Jon was somewhere else. This somewhere was incredibly peaceful: There was no sound except waves lapping up against a beach of dark blue sand. It was dark yet not cold. A light breeze was playing on his face. Was this home – not Barbados, not Balmoral, but a real home? Did he have to die to finally see it? He would not see anything with his eyes closed, so he opened them.
His eyes flung open, as if he had just been having such a terrible nightmare that his body had activated him. The fiery pain in his stomach didn’t relieve – it was not part of the nightmare.
He suddenly remembered where he was. The drawing room of Balmoral. He was lying on the floor in front of the fire – now extinguished. The room was dark.
Shot. Shot. Yes – he had been shot. That was the unbearable fire in his stomach. He tried to raise his head to look down at himself but could not. The pain threatened to send him back to his nightmares. He did not need to see to know. Blood, and lots of it. He could feel it leaving him. He did not quite know how he was alive. There were two searing pains – one in his gut and one in his lower back. The bullet must have gone straight through. Remarkably, it had not hit anything vital.
There was someone pacing around his field of vision. Two steel-toed boots were walking up and down, up and down . . . ‘Are the Royal Family secure?’ A familiar voice. Tony Speck. On the walkie. ‘Yes, I’ll get rid of the body.’
Jon stayed as still as possible. Martin had shot him. Martin knew where to shoot someone – isn’t that what he’d said at dinner? Martin wanted him to survive. But how was he going to get past Speck?
‘Wait,’ Speck said, answering Jon’s question, ‘what do you mean, the rascal’s gone? Shit . . . ’ Speck stopped. Jon was as still as he’d ever been, holding his breath. ‘Damn, okay, well, Alleyne’s not going anywhere. Think he’s dead already. I’m on my way.’ And with that, Speck flew out of the room.
Jon wasted no time. He reached to the arm of the chaise and used it to pull himself up with half of his strength. The other half of his strength was used to keep the scream from rising up his throat. He had to stop once he was in a seated position to assess his wound. It was indeed a mess – he could barely see it through the scarlet stain on his shirt, but he could feel the hole the bullet had made.
How had he been shot? This was not how anything was meant to happen. By now, he was supposed to be in bed, after a happy if strenuous Christmas Day. He watched as the scarlet stain grew bigger. He was dying.
If he had to go, let him not die here in the drawing room.
Jon pushed himself up to a standing position. He’d thought that the cancer would kill him, but now he felt as though his life was in his hands every time he touched a leg down on the floor and a fresh stab of pain thundered along his spine. But as he got to the door, a thundering of footfalls came from beyond it as a group of people walked past. Jon braced himself, but they did not stop. The footsteps disappeared the other way down the hall.
Balmoral was alive once again. But not in the way that anyone would have wished.
Jon waited until the footsteps had disappeared completely before he slipped out into the hall. Much like the drawing room, it was quiet and dark – the veins of the castle were indeed pumping bodies around but none were here. That was good, because Jon did not wish to see anyone.
He made his way down the hall, passing the portrait of the King without even looking at it. He did not need to see it again; the image was already burned into his brain. The King in the portrait was not looking upon him fondly. Jon wondered where the Royal Family had been taken, but then realised that they could not be his burden anymore. He was dying and they had killed him. Loyalty needed to have an end.
Jon made good ground. There is something to be said about the dying finding it in themselves to perform incredible feats before death. A surge of adrenaline. Jon’s incredible feat was to return home. So he did.
He had to hold tight on to the banister as he descended the stairs down into the servants’ quarters. He was going to his kitchen to die, and once he had finally completed his journey down the stairs and through the archway, he thought that death might want to hurry up a little.
The pain was so great he rested against the wall next to the archway, looking upon his magnificent kitchen. He had left Barbados all those years ago, looking for his place in the world. This was it, this kitchen, right here. He started to cry when he finally knew it was over; his knees buckled and he slid down the wall until his bottom connected with the cold floor. Blood was pulsing through his shirt – he didn’t know if it had sped up or slowed, but it was still seeping.
It did not matter.
Jon wiped his eyes and looked upon his kitchen without tears now. He looked at the cabinets that he had to fight to get installed, the ovens that each had their own quirks and follies, the fridge nearest to him where . . .
There was something peeking out from the crack between the counter and the top of the fridge. A red envelope. Then Jon finally remembered . . . his Christmas card, from the King. He had never opened it. How odd – if he had never collapsed here, he might have forgotten about it completely.
Jon forced himself forward so he could pluck the card from its slot. The red envelope he hadn’t seen for what seemed like years. He had been so busy at the time. He opened it and was startled when a few tightly folded papers, bound together by the folds, jumped out and fell to the floor. They fell almost beyond his cognition, lost to the void, but stayed within reach.
Jon opened the card first. A simple white card with a cartoon smiling lion on it dressed as Santa Claus. The King’s style. He opened it to see the King’s familiar handwriting –
To Jon,
You know of that old story I always tell. The common family going to the zoo to see the lions. The first time I heard that story was my first ever memory. My father was sat at my bedside and he told me the story and he asked me exactly what I always ask – which is the most important part of the story? He kept telling me it until I got it right. I did eventually. And I resolved to tell that story to my family.
The lions in the zoo, the common family, the glass in between them, separating them. I always ask my family which is the most important. They never understand, they name one or the other. The lions, the family. They couldn’t see. Not one of them understood that I had referenced three entities. The lions, the family, and the glass in between. The glass in between, Jon.
Maybe it is time for that glass to break?
Happy Christmas, old friend. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you are not home.
Eric Windsor
Jon didn’t quite understand until he retrieved the papers that had fallen onto the floor. He unfolded them. A copy of King Eric’s speech, but this time the King had signed it. This was the evidence that Jon needed, but was it too late? He was over, done. Maybe this plot was too.
No.
Not today. For Eric Windsor.
Jon heaved himself upwards, pushing with his legs and his back so he thrust himself up the wall until he was on his feet again. As he stepped away, he noticed that he had left a red smear up the white wall. It hardly mattered. He was going. He took one last look at his kitchen and then was off, down the corridor. He was glad to see that his red coat was still on its hook, having been replaced who knew how many times. He put it on with some difficulty, his stomach roaring at every movement of his arms. Finally it was done, and he stuffed the speech into one of the pockets.
He braced himself. And opened the door to the outside.
It had stopped snowing and the sky had somewhat cleared, as if the snow were merely here to view the passing of a king, and left once it was done.
It was time for Jon to leave too.
Where was he going?
He didn’t know. But he was going to make a stop first, if he got that far. He needed to visit the Watchtower.