain, but my legs buckle under me. Wetness pouring down my cheek as I slump onto the floor. Lungs rasping, finding it hard to breath.

  I see feet, running, frantic, commotion all around. A moment’s clarity. James, you killed me. You killed us. James, did Lauren know what hit her? Did she?

  Losing feeling, consciousness. I see James, standing. As my eyes close, I see his face, his smile, his perfect smile, once more.

  ###

  From the author:

  Thank you for reading this story, I do sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it. I’ve been reading novels and short stories for many years and inspired by two ‘budding author’ friends, I was tempted to try my own hand at writing. This is the second of three short stories, linked by the theme of death and all with a twist at the end; the other two being ‘Body Recyclers’ and ‘Dying With My Children’. These stories were initially intended as a ‘warm-up’ as I hadn’t written fiction since my time at school many years ago! If you enjoyed this story, please look out for the others and any future stories I may write, and please leave a review, I’d love to hear your feedback.

  Email: mailto:[email protected]