Free The Fabulous Beast by Garry Kilworth

all gave one last quick stare around the table, checking that all twelve seats were occupied, before some of us shifted uneasily. Everyone knew there was only supposed to be 12 men in the room. There were now 13. The door had been locked behind us and there were no other entrances or exits. People were asking themselves, was this one of Kyle’s killers, come to threaten us? Or worse?
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ cried the foreman, leaping to his feet. ‘How did you get in? Through the toilet window?’
    Archie now found his voice and pointed, shouting, ‘He’s got a gun!’
    The next thing that happened was the door burst open and and two armed police cop came in. They aimed their weapons.
    ‘Stay where you are!’ yelled one of the cops. ‘Don’t move. Keep your hands out in front of you. Drop that!’
    ‘This?’ replied the intruder, wildly, holding forth the black glasses’ case. ‘It’s just . . .’
    ‘Don’t move. I warn you. Drop it! Drop it!’
    Some of us now fell to the floor, lying flat. Others confused the situation by starting for the doorway. There was rapid movement everywhere. The policeman looked uncertain. I could see the gun in his hand shaking a little. He too looked quite young. His target wisely remained still, but others were darting behind him, dashing for the toilet to be out of the firing line. There was hysteria in the air, which was very unsettling. Finally the jury foreman cried out in a shrill accusing voice, ‘He hasn’t dropped it. He’s still got it!’
    ‘Heck, I only went to the bog . . . I’m one of the jurors . . . I think I’ve got . . .’
    His right hand went towards one of his pockets. That rapid movement was fatal. The policeman fired twice in quick succession, striking his victim high in the chest. The wounded man staggered backwards, blood bubbling from his sternum. He coughed once, twice, three times, then fell to his knees. Finally he pitched forward on his face and lay there, jerking spasmodically. Within a few minutes he was completely unmoving. His left hand still clutched the case. The cop, white-faced and looking ill, moved forward to remove the glasses’ case from the dead man’s hand. He stared at it, bemused for a few moments, then opened it and found a pair of sunglasses inside. Then, with panic in his eyes, he felt for his victim’s pulse. Clearly, from his expression, there was nothing.
    He yelled back hoarsely through the open doorway.
    ‘For Christ sake call a bloody ambulance.’
    ‘Already done,’ murmured the other cop, placing a sympathetic hand on his partner’s shoulder. ‘On its way.’
    ‘You thought it was a weapon, didn’t you, Dave?’ said the shooter. ‘It looked like one.’
    His friend shrugged, averting his eyes. ‘I dunno. Maybe. I’m not sure.’
    ‘You bastard,’ said the shooter. ‘You bastard, Dave.’
    Dave looked very uncomfortable and refused to look his partner in the eye.
    ‘No, Mike, I’m just not sure.’
    More police arrived, one or two of them quite senior in rank. We were questioned exhaustively. Statements were taken from everyone in the room, and from those who had been viewing proceedings on the monitor screens. Many were still convinced the dead man was indeed an assassin sent by Kyle, though that hardly made sense at all, since even if he wiped out all twelve of us there would be another trial and another jury appointed. Common sense wafts away in the heat of the moment though. It’s only when there’s time for calm reflection that rational thinking returns and proper assessments are made.
    Once the doctor had declared the policeman’s victim officially dead there were photographs taken of the corpse. Then the body was taken away. The black glasses’ case was put in a plastic bag and went with the dead man. The policeman who’d fired his weapon had been quickly whisked away, shaking his head and protesting that any cop in his position would have done the same, forgetting that his