Rode Ridder

The smell of rotten eggs wafted in between the various houses and low rises in the quaint suburb of Zollisee, and some of it almost made it all the way in before the window banged, locked shut, with a click of a thumb.
― Did you pack everything?
― Yes.
― Are you sure? Let me see.
― I double checked just a moment ago mom. ― the young man turned away and with him the weighty duffel bag.
― He's seventeen Mette. ― the voice from the kitchen was accompanied by the clinking of cutlery ― If he forgot his undies he can do without 'hem!
― Look, ― half past seven ― I have to go.
― So soon? You didn't even have breakfast.
― We're all eating breakfast together once we get there. I'll be fine mom. ― they briefly kissed cheeks ― Goodbye dad!
― Goodbye! ― he said with a mouthful of egg before swallowing in a hurry ― Watch out for cars!
That was the last thing the boy heard before he touched a flag by the door and left his childhood home.
― «Watch out for cars»? ― she rejoined the man at the table ― Who's being over bearing now?
― That was just a slip of the tongue. Here honey, let me give you a refill. ― steam rose through the mug leaving behind a brownish white liquid.
― But he left so early...
― Maybe he doesn't want to be late? You know how school trips are. Didn't he have to be there a quarter before eight? ― she took the mug to her lips with her head tilted to the side. ― Why are you so worried?
― I just have a bad feeling...
― Why don't you do one of those tarot readings you like doing so... Hey, Mette could you turn the radio up?
Broadcast through 104.3MHz came ever louder the voice of the usual announcer of Radio TT: «...talks broke down yesterday in parliament. The SPP breached parliamentary rules by holding up signs in protest of what they've called "arbitrary detentions" of minorities. This move came after Saturday's protests in the capital, Valensart, were broken up by the officers of the Gendarmerie. Human rights groups have said that the protests were peaceful, however this is in direct contradiction with what the Prime Minister said...»
― Fucking muppets.
― Should I turn it off? ― deck in hand, she had set aside her plate and was in the midst of doing the Schwirsheling shuffle.
― It's fine, leave it.
― Here, ― fanned out in front of her were all Major Arcana face down ― draw three.
― Can't I draw four? ― she swatted away his hand before joining the fan into a deck.
Thus the cards were flipped such that the first was the Ace of Wands, then the Wheel of Fortune came second and lastly the Page of Pentacles reversed. Both of them stayed silent until the man asked:
― What does it mean?
― I don't think our son is going to learn much of anything on his trip.
― See? That's the least of our problems! Give me your plate. ― and all the dishes were left on the sink.
― Maybe you're right. Are you ready to leave?
― Yes, just about... Let me go grab your set up.
She donned a purple scarf over her head and held the door while her husband came through with a folding table and chair. The key turned and the couple was off, the husband to the local fertilizer plant and the woman to her usual spot.
Some 20 minutes away their son was off on Almer Mulder avenue. The baroque architecture and the patterned cobblestones didn't particularly phase him but he always stared at the bronze man atop all that marble at the center of the round about. It was a monument in commemoration of a national hero, but even though they named the entire avenue after him most didn't even look his way. Eventually the young man settled on a café just off the tube exit, the De Vroome. The little bell only made a hand-full of heads turn, but none stayed turned for long.
― Good morning lad. What will it be?
― Good morning. A café au lait and a... ― eyes darted back and forth between an egg sandwich and a cupcake ― cupcake. Yes, the chocolate one.
It was the chic sort of café. Two pensioners were arguing, each with a different paper in hand, and a woman was reading a book by the window, not paying any mind to the blur of the cars or the people outside. The clink of porcelain on glass jolted the young man and when he turned he was met with a chocolate cupcake and a hot cup of coffee with milk.
― One eighty. ― four fingers each with a coin moved towards the business owner across the vitrine while the remaining ones were quickly pocketed.
― Good isn't it? My wife makes them every morning. ― he could only nod in agreement ― Say, don't you go to Hoop? It's quite a ways away, won't you be late?
― We have a school trip today so I only need to be there at eight and a half.
― A school trip? You should enjoy it lad! Its one of the rare moments where you can get away from all of it. The classes, the home work, the customers...
― You'd starve without us Taatse! ― shouted one of the retirees.
― I have plenty of customers besides you two! You know, my daughter...
But the radio cut him off. 103.7MHz, still well within the frequencies for Radio TT «...the Prime Minister said in his latest address over the weekend while leaving a charity fundraiser: "We will not tolerate violence, regardless of motives. The government will use every means at out disposal to make sure that the law is abided by!" This is the latest comment on the ongoing controversy over the protests...»
― Fucking muppet. ― the young man said, a little too loud...
― What did you just say? That was the Prime Minister speaking!
― Should I have called him Mr. Muppet then?
― He got you good Tike! ― the other pensioner mocked his buddy from behind his black on white.
― Don't get me started Hilbert! This new generation is hopeless! They have no respect for anyone!
― With all due respect, I also think that the Prime Minister is a muppet. ― spoke the woman, her eyes still on the book.
― I knew it! Miss Veldhof is one of those SPP socialists!
― They're social democrats. ― the business owner interjected.
― One and the same!
The bell rang once more but the young man had left behind an empty plate and cup. Shortly afterwards the clock struck eight.
― Do you see what I mean? He didn't even say goodbye!
― Give him a break Mr. Tike. The lad has a school trip to go to! He's probably late.
― But you know, ― Hilbert closed his newspaper ― he didn't seem like he was from around here...
― If he goes to school at Hoop... It would follow that he lives further west...
― No, I mean... He's a, ah... Zwever.
― Really? I guess I could see him being a quarter mixed...
― The correct term is Kanelmense Mr. Hilbert. ― she said from between flipping pages.
― You are right. My apologies, Miss Veldhof.
― Ah! There you go again Hilbert! What's so wrong with calling them for what they are Miss Veldhof? We've only pampered them and what do we have to show for it?
― Giving them designated slums to live in is hardly pampering.
― Now, now! No more politics! ― the bell rang again. ― Mr. and Mrs. Heilen! The usual?
From the round about on Almer Mulder avenue if one heads south along Jan-Joost Gregersen street for about 5 minutes one would find two young men wearing Hoop uniforms waiting in the plaza out front of the Zurfeld Central Terminal.
― There he is! Valentijn! ― a blonde haired young man waved at him.
― You're late. ― said the tall, well built brown haired one.
― It's at a quarter past eight, we still have time.
― Did you bring everything? ― a nod ― Good. Let's get changed.
The two young men followed the year older one into a side alley where a cat slept, an homeless person was covered in cardboard and the backdoor to a restaurant's kitchen was slightly ajar with the clank of pans and pots. Valentijn dropped the duffel bag, handing over ski masks and overalls to the others.
― Did you bring the pamphlets Huub? ― he patted his backpack. ― And the guns?
Out of the open bag came out two rifles, fully loaded. Huub received his solemnly with a prayer, the taller man lingered on his and Valentijn made no expression as he took out the remaining one.
― Reinier?
― These are heavy... Okay. No more first or last names. We'll go into the station right as the quarter hits, stay there for two minutes at most and then we'll bolt for one of the alleys. We get there, put everything back in the bag and we walk to my cousin's. We stay there for the day and then go back home. Remember, shoot at the legs and torso, never the head. Questions? No? Okay. What's the time?
― Thirteen.
― Let's go. ― with a clap the masked men were off.
From behind, Valentijn saw the homeless man petting his cat, but even though they exchanged glaces he didn't say anything. He just kept petting his «Pluizig» while he fed it. The three masked men made their way through the plaza unhindered. People walked by alongside them to the train station, cars stopped at the zebra crossings for them all the same and the few gawkers kept mostly to themselves. Up the steps they went, the hydraulics on the latest train swung open and the men opened fire.
Red blossomed among the commuters chests, legs and arms. Women screamed, men covered their bodies to little avail, the muzzles fired ceaselessly into the crowds with no regard for gender, age, nationality or political persuasion. The man with the backpack stopped firing for a moment as he fumbled with the zipper, the tallest not even a minute into it said «Thirty seconds!» and the last one just kept pulling the trigger. Even as the walls were showered crimson he just kept pulling, and pulling, and pulling, and pulling. By the time the flyers were spread on the floor he had to be dragged out of the station as the trio burst down the steps.
That's when the first shot came, then the second. Valentijn Angúo turned around, throat coarse, eyes on fire, under his balaclava hid every fiber of his being aimed at the muzzle of a .38 special before his fingers moved. The double action revolver cycled twice more through two spent chambers before the baton of a second Gendarmerie struck the side of his head. The shooter fell backwards but he couldn't get up before a third officer kicked the wind out of him right in the stomach. Throat raw, he could barely let out a defense as the baton blows kept coming. Two more dead people were just a few paces away from him. A woman and a man, one shot through the head and the other through the chest. As he was handcuffed his blurry eyes ran through the backs of the people pouring out of the train station, some looked back with dyed clothes, but others just stared at him, indifferent to it all; the boy finally broke down and the red officer knocked a molar out of his jaw.

Café De Vroome was busier than usual as thousands clogged up the round about. Almer Mulder's greenish color was now covered in red and a black scarfed woman accompanied by her husband shouted into a megaphone from atop the marble. Signs, banners and voices echoed in unison along the avenue. The bell on the door rang.
― Any news Mr. Heilen?
― Nothing. The entire courthouse was cordoned off and they didn't even let us in yesterday.
― What, why?
― The jury was deliberating but the whole thing was a closed trial from the start.
― He's a terrorist that killed two people! Open and shut! What else is there to it?
― No one knows Mr. Tike, that's the whole point.
― I still can't believe he killed two people. ― said Hilbert, cutting Tike's rebuttal off ― He might have been a... Kanelmense, but he was a good kid. I could tell.
― He did look like a good lad, but I guess they all do... ― that's when the news started up again and Taatse quickly shushed everyone, hand firmly on the volume dial.
«...is coming out of the trial on everyone's lips. The verdict on the Zurfeld Central terrorist attack that shook this nation is finally being revealed. We'll now cut to the life feed: "Members of the press, people of this country. The panel of jurors has come to a conclusion. Valentijn Angúo, seventeen, was trialed as an adult at the behest of the prosecutor's office. And on the two counts of murder in the first degree... Valentijn Angúo was found not guilty. He was instead sentenced, at the discretion of the judge, to a year in a juvenile detention center on a charge of assault against a police officer." I repeat, Valentijn Angúo did not get the death penalty for the two counts of murder in the first degree, he was found not guilty...»
Outside, the crow roared through the glass panes until all the voices joined Mette and Antoon Angúo. They sang an hymn to a stillborn, the anthem of a country that barely was, waving their tricolor with a red background on the foreign soil they called home. The few Non-Kanelmense that had joined the rally hummed along, not quite knowing the lyrics, but getting swept into it nonetheless. A once in a lifetime generational catharsis had finally come for them, and it was good enough for most.
Red paintballs would occasionally be fired over the years at Almer Mulder's statue, but they wouldn't bring back Huub Minzhe, Reinier Hitu, Niek Goggen and Karlijn Hazelhorst. Everyone inside the café voiced their questions back and forth for many days, but many decades would have to pass before what happened during the summer of '77 would come to light, and nearly another passed until the government was done dragging its feet for their blame on the matter.