As The Bullet Flies

Oh, as I sit in this lobby in the House of Commons, the heart and mind of my beloved England, I wonder what will be the consequence of this seemingly normal day, the eleventh in this month of May, in this year of 1812. I stroke the gun which sits in the specially tailored pocket on the inside left of my overcoat as I watch these filthy dogs go about their daily bidding. I pay special attention to the great doors opposite the bench I sit on, my weeks spent lingering in here in the spare hours of my day have thought me that it is these doors that the man I want will walk through, for today England shall lose its head of state. Alas, his fate has been sealed since I spent those four years of hell in that Russian prison to have him simply turn his back on me, to have his servants tell me I should take whatever liberty I felt proper for they would not compensate the ruining of my myself and my family! Well, well! That liberty shall be the termination of Mr Spencer Percevals life by me, the perfectly reasonable and sensible John Bellingham.
The reason I wonder, or worry even, is that I fear my individual act of vengeance may inspire a chain of similar deeds from countrymen who feel they were wronged or hold some shallow motive taking the final option of the life of the head of state. As sure I am these politicians will preach that was my motive, I am that I do not want this to become of our green and pleasant land! That is the status quo of those revolutionary fools in France or America and should never be here. I hope on all that is good that this will not happen, I fear that my family simply could not live with the horror of that along with unbearable shame I shall undeniably bestow upon them. My wife has already conveyed her idea that I am losing touch with my mind and the reality we live in and has frequently pleaded with me to simply live life and try and simply let lie my heavy history. Unthinkable.
The clock strikes ten minutes past five. The doors open, but none of the figures who walk through are Mr Perceval. They are either too tall or their noses too small to be that doomed man. With this thought comes rising doubt, I have a sudden urge not to complete my task. Although he is just 49, Spencer bears the face of a man who has lived much more years. As Prime Ministers go, he has not been a bad one to say the least, although he is not the most intelligent of men it cannot be denied he is a hard worker who loves his country. But it is not even this which is defeating my urge to kill him, it is his pathetic appearance that I have noted these last weeks. Surely the world, the country, the jury will look so harshly on me for killing such a man of such pitiful physical appearance, such a meek man, for despite my years of malnutrition I stand so tall and so powerful over the majority of those who walk these corridors and the majority of those who walk the common streets.
The clock now stands at a quarter past five and now there is no time to dwell on these thoughts as the door opens and Mr Perceval walks through. I stand up, hand firmly on my gun. I walk in his direction. He takes no notice of me as he is conversing with a fellow M.P. While drawing my gun I speak with a venom which is surprising even to myself.
"Your position can't save you now!" I take aim at his heart and pull the trigger. Every single politician turn their filthy necks as the booming sound of the gunshot rings out throughout these corridors, like the sound that would have ran through the Palace of Westminster had Guy Fawkes succeeded with his gunpowder plot. But he didn't, and I did.
"Murder!" shouts that sorry soul as he falls backwards into the arms of one of his ministers. As I calmly walk back to take my seat I am overcome with two very different things. One is the politicians restraining me (I can even hear Isaac Gascoyne shout "Bellingham, that bastard is Bellingham!") but what seems infinitely more real is the fact that I am the first man to take the life of an English head of state, and with that there is a very bizarre sense of pride in myself, my actions but most of all my country.



One week later, John Bellingham was hanged in public for the assassination of Spencer Perceval. This murder was the only successful attempt on the life of a British Prime Minister.

Further Reading/Listening!

A brilliant summary of John Bellingham's life on Wikipedia.

An ever more brilliant song and music video inspired by the murder, also this is what inspired me to write the story. Spencer Perceval by iLiKETRAiNS.