Day of the Assassins

by Johnny O'Brien

  Jack remembered the last time he’d been on Angus’s bike. It was at his folks’ who had the sheep farm up the valley in Rachan. The family was machine mad and Angus had grown up with bikes. Trouble was, Jack hadn’t. He’d had a go, but lost his balance, the bike had spun off in one direction, and Jack in another, and he had ended up with a face full of mud. Angus had laughed so much he’d nearly fallen over.

  “You’re joking?”

  Angus shrugged, “Well you can walk if you like.” He snapped down on the kick-start and the engine burst into life. Jack rolled his eyes, reluctantly donned the spare helmet, climbed behind Angus and clenched his eyes firmly shut. Angus turned back the throttle and the engine wailed; he dropped the clutch and the machine jerked forward. The front wheel immediately lifted off the ground in a spectacular but completely unnecessary wheelie. Jack was taken by surprise and just avoided slipping right off the back and onto the tarmac. Once the bike had two wheels back on the road, it was too late for Jack to complain.

  They soon reached the main bridge out of town, which crossed the river that was starting to swell from the extra rain in the hills. As they crossed it, Jack could feel the temperature drop. The river acted like the cold element of a freezer as it snaked through the fading light of the border hill country. In two minutes they would be turning into the long drive at Cairnfield. A journey which usually took him twenty-five minutes on foot had been completed in only five.

  *

  They had moved to Cairnfield with his grandparents when his mum and dad came back from Geneva, Switzerland – just before they had split up. Jack had been only six. Jack’s mum had kept the Cairnfield estate when first, Jack’s grandfather and then, later his grandmother, had died. This had left him and his mum on their own rattling round in the big old house together. His mum didn’t talk much about their life in Geneva or why they had left. Nor did she explain why she had split up from his dad soon after they’d moved to Scotland. She had just said he was “too obsessed with work” or “there wasn’t room for us and his work”. Jack sometimes tried to find out more, but his mum would become all buttoned up and quickly change the subject.

  Jack prodded Angus as they made their way down the drive. “Stop!”

  Angus pulled the bike to one side, and the engine puttered away in neutral.

  “Put it somewhere, we’ll walk from here. Mum’ll go berserk if she sees me on the back of this thing.”

  “If you say so.”

  Angus pulled the WRE behind the thicket of yews that flanked one side of the drive. They left their helmets and pressed on down the track. Soon the big white house loomed into view.

  *

  Jack’s mum was making tea and looked up as they came through the back door into the kitchen. Her hands wet, she blew her hair from her face. Carole Christie looked a lot like Jack. She had the same grey-blue eyes and blonde hair. She was still slim, although her figure had thickened a little with her forty-three years.

  “You’re back early…”

  Jack looked at Angus nervously. Angus avoided the subject and attempted his most winning smile, displaying a mouthful of uneven teeth in the process. It was a sight that would have traumatised a small child.

  “Hello Mrs C. My cake ready?”

  Carole Christie looked at Angus with mock affront. “So it’s your birthday now, is it?”

  Angus started to move towards a large bowl of chocolate cake mix.

  “Looks tasty.” He brought a large, dirty-nailed index finger dangerously close to the sugary mixture. But Mrs Christie was too quick. She whipped out a wooden spoon and landed a swift blow expertly on Angus’s knuckles. He yelped.

  Jack approved. “Nice one, Mum.”

  “You’ll just have to wait,” she said. “Go and do something for an hour.”

  “Mum – has it arrived?” Jack asked.

  His Mum’s smile quickly vanished and she gave him the look – a sort of grimace that passed over her face whenever the subject of his father came up.

  “It’s in your bedroom.” She turned back to the worktop. In his excitement, Jack did not notice the hint of satisfaction in her voice, when she said, “But I don’t think it’s much to get excited about, love… definitely smaller than usual.”

  He ignored the comment and rushed out of the kitchen.

  Soon they were in his bedroom, and there it was sitting on his desk, just like all his other birthdays: a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. He flipped it over and instantly recognised the italic writing. His heart beat faster.

  “Come on… open it.” Angus said impatiently.

  But his mum was right. Based on size, the parcel looked disappointing – compared to earlier birthdays, anyway. He placed the precious package on the floor and stared at it, inspecting it from each side in turn. His mind flicked through the presents from previous years. The year before, there had been the remote controlled aeroplane and before that, all the fly fishing stuff. Every year, a present had arrived, like clockwork, and it had always exceeded his expectations. These birthday presents were his only connection with his father now.

  Jack could no longer resist and, egged on by Angus, tore open the wrapping paper. Then his jaw dropped in disappointment as the contents were revealed.

  “It’s a book.” Angus was alarmed.

  Jack picked it up and shook it. Maybe something would drop out – like a cheque for a thousand pounds or an airline ticket to some exotic holiday destination. But no. It was a book. And, worst of all, it was a textbook.

  “It’s a school book,” Angus said with growing horror.

  Jack’s heart sank. He read the title: The First World War.

  “It’s called, The First World War,” Angus said. “Dull-arama.”

  “I can read.”

  This present did not have the ‘wow’ factor of those from previous years, but maybe it was better than nothing.

  Angus had already lost interest and busied himself with a particularly annoying wooden pyramid puzzle that rested on the mantelpiece and which he had failed to master even after several months of trying. It had taken Jack four minutes and twenty-eight seconds.

  Jack scanned the front cover and then opened the book to inspect the crisp, sharp-edged photographs arranged in three sections. They showed trenches, ships, barbed wire, ‘over the top’ howitzers, aeroplanes, tanks, maps, women in factories, leaders, soldiers, medals, observation balloons, trains and more… Some pages were blurred and sepia, others were crystal clear, but together they gave Jack an instant insight into the four years of brutal war.

  “Weird.”

  “What?” said Angus, without raising his head from the puzzle.

  “I get this history book from Dad, right, and yesterday you talked about your Great Grandfather Ludwig who was in the war, and then Pendelshape was on about the same stuff today in class.”

  “What stuff?”

  “You know – the First World War – all that…”

  Angus shrugged, “So?”

  “Quite interesting – don’t you think?”

  “For a boffin like you. Doesn’t do it for me.”

  He looked up at Jack with a piece of the puzzle in each hand. “How do you do this stupid thing, again?”

  Jack leaned over, took the pieces and manipulated them expertly. In under a minute the puzzle had been done and Jack handed it back. Angus stared at it in awe.

  “See – easy.”

  “You’re really annoying sometimes.”

  “Pendelshape was saying today that millions of people died in the war. Millions. And that if things had been slightly different it might not even have happened.”

  Angus yawned. “If you say so. For me, it’s all in the past. Gone, dead, finished.”

  “What about Point-of-Departure? That’s based in the past. You like that, don’t you?”

  “That’s different – it’s a game. It’s real.”

  It’s what Jack would have expected Angus to say. But something about the images and t
he clear black text on each page of the book stirred a distant but strong emotion in Jack. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He sometimes got a similar feeling when he played Point-of-Departure. A sort of flashback – a connection to somewhere else, somewhere different. He was transported back to a time, he was not quite sure exactly when, but he had been very young – maybe only four years old.

  He remembered that they had been on a family holiday. He had been vaguely aware that Dad had not had a day off from the lab for months and had been working very late. This was to be his first break in a long time. They had gone to France or Belgium and had visited Cambrai or some such place – a monument to the First World War. He had been aware that his father was interested in history and, he supposed, this period of history in particular.

  What had happened and in what sequence had remained a disconnected patchwork in his head – sometimes fragments came into greater focus when he thought back but they would evaporate, chimera-like, as he struggled to make sense of it all. He remembered visiting graves – an endless sea of white crosses – and also the grassed outline of old trench networks. He recalled a voice describing “how it was”. Maybe it had been his father’s voice, or maybe a tour guide’s, or maybe some audio-visual show. He had not understood the words, or if he had, he no longer remembered them, but the serious, gravelled voice conjured up a strong image of the war and the plight of its young victims.

  There had also been one of those short but violent summer thunderstorms. Jack remembered it being very hot and then getting wet and running along for shelter. He had heard thunder and seen lightning and remembered thinking that the raindrops were huge – big pea-sized blobs that exploded on the tarmac. He hadn’t been frightened; more curious. The images of the thunder and lightning combined in his head with what his young mind imagined the soldiers must have endured. This had made it real to him – for a moment it was as if he had become one of them, but because he was from another time somehow he wouldn’t be harmed; he would always be able to escape.

  But the strongest memory of that time was waking up in the hotel or guest house or wherever they had been. He’d had his own room and the closeness of the night had woken him. He had pottered along the short corridor to his parents’ room, opened the door and seen his mum and dad standing there. He remembered feeling it was strange that they were not in bed and that the bedside light was on. They were quite far apart and he would never forget the pleading expression on his mum’s face. Both his mum and dad had red eyes and he felt uneasy when he realised that they were both crying. He had never seen an adult cry. Then his mum swivelled round to the open door, saw Jack there staring up at them and, with alarm, whisked him back off to his bedroom.

  He saw even less of his father when they finally returned after the holiday – he was hard at work at the lab. Always working. Then the move back to Scotland had come and suddenly one day his mum told him that his father had left, and that “it would just be us now”.

  *

  “Hey, what’s this?” Angus had finally tossed the pyramid puzzle onto the floor in disgust and it had shattered back into separate pieces. Next to the puzzle, there was a piece of folded paper that must have dropped from the parcel when Jack had ripped it open. It was a letter.

  Jack,

  I am so sorry that once again I can’t be with you on your birthday, just as I have been sorry to miss so many important events in your life. I hope that one day I will have a chance to redeem myself and that I can make it up to you. Fifteen already! I hope you enjoy your day. This year I have sent a gift of a more ‘cerebral’ nature. I hope you are not too disappointed. In time, I think you will appreciate its significance. I know that you are a great student and are destined for a great future, so I think you will enjoy it.

  Love,

  Dad

  Jack stared at the page blankly. Suddenly a wave of sadness welled up from deep within him. For a moment his eyes moistened. He bit his lip hard. He didn’t like to show emotion. Especially in front of Angus.

  “What does he say?”

  “It’s just a letter,” Jack said quietly.

  Angus shrugged. “Whatever. Least your dad sends you presents. My dad only ever sends me to the farm – to work.”

  Jack looked at his friend and put all thoughts of his father out of his head. “Food. Let’s go.”

  *

  They sat round the kitchen table. There was a smear of chocolate on Angus’s top lip and on the table, there were a few crumbs where the cake had been. It looked as though the kitchen had been visited by a swarm of locusts.

  Mrs Christie looked at Angus.

  “Any more?”

  “Sorry Mrs C, I couldn’t eat another thing.”

  “But you’ve only had five slices…” Her eyes twinkled.

  “It was very nice, thank you, Mrs C.” Angus groaned. “But I think I need to lie down.”

  Jack leaned over and poked Angus in the ribs. “Don’t they feed you at yours or something?”

  Angus grunted.

  Mrs Christie said, “On you go Angus – Jack can you just help me clear away?”

  With some difficulty Angus rose from the table and waddled his way towards the cellar door.

  Jack called after him, “Try the first level again – The Archduke and the Assassin.”

  But Angus could only offer a weary nod of his head in response.

  *

  “So, come on then, what was the present?” His mum looked at him expectantly as they started to clear the table.

  Jack shrugged. “Just some book,” he squeezed out a smile, “I think you were right Mum, Dad’s presents are going downhill.”

  “Sorry about that love – that happens when you get older.”

  “Suppose.”

  Jack stared into the open dishwasher.

  Suddenly he blurted out, “Mum, what happened to Dad – where is he now – ” he immediately regretted the question, “ – exactly?” The words hung uncomfortably in the air. His mum sat down, holding a plate, a sad look in her eye.

  “I don’t know, love. We just kind of grew apart. That sort of thing just… happens.”

  “But why do we never see him… I mean most people who are separated or whatever, well… they still see their kids… right?”

  She shrugged. “Not necessarily. I don’t think it’s that easy for him.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “It was… complicated.” She put a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder, “He was always working. He was a bit of a machine, truth be told.” She sighed. “Soon there was nothing left… for us, I suppose.”

  “But I thought that all ended when we left Geneva and came here?”

  His mum snorted. “What? It got worse! More work, more pressure, more stress. I loved him… and he loved me… and you, of course, but after a while, I figured…” her cheeks flushed, “he felt what he was doing was more important.”

  “And then he left – just like that. Where is he now?”

  “I have no idea,” she shrugged. “But whatever he’s doing – he thinks it’s important… and more important than us. And that’s the problem – always was.”

  “But people always have problems… shouldn’t you have patched it up? Shouldn’t you have tried, I don’t know… harder?”

  This time she was defensive. “We did try… I tried, anyway, it’s not easy to explain.”

  Jack knew he was about to reach the limit in this line of questioning. He didn’t want a row, but he pressed on, more boldly than before. “Well I don’t think you tried hard enough… I never hear from him. I get a present once a year – and that’s it. Is that normal?”

  “I know it’s not a great explanation, Jack, but it’s the only one I have. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s Europe, 1914 and the continent is on a knife-edge. An alliance system of great powers has been created. Germany and Austria-Hungary on one side; Russia and France on the other. Britain has moved closer to the Russian and French camp…”
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  They sat in the cellar – Angus perched up on the edge of the moth-eaten armchair and Jack on a beanbag. The screen went dark and the title of the level popped up in the game’s distinctive gothic font:

  The Archduke and the Assassin

  Jack studied two images that had appeared on the screen in front of them: old photographs from before the First World War. In the left-hand photo stood a man who looked like royalty. He had on the full dress uniform of a cavalry officer – a dark tunic with a high collar and cuffs, a golden sash, light trousers and a hat adorned with ribbon and plumes. The other photo, on the right, was quite different. Dark shifty eyes peered away from the camera from an unshaven face with a defiant stare. The man looked like a peasant.

  The bass voice-over of Point-of-Departure explained who the men were.

  “On your left is Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the nephew of Franz Joseph I – Emperor of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Franz Ferdinand is the heir to his throne… a mighty sprawling empire that covers a quarter of Europe.”

  There was a pause before the narrator continued.

  Archduke Franz Ferdinand

  “To your right, is Gavrilo Princip – student, freedom fighter… or terrorist, depending on your point of view. Princip is a Serbian who grew up in Bosnia in a very poor family.”

  Angus glanced at Jack. “Looks thin and pale – a bit like you.”

  Jack ignored him.

  “…Princip and his co-conspirators of the ‘Black Hand’ are planning to assassinate the man on the left, the Archduke, in Sarajevo, a town in Bosnia – part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire… By shooting the Archduke, Princip will set in motion a chain of events that will lead to the outbreak of the First World War. Eight million people will die in this war.”

  The boys both gripped their controllers tightly.

  The narrator completed the introduction, “Your mission is to infiltrate the Bosnian Serb assassination cell, prevent the killing of the Archduke and thereby stop the countdown to war. In this way you will change the course of world history. Good luck.”