He was a very small cog in a very large wheel on the wedding day. Planned and co-ordinated from the very top. His moves controlled by his Bluetooth.

Except she was a loose cannon, and he had to stick close to her. Even when she went to the can. He couldn't go in with her, but he cleared it for her. Even a duchess would have to quit whatever she was doing, then.

When she was dressing, too. Outside the door, checking seamstresses in and out. So many sharps. Made him nervous.

Then, inviting him in. Twirling.

Not a Princess any more. A Goddess.

The seamstresses exchanging complicit smiles, this twirling for a foot-soldier, the unconcealed devotion in his eyes.

The cathedral was huge, full of worrying nooks and crannies. Not his problem. It had been swept and double-swept. Then swept again.

But still he worried.

He confiscated a toy raygun from a kid in the VVIP section. Mods were possible, turning toys into lethal weapons. Invitations had been explicit: no handguns or replicas.

He crushed the toy into a tangle of pink and green plastic. Handed it to a startled parent, who would no doubt complain. Who gave a shit?

He was in place for the wedding march, as close as possible to being by her side as she glided down the aisle.

Locker-room said he should have been best man, but that was impossible. One of the top lieutenants would be there, the two rings in his vest pocket.

By the side of her, The Boss. He realised this was the first time he had ever seen them together. He walked like a man with a not too favourite mistress. Arm candy.

Their eyes touched for a nanosecond, then both looked away. In the older man's, something akin to boredom. A story already printed and published, headlines yellowing with age. Done and dusted.

Most of the time his eyes were ranging the hall. Choir: sorted. Military band: OK, no weaponry. Bridesmaids, matron of honour: more Barbies, checked and triple-checked. Again, not his problem. But still a worry.

He didn't look at her. Her veil covered her eyes anyway. What the fuck was he doing here? What had to be done. Like always: his father rutting away in the alcove, protecting his butt in The Home, staying out of the line of fire, drinking coffee. Necessity.

The archbishop was intoning the ritual words. One of the altar boys made a strange move and everything dropped into that slow-motion speeded-up reality he remembered from the street.

Most of the minders didn't pack, but there were sharp-shooters with telescopics in the gallery. He had a flechette sewn into the right arm of his jacket, activated by his forefinger, pointing. Its darts would shred its target into beefsteak tartare if he could get a clear shot. If necessary, he would take out innocent bystanders at the same time if he had no other option.

The ugly little handgun in the boy's hand seemed to close all other doors. If only he could get past the archbishop, who was waving his arms, pushing away from the line of fire.

The gun went plop, and the best man went down. He triggered the darts, and a mist of blood clouded his vision. The altar boy was still standing.

All he had done with his flechette was to give the gunsel a clearer target. He threw himself in front of her, trusting that the kevlar armour under his shirt would protect him, and her.

As he felt the armour-piercing shells stitch across his chest he realised this was no longer an option.

"You fool," hissed The Boss in his ear, "didn't you realise this was planned? Why did you have to get in the way?"

He was lying in her lap and he worried that his blood would be ruining her gown. There were tears in her eyes. She stroked his cheek.

Her face morphed into the stolen screen-dump by his bedside.

It was the last thing he saw.

Blurry.

27/3/06 15:03