FRANCIS TURNED TOWARD the sound of his name, a reflex, a flinch. Every face was to the king except for one: Martin? His brother was raising both hands, imploring him to—what? And then came a crunching blow and he was on the ground with another man atop him. The thud of his head against the pavement, the rough fabric of a police uniform, the scrape of buttons against his face. As Francis went sprawling, the crowd surged away, and a second policeman joined the first. He scooped the gun off the ground and together he and his partner hauled Francis unsteadily to his feet, each of them grabbing an arm, and dragged him away from the pavilion.
Martin had saved the king, but he had failed his brother. And now Francis and all who knew him were done for. Already the cops were double-timing Francis to some Jail of the Future where he would be cuffed, searched, interrogated, imprisoned. Martin could only fade into the pack of fairgoers and brace for the blow that was sure to come.
Or, like Francis and Michael had done, he could run.
He ran. In the direction of his brother and the two men hustling him away, he ran. He dodged, lurched, and came up in front of them. In full voice, his eyes sparkling with rage, Martin bellowed, “What in God’s name have you done to Sir Angus?”
The policemen stopped, both looking as dazed as Francis himself. A gash branded the cheek of the one who had tackled Francis. The other, no older than Martin, was trembling from the chain of events: the gun, the tackle, the collar of a would-be assassin.
“Outta the way!” the first cop said. “He had a gun!”
Martin tried once again to ape the accent of a British lord. “Of course he had a gun! He’s one of the king’s own bodyguards! Just look at him!”
One of the men had Francis by the back of the neck, forcing his head down. Now they pulled him upright and gave him the once-over: red hair, kilt, sporran, high socks.
“If he had his gun out,” Martin continued, “it was for a good reason!” He couldn’t stop himself from shouting. He could hear his pulse thudding in his ears.
“I saw him headin’ for the king—”
“Do you have any idea of the threats His Majesty is facing?” Martin said, still shouting. “This city is crawling with IRA men!”
The second cop threw back his shoulders. “We haven’t heard a word about—”
“Ninety percent of the police in this city are Irish,” Martin said. “Half of you would probably help them put a bullet in the king, given a chance.”
“And who the hell are you to tell us what’s what?”
“Inspector Fitzwilliam MacFarquhar,” he said. “Scotland Yard.” Martin glowered at the policemen. An insolent bunch, these Americans. “And what are your names? I’ll see that the mayor himself strips you of your badges.”
He looked from one to the other. If he so much as blinked, he knew, the whole enterprise would collapse.
“Look, we don’t want any—we just thought—”
“You were doing your jobs. You saw a gun and you reacted—but you reacted against the wrong man. Now leave him be and get back to work.” Martin took his brother by the arm and turned him toward the British Pavilion, then stopped and faced the policemen again. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said.
The two policemen looked at each other uncertainly.
“Take the cuffs off him. And give me his bloody gun.” Martin stretched out his hand. While the first policeman fit the key into the cuffs, the second one put the revolver in Martin’s hand. It was heavier than he had imagined, but without giving it another look he slipped it into his jacket pocket and stormed off. “This way, Your Lordship,” he said.
Francis matched him stride for stride, wondering how much of this was real and how much was the result of the blow to his head. “Martin!” he said through gritted teeth. “Martin!”
“Shush!” Martin chugged on purposefully, aiming for the back of the pavilion. He felt as if his heart might give out or his bowels give way. Without raising his voice, he said, “As soon as we round this corner, I want you to run like hell.”
They rounded the corner, out of sight of the police, and they ran like hell. Behind the pavilion, across a bridge, and through the Town of Tomorrow with its model homes and picket fences, they ran like they had as boys from the rough lads who patrolled the banks of the river Lee, and like they had in Ballyrath from the farmers’ sons who delighted in pounding the jackeens who had blown into town (Feckin’ eejits, young Francis had once said. Don’t they know jackeens come from Dublin?). Martin laughed as he ran, and Francis started laughing too, as the hem of his kilt whipped about his legs and the sweat poured off the both of them. The speed and the effort burned off whatever had fueled Martin’s flight of fancy with the two policemen, and by the time they neared the gate to the fairgrounds, both were out of breath.
“Jesus, Martin!” Francis gave his brother a shove. “The balls on you! And then asking for the gun!”
Martin was doubled over, his lungs working like a bellows. He handed his pocket square to Francis and pointed at the blood on the side of his brother’s face.
Francis looked from one direction to another, getting his bearings: the House of Jewels, Petticoat Lane, and, farther down, the Administration Building. The king would pass this way soon, but moving fast in an automobile instead of that toy train. “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said. “But I have to finish what I came for.”
Martin shook his head and stood. He scanned the lanes and pavilion lawns for signs of pursuit. “Your man called. The old man’s dead. He said it’s off. He said you’re safe.”
Francis slumped against the wall. His legs could no longer support him and he slid down to the gray-stone pavers.
“I tried to get to you sooner,” Martin said, “but you’re a hard man to find.”
Francis held his trembling hands before him. He gulped for air as he spoke. “I almost—”
“I know,” Martin said, “but you didn’t.” He extended a hand, waited for Francis to see that it was there. Francis squinted up at him, took the hand, and his brother pulled him to his feet.
“Now let’s get out of here,” Martin said. “And can we steer clear of those MacFarquhars from now on? It’s a fucking job of work to have them around.”
FORDHAM HEIGHTS