The Armed Man

I will always remember that they killed Jude on a Monday.
Technically, the second day of the week.

It was a grey, bitter morning that morning; the air tasted like ash. I felt chewed up and spat out as I watched him up there. Brave, I remember. He didn’t shiver. We were gathered in a frightened huddle like gazelle in a corner at the back, taking it in turns to stand helplessly on the balls of our feet and try to catch his eye. We didn’t want him to think we’d forgotten, after all.

I felt horrible, that day. Revolted. I kept honestly, truly thinking that I’d do something, shout, wave a flag, say something. I think that deep inside, there was a tiny part that actually believed that I would. A larger part kept it back. It knew I would never dare.

It was so abrasively cold that day; the back of my throat felt bruised and dry, but I couldn’t seem to get enough air through my nose. I remember that I could see his breath, even through the hood. I could see mine. I could see everyone’s. It sat on top of us, shimmering, and when the expectant, apprehensive silence descended, it hemmed it in, made it sound ten times louder than a silence usually should. The executioner stood up.

I could see Jude more clearly that I’d like to, standing up with his hands behind his back and staring stoically towards the sky. The executioner put a hand on his shoulder and led him backwards.
Jude shuddered.

And- isn’t it funny how you never remember the wording of something disgusting? It’s always that one crucial sentence that stands firmly in your mind, and the rest is all blocked out somehow. I’ve had to piece this together from what I’ve been told by others and how I know it should go. It’s not accurate. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.

“Jude Phillip McCullough…”

“You have been tried by a most just and fair jury and found to be guilty on twenty two separate counts of vandalism, theft, arson, conspiracy to commit treason, terrorism, manslaughter and murder”.

“Have you any last words you would like to speak before you yourself are removed from the fabric of society and of all worldly life?”

I wish that they’d said something religious. Jude would have liked that.

He was silent. So silent. For a moment, as my blood ran cold, I thought that he’d say nothing at all. They’d just drop him like a ragdoll. I couldn’t have that. His hand was on the lever.
Speak, Jude.

Jude spoke.

Clearing his throat and drawing himself up to his full height, he said in in a clear and noble voice that still carried the tint of Ireland slightly, and was amplified gloriously around the square:

“Ladies and gentlemen. God save the King.”

“Don’t look, Benedict.”

Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me forcefully into them as the crowd roared. But it was too late. I’d already seen.

I always knew that I wouldn’t live to be twenty.
My name is Benedict Vesely. I am a classicist, a storyteller and a romantic. I am a friend and I am a foe. I am a soldier. I am not brave, what I did was not out of bravery. I don’t want you running away with that idea. What happened to me could have happened to anyone; it’s only down to fate and chance and circumstance that it was me standing on that street on that grey day in London. It’s that one turn of pitch and toss, and this book is a book about my loss.
Anyway.
I do hope you enjoy reading my life as much as I enjoyed living it.