He caught a murderer and…

by Donald Jenkins

From the minute Ambrose slit her throat till his neck snapped in a noose, he wished he’d left it. A day of drinking climaxed in brutal ritual – marriage terminated; his wife stopped breathing. No sooner had Grandad wrestled Ambrose, he wanted it left. After the uncharted heroism, abruptly flooring a killer, his instinctive response had run its course. Once the moment had passed, till Grandad passed, events were left unspoken, didn’t care for medals or being a bother, he never asked for directions. After prison bell didn’t strike the hour, no bell was tolled, no flag exhibited. Final execution on an autumn morning, before Ambrose dropped, he left no statements. A century since, the story’s been buried in family secrets, an unmarked grave, the whys are unanswered, I’m left feeling cheated, that Grandad isn’t well known as a saint.