Road To The Moon [one-minute stories]

Curiosity Killed the Watchmen

London, 11 May 1812
"He was an extraordinary divisive character."

The lobby of the House of Commons was as quiet as a church, and just as cold. The marble floors and looming pillars didn't give this room any more of a welcoming feeling. Charles shifted his weight on the wooden bench, maybe they had stolen these from a church as well, to you know, sell this illusion of peace and tranquillity. For behind those grand oak doors there was anything but tranquillity.

Impatiently, he checked his letter once more. May 11th, yes this was the day of the petition for more Watchmen houses around Whitechapel. Glancing to his side, Charles gives the man beside him a meek smile in the hopes of striking up a conversation to pass the time.
But the well-dressed stranger doesn't even acknowledge him, his eyes stay locked on the door.

Suddenly, the door swings open and in walks none other than the Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, with his ash blond hair, elevated forehead and big blue eyes.
Before Charles even realises it, the man beside him stands up, walks in long strides up to the Prime Minister, and presses a pistol to his chest. The gunshot cracked into the air loud as thunder, echoing throughout the room as the puff of smoke evaporated in the air.

The Prime Minister staggers back, before walking forward, past the man, like nothing happened. The blood gushing from his chest told all in the room otherwise, but the shockwave that reverberated through the building held everyone frozen in place.
Only once the prime minister crashes onto the marble floor with a defining blow, unleashes the chaos and panic. Everyone runs to the heavily bleeding man, but Charles' attention shifts to the man holding the pistol. His face is cold and expressionless, there is no remorse, no anger, nothing.

He rips the pistol out of his hands and holds him by the collar before he can make a run for it. But unlike all the other criminals Charles has dealt with, this one doesn't put up a fight.
He just hangs limply in his coat, never taking his eyes off the Prime Minister. As Charles observes the man a little longer he realizes he also doesn't look anything like any criminal he has ever seen before.
This man is clean cut, with pristine clothes and the face of a self-respecting gentleman. The only thing memorable about his face would be the crooked nose, but other than that there wasn't anything the least bit threatening about this man. To think someone so ordinary looking could be capable of such a coldblooded murder, made him shudder.

"Who are you," Charles hisses through his teeth.

"John Bellingham," the man answers in a monotone voice as his ice-cold gaze crosses his, "And you are?"

"Charles Raven," he swallows a lump. This man seems more machine than man like he doesn't even realize what just happened. "Do you know what you just did?"

A shadow of a smile crosses Bellingham's lips, "I did it-I did it-just like they told me to." His hands started to shake and a monstrous grin flashes over his face. But just when realization makes him crumble, Bellingham is pulled out of his coat by two guards who cuff him.

"Good job, watchman. We will take him from here." One of the guards thanks Charles, before he pushes Bellingham out of the door and into a prison coach.
Charles was left standing on the threshold, still holding the murderer's coat, baffled by all that had just happened.

~~

The Drinking room of the watchhouse was filled with watchmen sharing a pint with each other before the midnight patrol. It was the only place where you could socialize with your colleagues in the comfort of a warm house and with a cold one in hand.

"In the lobby of the House of Commons around a quarter past five, the Prime minister Spencer Percival was assassinated by John Bellingham," William Cornices reads out loud from the newspaper. His Scouse accent briefly giving way for a fake Oxford one.