The Superhero's Murder

by James Damm

  There was something uniquely British about having it centred around the home of the royal household. As it had hosted the end of the war in Europe with victory, the palace was to act as a unifying location in greyer times. The Queen’s grandson was to make a speech, as was the Prime Minister, with hundreds of politicians, major figures and celebrities in attendance. The funeral would come later – a proper burial and celebration of John’s life. But for now, the public needed something to give sense to the day.

  Escorts took Juliet to the front shortly before The Mall was closed off and already-huge numbers of people were out in force for the historic event. Weaving past the crowds like a sniper, Juliet could pick out flashes and glimpses in the mood of random people. A sense of uncertainty stared the population in the face, and a secure future only a day ago was now absent. Mothers held their children’s hands a fraction tighter. Police officers and soldiers’ eyes had become a little warier. Yet in numbers they came, united in grief and a fragile harmony.

  They fortified The Mall with a heavy police and military presence and as Juliet waited, she listened out for what stories filtered through. Accounts were emerging of Britons forced to close shops and the sporting events cancelled, lest they feel the rage of tear-stained hordes. Mass hysteria felt like it was brewing, the stiff upper lip replaced by a whipped-up sentimentality. What Juliet saw in the crowds was not the characteristic coolness and grit of the population, but a baying mob with candles, teddy bears and poems.

  Yet the situation forced Juliet’s attention to other people or proceedings. There was a job to do. Gigantic screens prepared at impressively short notice focused in on the crowds of people. Montages and footage of the Cherwell School rescue; crowd control in Detroit and Sudan. Buoyant cheers erupted at the footage of rescues and sights of food being given out on the streets of Afghanistan. British flags, posters of John Fitzgerald, and tearful faces filled a crowd there to appreciate an icon.

  “Every politician in the country is present here today,” Tom whispered as he lent in close to her arm. “Not only that, but security officials, undercover agents, and anyone of remote standing in British society. Keep alert and keep your ability agile. We will not get another opportunity like this to get this many people free and in the open like this.”

  Tom let go of Juliet’s arm, allowing her to wander. Up and down The Mall, there were thousands of people. Fear, anger, frustration and sadness swept over them in waves, switching from one emotion to the next in round after round. The herd mentality was a thick reality, as the people within it absorbed like sponges and squeezed out their own emotions just as easily between themselves.

  On a small makeshift stage, one of the country’s brightest musical talents acoustically played several ballads. As the crowds swayed and mourned, Juliet picked person after person out of the VIP enclosure. Their thoughts were largely the same: devastation and worry for the future. There was no suspicion, joy or anything out of place amongst them. The flash of paparazzi and rolling of television cameras was the typical signal that someone important had arrived, and at this point Juliet would chime in.

  A cabinet minister, a handful of MPs and television personalities came and went with nothing more than superficial encounters on their minds. They’d met John at dinners, award ceremonies, and recalled fondly the same heroic images and stories as everyone else. Nothing special, nothing beneath a surface-level encounter. For over an hour they waited as the music played and television cameras rolled. If somebody wanted publicity, or to suggest they had a special relationship with John Fitzgerald, now was the time to do it.

  Somewhere between the music, speeches and dedications, the Prime Minister stepped onto the podium and a hush fell across the crowd. His face worn and pale, Juliet got the sense that there had not been a break in his schedule since the minute they had found John’s body. Politics had never particularly interested her. Regarding her career, a change-over of Home Secretary or leader had no visible impact on the day-to-day operations she was a part of. Juliet left the passion and emotions surrounding politics to others.

  What Juliet could acknowledge was the readiness of the crowd to hang on George Eden’s every word. There was no political leaning or opinion in any of the faces or thoughts that Juliet paid attention to. The people needed a leader, a person to haul them through the tough times to come, regardless of political leaning or ideology. With his grey hair, teddy-bear physique and funereal suit, the figure before them was far from a slick presidential figure with a polished smile for television. But all the same the people listened.

  “I stand before you today in what could go down in history as the greatest individual loss of our nation. But I want to reassure you all that it does not have to be that way.

  “Just over ten years ago, an ordinary citizen with extraordinary abilities, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, did the right thing. In a world he had no idea would accept him, John Fitzgerald risked everything and intervened. The decision to not walk by is one we celebrate today, eternally grateful that it showed the measure of the man we mourn here, together. The purest of us in need. Children lived to survive another day because of his sacrifice. A joyous daybreak and a beacon of hope in a decade where fear had driven the Western world into war and distrust.

  “Ten years later I speak of sacrifice because it is now our turn to be martyrs. I ask all those out there listening today to be our own Samaritans that refuse to take the simple path, refuse to walk on by. It would be easy in the coming weeks, months and years to forget the world John temporarily saved us from. The darkness provides shelter, comfort and tranquillity. Yet it is in the light, where we can do the most good.

  “It would be fatal for the world to underestimate the urgency of the moment. The thirst for vengeance and revenge is heavy, and I make no light of the struggle for answers. Out there somewhere is an agent of chaos, a murderer who we will bring to justice. Yet it is key that, to achieve this justice, we do not forsake our dignity and humanity. Fear and hatred is degenerative. John did not stand for it, and the society he leaves behind will become his true legacy.

  “We do not walk alone. We are not alone. Together we must make the pledge we remain united.”

  The crowd rapturously applauded. As the Prime Minister took a moment to scan the crowd, he fixed his glasses and internalised the situation. The speech had done its job, his words echoing not just into the ink of the newspapers or the screens over the world, but into history too. They, the masses, sucked it up. We are civilised.

  Returning to the crowd, Juliet drowned out many of the further speeches and acts on the stage. Swimming around a VIP section near the front were many of the celebrities and the media circus. The majority were too busy or too concerned elsewhere to offer much of use, but escorted by a bodyguard, there was one woman who was the first to break through the normality.

  The photographers snapped at her as she removed the big brown sunglasses to reveal eyes reddened from crying and a makeup-free face. She bowed her head and completed her performance by waving away television cameras, looking upset. Juliet knew this was the case as the woman’s thought process at the time was coaching herself through it step by step. She’d make the magazines and the montages of mourning. Slick work, she thought to herself, John would have approved.

  The glimpse of the sentence spun Juliet into action. “Who was that lady?” Juliet asked aloud to one photographer.

  “Candice Crawford,” came the reply. “Model, businesswoman and actress. They used to be an item.”

  The statement shocked Juliet. From the widespread coverage and intense reading she had ingested in the last few hours, what struck her as odd was the lack of obvious relationships in John’s life. On stage was his estranged father with no other immediate family, alongside royalty and elected politicians. There were no friends and no ties to anybody. All the snippets were of his heroics, actions and consequences of his work. Nothing beneath the surface level or talk of what he was like behind closed doors. />
  The Queen’s grandson and the third-in-line for the throne was speaking. The speech itself caught Juliet’s eye, but her attention was broken by movement elsewhere.

  “The most important title you can carry is that of a citizen. I ask you not to be lawyers, office workers, cleaners or account managers. I ask you to be neighbours, citizens and pillars of your community.”

  Keeping her attention fixed on the speech, Juliet noticed several officers speaking into radios and rapidly moving back away from the stage. Bag. Unattended. Bomb. The ultimate word repeated over and over in the thoughts of the surrounding officers.

  “I remind you that history doesn’t always follow a straight line. Sometimes we shuffle a few steps back to move forward. We step sideways or we zig-zag, but ultimately we progress. That requires citizens to fight for that future. As this first night without John draws in, it is too soon to ask for this world’s brave population to tackle this ugly reality we face – but later, I hope, perspective prevails.

  On stage there were several whispers as the Queen and Prime Minister were, as subtly as possible, moved off-stage and flanked by security personnel. Somebody must have given the Prince a signal, for his pace momentarily slowed and his words stiffened. Yet he continued, and the crowd continued to consume his words without alarm or noticing anything out of the ordinary.

  “We live day to day with deadlines and the latest ever-refreshing news feed, and it fills us with anxieties and fear. Be reminded that we are a small link in the great chain of human history, and if the last couple of decades have shown us anything, it should be evidence of what can come from unity. We must do the best we can with the time and opportunity allotted to us. We–”

  The sound of a single gunshot crackled over the crowd, and in seconds the scene was one of chaos. Security swarmed the figures on stage as thousands panicked. There was a crush as people next to the barriers were pressed up against the metal.

  Panic, fear and concern screeched in Juliet’s mind. Her eyes darted all around her. Soldiers and police frantically trying to calm the situation and stop a crush. The stage and VIP area had emptied but quickly became flooded with people as the contained broke free.

  A shoulder knocked into the back of Juliet, sending her sprawling to the floor. In the shock and confusion, something hit Juliet several more times in what quickly became clear were feet. Again and again, they stamped into her face, arms and body. The light above her became dazzling, fragmented as she tried to haul herself up but ended up kicked back down in the chaos.

  Hands clawing at trouser legs, jumpers and bags, Juliet tried to haul herself upright. Kicks to the chest were leaving her breathless, her chest tight. A knock to the head and she was on the floor once more, the pain everywhere and her head spinning. Darkness.

  Someone was shaking her, trying to talk to her.

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter Ten

  Since childhood Mike had been a keen Newcastle United fan, if keen could ever be the right word for supporters of his club. Decades without major honours, plus near-misses and relegations, Mike claimed to support Newcastle United but never really felt they supported him back. There was a heartbreak and grit associated with the fabric that stitched the club together. Even a decade with Alan Shearer, one of the greatest strikers to ever play the game, couldn’t stop the sorrow year after year. Yet the goals, the passion and the chant of the crowds was enough to always draw him back in.

  Supporting the football club was more than that, though. Newcastle was one city. An accent, a passion and a fury that pumped through his veins. There could be no other club or place to call home. Towns and countryside that buffered the city would all proudly call themselves the sacred word: Geordie. Derby days were the most important of the year, when an entire region would lock down and go to war. There was no way to describe such a buzz that vibrated round the people and the places on those days. In their own bubble, outside of tournaments or league positions, the derby had it all. Beat Sunderland at all costs, and that was that.

  Sat awkwardly to the side on stage, Mike overlooked a crowd louder and larger than any he had ever seen at St James’ Park. Men, women and children of all cultures and ages had poured into every available space just to pay tribute to his son. Was there a million out there? Mike had no way of telling, but as they had driven him through the streets, it seemed like few people in the capital city remained home.

  Earlier, the apologies had come thick and fast. Talk of an investigation, punishments and discipline for Juliet and her actions. Mike nodded along, exhausted; he wanted to be back in the North East and far away from all the noise.

  That wasn’t to be the plan. “You’re to meet the Queen and the Prime Minister,” Charlotte said as a makeup artist came in. “We need you looking good for the cameras; all the celebrities and people on TV wear it to make them look less shiny.”

  Pinned to his seat, Mike grimaced as they put powder and unknown creams over his face. If the men from the pits or the working-men’s club could see him now, they would have a laughing fit. What made it worse as Mike looked in the mirror, yellow eyes and red nose absent, was that he thought he looked better for it – although that was a secret he vowed to take to the grave.

  Whisked off to the palace, Mike had absolutely no idea what they meant for him to do when introduced to the Queen. Charlotte quickly rattled off instructions. “For men you do a neck bow, which is from the head only, whilst I’ll do a small curtsy,” she said quickly. “On presentation to the Queen, the correct formal address is ‘Your Majesty’ and subsequently ‘Ma’am’, pronounced with a short ‘a’ as in ‘jam’. Considering the circumstances don’t worry if you appear nervous, people do all the time and it’s behind closed doors.”

  Hands trembling, Mike did exactly what he was told and answered only when spoken to. The Queen had a lot to say – that John was a tremendous loss to not only the people of the country but the wider world – and she was grateful for all of his years of service. Mike had to admit he liked her a lot. Later, Prime Minister George Eden introduced himself and echoed similar words of tribute. Mike couldn’t resist revealing he was a trade union man and a lifelong Labour supporter. The Prime Minister hadn’t quite known what to say.

  Once the small talk and ceremony had occurred at the palace, various faces pushed and led Mike towards a constructed stage on The Mall. Not part of the ceremony, he instead got to watch from a VIP section as the various artists play mournful songs. Mike recognised none of them, music not really being his thing, but the sentiment was nice.

  Instead, Mike’s attention focused on the buoyant crowd. Thousands of faces held thousands of flags aloft. With it being summer, it would remain light for at least twenty minutes more. A speech from the Prime Minister was to follow and some pop star was to sing the national anthem.

  Earlier Mike had necked enough complimentary wine to maintain a suitable level of drunkenness amidst all the noise and bustle happening around him. The cameras kept to the crowds and stage where Mike watched a lovely speech by the Prime Minister and the Queen’s grandson. Mike settled, enjoying the video tributes and footage of heroism on the gigantic screens, and the buoyant atmosphere of the crowd. The event was a celebration of life rather than a mourning.

  But somewhere in the speeches, the crowd erupted. Drunk Mike could barely pinpoint when the mad scramble started, but one moment he looked up and people were scattering everywhere. Security had already taken care of the Queen and Prime Minister, the stage swarming with people as the barriers crumbled. Hands grabbed for Mike, but he shoved them away and stumbled towards the danger the public were running from.

  Who was the enemy and what had started it? Something drew Mike to the gunshots and screams. Occasionally he was almost knocked off his feet as people crashed away from the danger, but soon Mike found shelter behind riot police trying to regain control.

  A helicopter spilling light from above in a quiet ego, Mike pictured John crashing from the sky
and eliminating the whole mob of the fuckers causing the chaos. On the pickets they had been fighting for something. Who had tarnished such an event? The armed officers held a line as Mike, caught up in the mobs and escaping crowds, could not help but be carried away from the palace. The situation was akin to a scrum as shoulders slammed into Mike from every side. In the darkness, the drunkenness and the scuffles, Mike swore he saw faces below the rushing people.

  With streaming eyes, Mike eventually dragged himself out of the thick of the danger and away from the fury. Catching his breath in that moment, the reality of his situation set in. No phone, no wallet and in a capital city a hundred miles from home, Mike did not understand where to go or what to do.

  An argument with a seventeen-year-old boy in what felt like another life came to his mind. Drunk, angry and looking for a punching bag, it was often the boy who ended up being knocked about verbally and physically. He’d hit him, hadn’t he? The night that John left, Mike remembered with shame he may have hit him. What made it worse was that he couldn’t differentiate that night from all the rest. A scrap, some traded blows, Mike would later feel pride in some of those moments watching the way his son responded. John took it; he threw back. Mike had deserved everything, the drunken fool.

  Had John felt this way? Alone in a park, stumbling through the darkness towards the unforgiving city lights, Mike couldn’t ditch the weight of loneliness hanging around his neck. Only a boy, had he sacrificed his only remaining son to a fate like this? Alone in a world far from home and nobody to lean on?

  With every stumbling footstep, Mike loathed the feeling that he was following in John’s.

  Chapter Eleven

  Juliet’s head stirred as her vision returned. Flat on her back above the covers on a bed. Somebody had removed her shoes. Curtains drawn. Dark. A person was watching the news with his back to her. A hotel room? Hers? The screen displayed a simple headline: SUSPECT IN CUSTODY. A chair for show, uncomfortable and brought close to the screen. Soldiers, noise, the crush of a crowd. Darkness. The screen read a simple headline; Suspect in custody. Tom in the chair.