Day of the Assassins
( Jack Christie - 1 )
Johnny O'brien
Johnny O'Brien
Day of the Assassins
Front line
The shock wave from the air burst caught Jack full on, lifted him up and threw him backwards a full six metres, his body twisting in mid air as he flew. Gravity pulled him back to earth, but where there should have been churned-up mud to cushion his landing, there was nothing. Instead, he was propelled into a huge empty space on the ground. With a crunching thud, his face, and then the rest of his body, hit the sloping inner wall of a large hole. As he slid down, mud filled his ears, nostrils and mouth.
His helmet had already been blown free, as had everything else: webbing, gas mask and, of course, his Lee Enfield rifle. He’d only fired the stupid thing once, and that had been a mistake — one that had nearly got him court-martialled. He continued his headlong slide down the sharply sloping hole, mud gathering around his collar and easing itself inside his uniform. He finally came to rest, head first, in a pool of putrid water that had settled at the bottom of the hole. He lifted his head from the pool, spitting and coughing, and peered upwards at the lip of the crater from where he had just fallen. Just then, the noxious mix of smoke and grey mist above the crater lip flashed a dirty orange and the concussion from another explosion ripped through the air. Instinctively, he dunked his head back into the cold water, seeking protection from the fury above. He waited a few seconds until the icy chill started to seep through him, then scrambled his way up, so only his boots rested in the pool. He was breathing hard, but the explosions had stopped, although he could still hear the chatter of at least one machine gun in the distance.
He had been lucky. The rest of the company had been wiped out — spattered about this godforsaken landscape of mud by the sudden barrage. They had only arrived at the front the night before. He cast his eye over the inside of the crater. Bizarrely, it had saved his life. But he realised that no one was going to come and get him. Somehow, he would have to crawl back to the trench.
Suddenly, on the other side of the mud puddle, he saw two bright blue eyes staring straight back at him. They shone piercingly from a mud-freckled face and were locked onto him, trancelike. Like Jack, the figure opposite was prostrate, and caked in mud. Across the thigh of one leg, Jack could make out a large dark patch. The soldier had kept his helmet and Jack could see the familiar spike that indicated that his companion was a soldier of His Imperial Majesty’s Grand Army of the German Second Reich. He quickly scanned the other details — the feldgrau uniform, the black boots. But there was something strange about the uniform: it seemed loose, the cuffs were too long and the collar rose round the soldier’s thin neck uncomfortably. Jack studied the face peering back at him; his German friend could not even be sixteen years old. He was white and he was trembling. It was then that Jack realised, with dismay, that within his white, fragile, boy-fingers, the soldier held a large black pistol — and the pistol was trained on him.
The heavy lump of black metal was comically out of proportion with the rest of the boy’s frame — like when you see a child wearing his dad’s boots. Jack felt a new wave of panic start to build, sickeningly, from the pit of his stomach. The boy was as terrified as Jack was, but even at that distance, Jack could see a pendulous index finger slowly squeezing the trigger of the pistol. Jack pushed out a hand in a vain gesture of protection and started to scream, but it was too late. There was an orange flash as the chamber of the pistol emptied. Jack shut his eyes and braced himself, pushing back hard into the dirt, hoping it would somehow enfold him in its thick, sticky blanket and insulate him from the impact.
But the impact didn’t come. He opened his eyes and looked at the boy who was now shaking even more, a look of incredulity on his face. He held the pistol up again, this time both index fingers wrapped round the trigger and squeezed… Jack braced himself again. But nothing happened. There was a click: the gun was empty. Jack felt a wave of euphoria wash over him. The boy fumbled furiously at his belt, but the dark patch on his leg had started to grow ominously, and he was finding movement difficult. Jack had no weapon. Everything had been blown from him in the blast. Should he stay put or scramble free from the crater… and run?
It wasn’t his decision. At that moment a second figure loomed from behind the lip of the crater and peered in. Even at that distance, Jack could see that this new figure was stockier and heavier than the boy opposite. He moved with a confidence that came with the professional soldier’s greatest gift — survival. The soldier’s helmet had the same distinctive spiked silhouette as the boy’s. It signified only one thing: Jack was about to die.
Despite his stocky build the soldier descended the side of the crater with ease, assessed the situation and made his decision. He muttered something gruffly in German to the boy and without breaking step marched directly through the puddle to where Jack lay with his back pressed into the damp earth. The soldier reached down to something on his belt, which glistened in what remained of the daylight above. He fastened the object to the end of his rifle: a serrated-steel bayonet.
The soldier raised the barrel of the Mauser Gewehr rifle and moved the bayonet slowly towards him. Jack caught the soldier’s eyes, but they showed no excitement, no fear, no emotion. His humanity had been drained from him through months of attrition. The soldier pinned the bayonet under Jack’s chin, and rested it momentarily on his throat. Jack felt the prick on his skin and prayed for death to come quickly. The soldier looked down at him, steadied his boots in the mud and, with a grunt, pushed the steel hard into Jack’s neck.
Point-of-Departure
Jack groaned in frustration, turning to Angus. “I’m dead — again. This level’s impossible.”
“You’re rubbish.” Angus put both hands behind his head and leaned back in the moth-eaten armchair, grinning smugly.
Jack rolled his eyes and tossed the controller over to his friend. “So why don’t you try?”
“Nah… this level’s too much for me. Get it all the time from Dad…”
“Get what?”
Angus yawned. “Can’t be bothered to tell you…”
“Tell me what?”
“Great Grandfather Ludwig…” Angus rolled his ‘Rs’ mockingly.
“Who’s he?”
“I’ll tell you — but don’t say I didn’t warn you. My Great Grandfather Ludwig, as we are all sick of hearing, was a German soldier — he fought in the war,” Angus pointed at the screen, where Jack had paused Point-of-Departure, “that war — the First World War.”
Jack was impressed. “You’re joking?”
“No. And I know that ’cos he’s still on the mantelpiece back home… In a jar.”
“A what?”
“A jar. Not all of him, you plonker, just a bit of him. A piece of his left tibia… whatever that is.”
“A bone in his leg.”
“Whatever. We’ve got an old photo of him as well. Part of his ear is missing.”
“Why have you got that on your mantelpiece? You lot are mad.”
“Dad likes talking about it — Great Grandfather Ludwig and Great Gran Dot.” Angus looked across at Jack with a pained expression. “I’m going to have to tell you the whole story, aren’t I?”
Jack nodded.
“Great Grandfather Ludwig was a German infantryman.” Angus tipped his head at the screen again, “Like that guy who just owned you in the last level… Anyway, he fought in the war. He got medals and all sorts. Then one day there was a big British offensive. Ludwig’s trench was about to be overrun. Apparently, he refused to budge, even though all his mates were about to retreat. In fact, he did the opposite — he went over the top to search
for German survivors in no-man’s-land. Apparently, he saved at least one young lad who would have died from his injuries otherwise.”
“Amazing.”
“Before he got back to his lines, the Brits attacked and he was captured, although he was wounded in the process — in his leg…”
“…the bone in the jar on your mantelpiece?”
“Right. They patched him up and he recovered. In fact, it seems he developed a bit of a soft spot for the British. There is some story about how he’d met some guys, some lost British soldiers or something, out there in no-man’s-land when he was searching around. Apparently, they were going to kill him but decided to let him go… I think so he could rescue his injured friend or something… I’m not sure… it’s a bit hazy.”
“What happened to him?”
“Met Dorothy. Great Gran Dot. She was a nurse in the field hospital. She was Scottish. They hitched up. The war ended. They got married and he never went home. Moved to Scotland with Dot and took over the old sheep farm when Dot’s old man died.”
“What — your house up at Rachan?”
“Very same.”
“So you’re German, Angus?”
“S’pose — eighth German or something… My surname, Jud, is a German name. I think. It’s pronounced ‘Yood’ — but no one knows that so everyone just says ‘Jud’. It’s easier.”
Jack smiled. “You never said anything before. It’s a good story.”
“Maybe — Dad just goes on about it a bit. I think Dad was close to his grandfather when he was a lad. I’ll bring the photo in tomorrow, if I remember, but maybe leave the jar at home…” Angus suddenly remembered something and looked at his watch. “I’m late!” He jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat, which had been discarded on the dusty cellar floor. “Sorry mate, I’ll have to leave you to it. I’ve got Pendelshape first thing tomorrow — and I haven’t started my essay. You know what the Pendelino’s like… he’ll go ape. I’m in his bad books anyway. He confiscated my iPod yesterday.”
Angus was already disappearing back up the cellar stairs to the kitchen.
Jack shrugged. “See you then…” He picked up the controller, which was still moist from his sweaty palms, and turned back to the computer game. Underneath, the console’s piercing light winked back at him, challenging him to try just one more time. Angus’s story had suddenly somehow made it much more real. He felt the adrenaline in his veins and, while holding the controller with one hand, instinctively fumbled in his trouser pocket with the other for his puffer. He felt a rush of comfort as his fingers located and then encircled its familiar plastic outline.
He muttered to himself, “Captain Jack Christie’s ready — I hope you are.”
Cairnfield
It was four pm. Jack stood by the imposing wrought iron gates as school dispersed. He turned the collar of his blazer up and stamped his feet to thwart the biting autumn wind that whistled round the Victorian buildings. Until ten years ago the buildings had been empty; they had only been revived by an endowment from a reclusive benefactor. The local community was grateful that the secluded site and its surrounding parkland had been redeveloped — it brought in much needed money. A lot of the local kids now attended the school and its reputation was growing.
Jack’s hands were turning pink with the cold. He rubbed them together.
“Where is he?”
His head was still buzzing from double history, which had just ended. They were doing the First World War. Dr Pendelshape, the history teacher, had become even more animated than usual. The man was obsessed. Even though it was a world away, Jack could not help being caught up in Pendelshape’s story. Maybe it was because he had seen some of it in Point-of-Departure… or because of Angus’s story yesterday about Ludwig. He remembered the opening titles from Point-of-Departure with its black-and-white pictures of the crusty, moustached generals of the great European imperial powers and their paraphernalia of office — medals, uniforms — all the grandeur of empire.
Pendelshape had explained about the new military hardware of that time. Apparently, there were howitzers that could belch a shell of Jack’s size thirty kilometres away. They were launched way out of sight and would land in a maelstrom of shrapnel and fire that would create a hole bigger than a house. There were new guns that could fire six hundred rounds in one minute, dismembering anything in sight. How had Pendelshape put it? That’s right, he had said, “It all lay amassed and untried in that beautiful European summer of 1914 that was poised, unknowingly, for the bloodiest war that mankind had ever unleashed upon itself.” When he had said it, Jack had thought that Pendelshape was about to burst into tears.
Despite his interest, Jack hadn’t hung about after school to chat like he sometimes did. He got on well with Pendelshape. But he reckoned today he should really be thinking about, well, about happier things. After all, today was his birthday.
He didn’t want to wait any longer. He stamped his feet again and shivered. Suddenly he heard the pop and whine of a motorbike buzzing up the hill from the lower car park, trailing a plume of blue smoke from its 125cc two-stroke engine. Jack’s heart sank. Angus had brought the bike to school again.
The blue and yellow Husqvarna WRE trail machine skidded to a halt, but Angus had misjudged the kerb, and Jack jumped back to avoid being squashed by the front tyre.
“Idiot!”
Angus cut the engine and the air was suddenly still. He removed the full face helmet, revealing a mop of straight black hair. At sixteen, Angus was a year older than Jack and at one metre seventy-seven, he was also fifteen centimetres taller. With all the sport he did, plus helping his dad out on the farm, Angus was strong and broad shouldered. He had a wide face that always seemed to be flushed from physical exertion or from being outside. Jack still had the slender frame of a boy. He had messy blonde hair that could never decide whether it wanted to be curly or straight. Jack and Angus were bit of an unlikely pair.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“Keep your hair on, Jackster…”
“You’re not supposed to be riding that thing, you’ve only got a provisional…”
“Well, test is only a few months away. Anyway, how else am I supposed to get to school?”
“The bus?”
Angus shrugged. “It was early this morning.”
“You were late, you mean.”
“Who cares. We’re going to your place aren’t we? Let’s stop farting around…” Angus unclipped the spare helmet and tossed it to Jack. He grinned. “Climb aboard, big man.”
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?”
Day of the Assassins jc-1 Page 1