THE BEGINNING HOUR (standard:drama, 3057 words)
Author: Danny Raven	Added: Dec 30 2007	Views/Reads: 3315/2252	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
We still don't know the truth about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy....perhaps it was like this.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

N22 – November the twenty second, in Dallas, Texas. Two months to make
his arrangements. Two months until the assassination of President John 
F. Kennedy. 

II 

Rain sleeked down over the White House. It formed small pools on the
manicured green lawns and the long sweeping drives. 

From a small, unlit office in the sprawling buildings, a man watched it
hammering against the windows. He liked to slip away to this rarely 
used side-room from time to time while the elite argued about policies 
in the main offices. He'd made some important decisions here, decisions 
which had been incorporated into current legislation but the enormity 
of what he'd arranged with Oswald completely overshadowed all of them. 

Sometimes the sheer immensity of what he'd done stunned him and he could
only sit and stare. More so now, with Dallas only a few days away but 
then the familiar cold logic would reassert itself and he'd realise his 
decision had been correct. 

He poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl
up to the ceiling through the late November gloom. 

It was all like a dream this Kennedy presidency. A big dream. A thousand
day dream - but it was a dream we'd all wanted. Everyone of us. Me 
included. We'd all wanted so badly to believe in that dream and Kennedy 
was the one who put us all to sleep to dream it. 

Well now it was time to wake up. To wake from this dream of life before
we all slipped into a fucking coma. 

He sipped his drink and looked out at the rain. He drew heavily on his
cigarette and watched the smoke drifting against the window. Ash fell 
on the uncarpeted floor but he never noticed it. 

He shook his head as he thought of all that foolish idealism, that
ridiculous Kennedy idealism...between the idea and the reality always 
falls the shadow...Kennedy was the idea and the price they were all now 
paying was the reality. And there was an immense black shadow hanging 
over the country. The shadow of Vietnam, of the Bay of Pigs, of the 
Cuban Missiles Crisis, of problems with Congress, of race riots. 

He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair, feet up on
the desk, hands clasped behind his head. 

Jesus, this Vietnam thing looked like it was getting out of hand, even
though they'd had the best advice on it. General Douglas MacArthur 
himself had said don't get involved in any land battles in Asia. 
MacArthur ! The top military mind in the country. So what did the 
Kennedy administration do ? Send in troops. Advisers. Eighteen thousand 
of them now in full combat gear. 

He sneered in the darkening room. Advisers ! 

He shook his head angrily. And the two Cuban fiascos – the shambles of
the Bay of Pigs invasion followed by the Missiles Crisis a year later. 
And what did the Kennedy elite do after the Missiles Crisis ? Ordered 
all those ICBMs. Naturally the Russians found out and naturally they 
started their own arsenal. So from now on they would have to match each 
other weapon for weapon. What kind of world will that bring ? Christ in 
the future when these times are re-examined they'll blame Kennedy for 
starting the nuclear arms race. 

And that stone-hearted bastard Khrushchev had thrown up the Berlin Wall
after the Cuban shit too ! 

Just two years and ten months in power, Jack and so far you've managed
to separate East from West with a wall, behind which each side is madly 
trying to out-manufacture the other in nuclear arms ! 

So much for idealism. So much for the great Kennedy dream. 

It has to stop now. Before any more damage is done. Before people wake
up themselves and see their expectations shattered. 

Christ, it's not exactly as if the dream's running smoothly here either.
Already you're having big problems with Congress, Jack. Well what the 
hell did you expect after you and your elitist White House fraternity 
alienated them?  Co-operation ? No wonder they're blocking some of your 
economic policies and you can't get your campaign promises fulfilled. 

And Civil Rights ? You jumped on that bandwagon when you thought it was
heading in the right direction and where did it lead ? Race riots, 
lynchings, more problems in the South than ever before. Murders that 
are turning people like Medgar Evers into martyrs. 

He sighed and shook his head then stood up and walked over to the window
and looked out. The sky was dull and the rain showed no signs of 
stopping. He watched it awhile as it fell into the small pools on the 
lawn. 

All his cold logic made sense as he knew it would and the earlier doubts
vanished. 

“Your dream's turning into a nightmare, Jack,” he said softly, “and
somebody has to wake us up. Now !” 

The country would be stunned when it happened. Sure it would. People
would be dazed awhile but everybody's dazed when they first wake up. It 
takes time to adjust to reality again but once people were fully awake, 
they'd start to forget all about their dreams. 

There was one major point about it all that still bothered him though. 

He walked back to the desk and opened his brief-case. He took out the
book and glanced at the now familiar cover. He'd read it some time ago 
and after he'd set up the deal with Oswald, a particular line from it 
strayed into his mind. He opened the book at the corner he'd turned 
down and stared at the sentence he'd underlined in red ink. He read it 
to himself quietly a few times. 

It comforted him that the problem had been acknowledged hundreds of
years ago. “Comfort from what ?” he asked himself. He was too honest 
not to give a truthful answer. “From having to face the consequences,” 
he answered softly. 

He sighed and slipped the book back into his brief-case then left the
office. 

III 

Oswald raised the curtained window about a foot then studied it from
behind the table. Too high. He lowerd it a few inches then studied it 
again. It would do for now. 

He unzipped the case and piece by piece, removed the rifle. He looked
down the barrel, checked the firing mechanism, ran his hand along the 
stock. Then he cleaned and assembled it. 

There was a straight-backed wooden chair in the corner of the room and
he kicked some books out of the way and dragged it over to the table. 
The floor creaked as he moved but there was no-one around to hear him 
anyway. 

He sat down and laid the rifle across the small sandbag he'd already
placed on the table. The barrel rolled smoothly across the top but he'd 
need to wedge it somehow till he sighted it. 

He reached over and chopped the sandbag with the edge of his hand then
laid the barrel in the groove. It held. He settled in the chair, the 
stock snug against his shoulder and looked through the sights. 

The crowd across the street jumped into blurred nearness. He slowly
revolved the sights until they swam into sharp focus. He slipped his 
finger round the trigger and steadied the barrel with his other hand. 

Faces. They were just faces. A lot of faces. He picked one. A man. In a
baseball cap. Smiling. Talking to his neighbour. Could see his lips 
moving. See his teeth. The man leaned back and laughed. Opened his 
mouth wide. Oswald pulled the trigger and blew off the back of his 
head. 

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. 

He smiled, lifted the rifle and swept it up and down the street. A
minute adjustment to the sights. Flaten out the sandbag. 

He stood the gun against the table and took out a small cardboard box
from his jacket pocket. Three hollow-nosed bullets nestled inside on 
some cotton wool. He loaded them in slowly and clicked one into the 
breech. 

He was ready. 

He leaned back in the chair and stared up at the dull sky. A chill
breeze blew in the window but he never noticed it. From far below, the 
noise of the crowd drifted up to him, a dull roaring. 

Something occurred to him and he smiled and pulled himself back from the
sky. 

He picked up the rifle and peered through the sights. A slight sweep.
Found what he was looking for. Stared and felt his finger tensing on 
the trigger. NOT NOW ! DON'T PULL NOW ! He smiled and eased off the 
pressure and laid the rifle on the table. 

The man in the baseball cap had been eating popcorn. 

IV 

He was still brooding over the implications of the sentence he'd
underlined in the book. 

Sitting in a small ante-room in the Dallas hotel, staring out the
windows. 

The weather matched his mood. The sky was a dirty grey and still held
the threat of rain. Earlier, he'd seen the Agents pulling the top up on 
the presidential limousine, then it had cleared a little and they'd 
taken it down again. Strange, he'd thought at the time, how the weather 
might have cancelled an assassination. But then if it didn't happen 
today, it would happen some other time. 

He opened his briefcase and took out the book. It flipped open at the
page he'd turned down and he read the passage again. 

It still bothered him. More so than any of the other after-effects and
they were going to be bad enough. It went against everything he'd been 
taught but there was no way round it. Arranged any other way, the 
implications would still be the same. The one redeeming feature was 
that given different circumstances it would never have entered his 
mind. If the President had been somebody else, it would never have been 
considered. It was being done for the country. No other reason. 

He smiled in the darkening room. He was beginning to believe his own
rationalisation. 

He stood up and walked over to the window. Down in the cordoned-off
courtyard the Agents were making their final check on the limousine. 
You're wasting your time, he thought. 

He watched them until they finished and the outriders mounted their
Harleys. The courtyard was now full of people milling around. Governor 
Connally and one of his aides appeared. 

It was time. 

V 

The crowd began cheering further up the street. They were coming. He
glanced down. All craning their heads away to the right. 

The sky's pulling me. Up. Pulling me up...Leave the sky alone. Held out
his hand – only a slight tremor. Saw the hand pick up the rifle. Felt 
the stock smooth and hard against his cheek. The crowd in focus. Flags. 
Waving flags. 

Seconds stretched out inside his head. Someone turned the volume down in
the crowd. 

A white helmet on a Harley. Then another. Like they were sailing along.
Not touching the ground. The limousine floated in. A small American 
flag fluttering on the bonnet. 

Looks so clean. Kennedy looks so clean. Smiling and waving. Saying
something to Jackie. Glancing round. Eyes met. Then away. 

HE LOOKED AT ME ! HE LOOKED AT ME ! Can't kill a man so clean. LOOKED AT
ME ! PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER ! NOW !! 

He pulled. Connally lurched to the side. 

No noise from the crowd at all. Why so quiet ? Why so quiet ? 

The second bullet shattered Kennedy's head. Saw him jump then fall
against Jackie. Fired again. It hit. 

Leaned back. Laid the rifle down. Head on the table. 

Oh man, the way he jumped way he jumped...why'd you fire three fire
three...just to make sure make sure... 

Someone turned the volume up in the crowd. 

VI 

They'd just seen it on television back at the hotel. It was difficult to
take in. 

“The President's been shot !” somebody screamed in the hall. 

Others were openly weeping. A couple of women became hysterical but
everybody was too stunned to do anything about them. 

“But we only said goodbye to him a short time ago,” the Manager said to
those beside him. Nobody heard him. 

In his room on the top floor one of the off duty desk-clerks had also
seen it on tv. “It happens every day,” he muttered, turning the sound 
down and walking over to the door. He looked out into the corridor. 
No-one around. He slipped along to the lift and took it down to the 
ground floor. 

The entrance hall was full of confused, weeping people. He smiled and
took the lift back up to the second floor. It was deserted. So was the 
suite Kennedy and his aides had used for their brief stay. 

He searched the main rooms looking for anything that might have been
left behind but there was nothing. 

“There must be something,” he said to himself. “People always forget
something. Clothes or papers or maybe some jewellery.” 

In one of the small ante-rooms he almost missed it. A book lying on the
window ledge. He picked it up and flicked it open. The inscription on 
the inside cover said, ‘To Jack from Jackie.' He grinned. It was 
Kennedy's ! 

He slipped it inside his shirt and strolled back to the lift. The
corridor was still deserted. 

Back in his room a re-run of the shooting was being shown on tv. He
glanced at it then took out the book. 

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. 

“Big deal,” he said and flipped through the pages. Maybe some notes or
pictures shoved into it. There was nothing. 

He read the inscription again. It was definitely Kennedy's. There would
be a good price for this once the heat had died down. Better leave it 
for a few  months though. There's gonna be some shit flyin after this 
one. 

He flicked through the book again in case he'd missed something and
noticed that the corner of one of the pages had been turned down. He 
glanced at the page and saw that part of a sentence had been underlined 
in red ink : ‘Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon gainst 
self-slaughter.' 

He frowned and shook his head. It meant nothing to him. He strolled over
to his wardrobe, opened it and unlocked a drawer inside it. He shoved 
the book way at the back under some papers. Nobody would find it there. 
Probably nobody would be looking for it anyway. He grinned and locked 
the drawer. 

VII 

Two days into his presidency, Lyndon B. Johnson sat alone at his desk in
the Oval Office. He picked up his private telephone and dialled a 
number from memory. When a man answered he asked a pre-arranged coded 
question. When the correct answer was received he spoke another coded 
sentence then hung up. 

As it had been planned with the late President Kennedy, he had just
spoken to Jack Ruby. 


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