by John Niven
Trump looked directly at Frank as he said ‘Right?’ again.
Just then the two agents seemed to snap to attention as one, both pressing their fingers to their ears, shoving their discreet flesh-coloured earpieces further in, confusion on their faces as one of them said, ‘Say again?’
Frank turned to see a golf cart, about fifty yards away, crashing off the path, coming straight at them and then things seemed to go into slow motion …
Both of the agents drawing their weapons.
One of them shoving Trump to the ground.
The other taking aim at the approaching golf cart.
Frank’s jaw dropping as Chops tumbled out of the cart.
He looked crazy, his mouth set in an insane leer, screaming ‘TRUMP! TRUMP!’ as he brought a gun up and aimed it directly at Frank. All the golfers throwing themselves on the ground, Frank’s hand going towards the small of his back as shots cracked in the air, both of the Secret Service guys pumping their triggers, the air moving next to Frank’s face as a bullet whizzed past very close to him, Chops seeming to rear back as several bullets hit him in the chest, Frank deafened from the gunfire as he brought the .38 snub nose out and levelled it at the fat old man in the KAGA hat sprawled in the gravel, the agent on top of Trump not seeing him, still firing at Chops, but the other one catching it, swinging his gun around towards Frank, shouting, screaming at him as Frank pumped the trigger now. Then Frank bringing the gun up to his own chin, the muzzle burning his skin even as the agent’s bullets hit him first, Frank feeling the shots slamming into his chest, knocking him back and off his feet, sending him over into the lush Bermuda grass beside the cart path.
The things that happened in the final moments of his life.
Birds flying up into the air from the trees behind.
The gaggle of elderly golfers screaming on the ground.
Brock yelling ‘OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!’ right next to him.
The searing pain, blood gurgling up into his throat.
Frank managing to tilt his head a little, looking across to where the agent was back on top of Trump, pumping his chest. The other agent looming over Frank, smoking gun pointed right at his face. It felt like blood was being pumped into the back of Frank’s skull now, filling his cranium, streaming around into the cavities of his eye sockets, the blood gradually reaching the corneas themselves, everything darkening, his throat filling, hot and soupy, choking him.
Frank saw something in the grass quite close to him – his little plastic penguin, and on its stomach a thumbprint of blood. The outside world was dimming, although he could still hear it, could still hear men screaming ‘Jesus Christ!’ and ‘Oh my God oh my God’, could still feel the distant pressure of the agent sitting on his chest now. The flock of birds in the sky directly above him, black dots wheeling against the blue, the world truly vanishing now, its bright colours being replaced with fizzing images, like the picture on an old cathode TV set as you hopped through many channels, the images all internal, all replays, reruns, old footage, changing from colour to black and white and back again, sometimes sharper, then blurred, frizzed with snowy static, a series of trailers, of highlights unspooling before him –
Frank with the women in his life, with Grace, then Cheryl, then Pippa, at dinner tables, in bars, on hotel beds, in cars, then Olivia and Adam as small children, grass, sunlight, beaches, sitting on his shoulders, climbing on his chest, squealing with joy as he pinched their thighs, tickled their chests, their ribs as small as chicken bones. Frank in the office, in shirtsleeves, grey screens, black text, then black screens, green text, then carbon copies, the methanol smell of the Ditto machine, then at that high school dance, ‘Every Time You Go Away’, spangled on acid with Robbie that one time out at the lake, the sunset a kind of marmalade that he never saw again. The pressure of that agent on his chest seeming to lessen now, to not matter any more, lifting, moving away as Frank started to become weightless, like he was floating, moving through the agent, beyond him, straining upwards for his place in the universe. Then Frank was with his parents, in the kitchen, his mom doing something at the sink, Frank at the table with schoolbooks as his father came in the back door, in his blue serge overalls, his fingers stained from the ink, the backs of his hands dotted with red burns from the linotype. And the sounds of the world fading even further now and the small child was him, Frank on Schilling main street, in short pants, the cars still finned and chromed, big as great whites, looking up at his mother in a department store, clutching her hand, unsteady on his feet as a new-born colt, looking up at her as she was cooking, him on the kitchen floor now, eating something, a cookie, a piece of bread (‘Hank yew, Momma’), not even standing, just sitting up, and then crawling, and then not even that, just gurgling and mewling and kicking limbs. And then he was in his father’s arms, in a great national park, on a summer day, somewhere in Indiana, on some rocks, overlooking an endless view, a gorge and pine trees and blue sky and white clouds and huge birds in flight and the vapour trails of jets and a song – ‘Paaaper Baaack Wriderrrr’ – coming from a radio somewhere, phasing in and out, and Frank knew he was very tiny now, swaddled, and he could smell his daddy – Old Spice and tobacco – and his daddy was saying to him ‘Look, Frankie, this is America … this is America, son …’ and then Frank was feeling sky on his face, the sky brushing past him faster now as he pushed up into it, leaving the gore and the yelling and the screaming way, way beneath him as he seemed to break through the bonds of the atmosphere, brilliant blue giving way to the black icebox of space and then he was safe inside somewhere, somewhere it was soft and wet, a limpid pool, with the sound of a steady comforting thump nearby, a sound he knew instinctively was his mother’s heartbeat, the pulse of her blood all around him, and then that was fading too and he was just cells, hunting for each other in the darkness, and then Frank Brill was gone.
THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
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This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
William Heinemann
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Copyright © John Niven 2020
Jacket design by Glenn O’Neill
John Niven has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. In some cases true life figures appear but their actions and conversations are entirely fictitious. All other characters and descriptions of events, and some names of places, are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons or places is entirely coincidental.
First published by William Heinemann in 2020
www.penguin.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781473507050
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