I stood in the crowds at the rally, not sure what to think. It all depended on whether our new "Glorious Leader" was being honest or not...
When I heard the gunshot, and saw Marcus fall to the ground, I did what I was paid to do.
"Stand back, I'm a doctor!" I shouted, pushing through the clump of scared and bemused people. I finally got to the stage where he lay, bleeding heavily. My years of training as a surgeon kicked in, along with a helping of greed. I got on my knees beside Marcus. I felt his pulse; he wasn't quite dead yet. I held my hands to the wound, to compress it and stop the bleeding.
But then my hand accidently-on-purposely slipped. It's strange how these accidents happen. I squeezed, instead of an artery, the equivalent vein, causng the blood to come out faster. It was hot and sticky on my hands. I pushed down harder, using the whole force of my body to force the blood out. I remembered the words of my new employer:
"Make sure the Commie bastard's dead."
The shouts of the crowd continued, accompanied by police and ambulance sirens. The paramedics rushed over to me. In the last few seconds, I saw Marcus Radivorski's face grow pale; literally bloodless. There was no pulse now.
A paramedic in a green coat stooped down by my side.
"I'm sorry," I shook my head, " I did all I could do, I'm a surgeon at the Royal General, but... he's dead."
The woman by my side nodded, called over to her colleagues, and discreetly took the dead politician's body away from Darke Street in a stretcher.
I've seen too many dead bodies to let this scene upset me. I'd seen too many wailing, passionate youths crying over the people they looked up to most. I was numb. Numb enough for £500,000 to sway my moral stance towards murder.
I don't know who fired the shot, but I killed him.
The question is... would anyone ever know?