Home Front

by Thomas Waugh

  Marshal was confident that the call would be flagged-up to Martin Elmwood or a colleague in his unit. And it was.

  “Not even David Beckham’s lawyer will be able to get you off this time,” Elmwood remarked to Luka Rugova, unable or unwilling to disguise the satisfaction he felt, as the Albanian was cuffed in his office.

  Rugova forced a smile, or snarled, in response. The cuffs bit into his wrists. His air of calm and confidence finally shattered, He spat out curses, in English and Albanian, at the police officers rummaging through his office as if it were a flea market. They were uninvited guests in his home. Rugova protested that the black holdall they had found, full of weapons and cocaine, had been a plant. He recognised the holdall however and tried to think if he had personally handled any of the bags of cocaine or handguns.

  The crime boss threatened Elmwood, whilst being filmed, and assaulted another officer whilst resisting arrest. In the tussle, the bust of Napoleon fell off his desk and smashed on the floor. He also kicked out and put his foot through the plaster wall, near the door. Rugova felt his phone continually vibrate in his pocket, with messages and missed calls, as if the device were experiencing a fit.

  Ferid had just been similarly led away, after losing his Buddha-like serenity and resisting arrest. The police took great pleasure in tasering the hulking bodyguard, bringing him down like a bunch of cavemen subduing a woolly mammoth. He was tasered, clubbed and accidentally kicked in the head, twice. Elmwood couldn’t quite remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so much.

  The raid came shortly after the Albanian received the devastating news that his lieutenant and friend had been murdered. The West Indians were likely responsible, given that their calling card of a Jamaican flag was found at the scene. Before Rugova could fully process his grief and the enormity of the situation the police arrived. He missed his lieutenant more than his friend at that moment – and he cursed their contacts in the police for not forewarning him about the raid, after being unable to reach Viktor. When he paid someone, he expected them to do their job.

  When the raid started Rugova tried to call his lawyer, but it went straight to voicemail. Before the raid he had received a message from his girlfriend, Mona, to say she needed help working the new TV. Could he come over? His wife had also called to say their son had been crying, after being responsible for his team losing a key football match. Could he come home early? The gods were conspiring against the Albanian, it seemed. He was worried for his empire, and family – in that order.

  He would, at the very least, spend the night in the cells. With Baruti gone, there was no one competent or trustworthy enough to manage things in his absence. He would need to retaliate against the West Indians. Delroy Onslow needed to die – blood for blood – for killing his friend. He would ultimately now annihilate the entire gang. They had crossed a line. It was total war. Yet, without Baruti, Rugova was at a loss how best to proceed. Someone would also need to deal with the Italians, should he be temporarily out of action. Payments and deliveries were due. Relationships needed to be maintained. Fears needed to be allayed, before the vultures started circulating. Hardened criminals were not the most forgiving of business associates, when things went awry. He couldn’t afford to lose face with the Columbians, Hellbanianz and Turks too. The club would likely be shut down for an extended period. They would move less product, launder less money, as a result. Viktor oversaw half his operation, as well as being his eyes and ears. It would take ten trusted men to carry out just half his duties. After his lawyer, Rugova tried to get through to his accountant before the police reached his office. It was important to divert or hide his assets. Without money, he would be nothing. But the call went to voicemail.

  Marshal didn’t wait around to witness the raid on the nightclub. He drove home and, after a couple of large whiskies, fell asleep. When he woke, he checked various newsfeeds. There was no reference to eyewitnesses or CCTV footage of a suspect, in relation to the hit on three Albanian gangsters in the Canada Water area. The news report did mention that the murders were likely the result of a professional hit, carried out by a rival gang. Linked to the news report was an item on the arrest of Luka Rugova, an alleged senior figure in the Albanian mafia.

  Job done.

  23. Epilogue

  Morning.

  The world seemed a slightly more pleasant place, in the absence of Viktor Baruti. Marshal went for a run, although his body already felt like it was awash with endorphins from the start. The skies may have been grey, but his mood wasn’t. A weight had somehow been lifted, like he was free from sin, since he killed again. He believed, for once, that he was running towards rather than away from something. It was like he was running downhill at the end – with the wind at his back – as he decided he would call Grace later in the day. He switched on the TV when back at the flat. No (new) news was good news. Some people can get away with murder. As a precaution he would dispose of the clothes he wore yesterday – and store the Glock at an alternative location. If, somehow, the police did knock on his door, he didn’t want them to find any evidence.

  He went to Hej before midday. Not only did Marshal drink a couple of coffees, both containing milk and two sugars, but he treated himself to a slice of apple pie too. Marshal smiled, as he thought of how he was more worried about Grace rejecting him than the police finding him a person of interest.

  “How did the job with the fashion model go, by the way?” Jeremy Knight asked, after the two men came back into the coffee shop from smoking a cigarette.

  “It wasn’t quite what I was expecting. But that’s a good thing. Grace was worth getting to know.”

  “It’s unlike you to pay someone such a compliment.”

  “People can change.”

  “Are you back to being busy doing nothing?”

  “We’ll see.”

  The grey clouds dissipated, like wax burning away to reveal a painting underneath. Waves of sunlight lapped against Marshal’s living room window, as he cradled a tumbler of brandy and lemonade, whilst listening to his – their – country music playlist.

  “God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you.”

  A book lay open on the table next to him, but Marshal couldn’t concentrate on the novel. Reality was proving too great a distraction. He rehearsed what he would say to Grace again, although he knew that life wasn’t a movie or romantic comedy.

  She may have the good sense to want nothing to do with me.

  His phone chimed and Marshal’s heart briefly swelled with hope, thinking that Grace had called.

  “It seems you’ve been busy,” Porter said, without any preamble. The fixer had watched the news. It took all his considerable reserves of English sangfroid to remain impassive, as Victoria sat next to him on the sofa, eating some strawberries and cream. He didn’t know whether to be more shocked or impressed. The ex-Para had taken out both his enemies, in less than twenty-four hours. He briefly thought of the lost opportunity, in relation to Marshal declining to become one of his operatives years ago. He may have had a talent for the work – a calling. Like Devlin. Baruti was dead. Luka Rugova would not be seeing the light of day for some time. But as much as Marshal might have reminded the fixer of Michael Devlin, Porter didn’t want him turning into his dead friend. “Is it all over now – mission accomplished?”

  “Yes,” Marshal replied.

  Or I may just be getting started.

  “I’m pleased to hear it. You’ve been able to pull your head out of the lion’s mouth, James. You may not be so fortunate again. My offer stands, should you need a break and use of a holiday home. You don’t have to travel alone, either. Victoria has asked me, or rather told me, to mention that Grace has been asking after you. My wife has mistaken me for a matchmaker, rather than a fixer, I warrant.”

  “I’ll give Grace a call this afternoon. I promise.”

  Porter sat in his study and opened some post, after talking to Marshal. He received two party invites. The first was for an
event in London, arranged by a think-tank called “The Fourth Way”. Lord Adonis was billed to give a speech, which made-up Porter’s mind not to attend. Dante would have to create a new circle of Hell to house the cretins employed at the organisation. Or they could always be dismembered and distributed between the Fourth (Greed), Eighth (Fraud) and Ninth (Treachery) circles of Hell accordingly. He envisioned the gathering, filled with second-rate canapes and third-rate politicians. Special advisers and lobbyists would be scurrying around like death watch beetles, tapping on their phones and parroting the latest “progressive” views, which made them “relevant” to dim-witted millennials. He could hear the chorus of virtue-signalling about Brexit, as shrill as a soprano or dog whistle. Porter winced and sighed. He happily placed the invite in his wastepaper bin.

  The second invitation was for a shooting party, hosted by Sir David Yarrow. Yarrow’s father had been Porter’s mentor and commanding officer in the Guards. Sir David Yarrow lived in elegant poverty, as he described it, on an estate close to Jeremy Corbyn’s country pile on the Shropshire/Herefordshire border. His days were spent re-reading P. D. James novels (“I’ve read so many I think I’m beginning to look like her.”) and courting his latest mistress, or mistresses. His wealth had largely contracted due to three expensive divorces. Each divorce had cost him a painting at the house – an Ansdell, Grimshaw and Jack Yeats respectively. His third wife had added insult to injury by marrying her divorce lawyer. The priapic sheep farmer got his revenge on his third wife by marrying her younger, prettier cousin. “Revenge is a dish best served cold, as cold as the frigid harpy,” Yarrow had remarked to his old friend at the time. Porter read the letter, which accompanied the invite. “Rest assured I’ve banned senior civil servants, the French and any new money from attending the shoot… If you’re unable to make it I might have to drink port late into the night with someone I despise or, worse, my wife.” Porter checked his diary and decided to accept the invitation, partly because Victoria had just informed him that Henry Troughton had asked them over for dinner on the same day. The shoot furnished him with a genuine excuse to avoid his pompous neighbour. Porter would just make sure he packed a pair of cufflinks which were easy to remove and refasten, in case he needed to send a covert signal to his wife for them to leave the party.

  Grace sat on a wooden bench, beneath a pear tree in the garden. Whether she knew it or not, she was wearing the same outfit she had worn when she first met Marshal. Her copy of The End of the Affair lay open on her lap, but she wasn’t in the mood to read it. Violet sat on the bench next to her, either whimpering in sympathy with her pensive expression or, more likely, she wanted some attention – or a treat.

  She had spent the morning dealing with some admin relating to the bookshop and speaking to the estate agent. She arranged a second viewing of the riverside property with Tamara. Grace thanked her for her help and said she would buy her lunch after the appointment, feeling guilty for the way she had treated her earlier in the week. Tamara asked if James would be joining them. “No.”

  The grass was cool on the soles of her bare feet, reminding her of when she had walked across the tiled floor towards Marshal’s hotel room. Grace didn’t quite know whether she should feel shame or regret about the incident. From the way she squirmed slightly on the bench, one would have thought she felt more shame, but should she never see Marshal again she knew she would feel more regret.

  As she checked her phone to see if she had received a message from Marshal, his name flashed up on the screen. He was calling her. She smiled, took a breath and answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Afternoon. How’s your day?” Marshal asked, forgetting his lines already. Upon hearing her voice, he realised he missed it even more than he thought. The sound cut through his melancholy like an axe scything through the toughest timber.

  Better for you being in it.

  “I’ve mostly been dealing with estate agents. Your call is comfortably the highlight of my day. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine. Sorry I wasn’t in touch earlier. I’ve had a couple of things to take care of.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, it’s a dead issue now.”

  Marshal smiled as he heard Violet whimper on the other end of the phone.

  “Violet says hello. I think she misses you.”

  “She must be barking.”

  “I’m not sure whether she misses your bad puns, however.”

  “She’s only human.”

  Grace laughed. The sound was intoxicating. Medicinal.

  She was close to confessing that she missed him too.

  “You may be wondering why I’ve called you,” he added.

  “Not so much. I’m just glad you have.”

  “I’ve lost the details to the launch party. I thought I might offer my meagre services as to how I can help with the event. We could meet when you’re next in town, over lunch or dinner.”

  “I’ll be free tomorrow night. My only condition is that you let me pay for dinner, as a thank you.”

  “Agreed. As a thank you for dinner though, you must let me take you to see the new production of Ivanov, which is on at The Old Vic.”

  As Marshal spoke, he also watched the muted TV. DI Martin Elmwood was giving an interview on Sky News. The captions read how the police still didn’t have any cast iron leads in relation to the “gangland killings” of the Albanians. But they had secured the arrest of the crime boss, Luka Rugova, and were confident of a conviction. “They sowed the seed, now they are going to reap the whirlwind,” Elmwood remarked, quoting Arthur “Bomber” Harris. There may be hope for the police – and public – yet, Marshal considered.

  “I’d enjoy that, thanks. Bugger, I’ve got the estate agents buzzing me. Is it okay if I talk to them? Otherwise, I may not be able to get through to them later.

  “Of course. Would you like me to call you later?”

  “No. I would love you to call me later.”

  After he hung up Marshal opened his laptop and booked a couple of tickets for the Chekhov play. He also confirmed his booking at the gun range.

  End Note.

  Enough is Enough is not an official sequel to Gun For Hire, but the books are complementary. Michael Devlin and James Marshal are similar, yet different.

  The novels have been described as Catholic thrillers, black comedies and Graham Greene-like entertainments. “You might very well think that; I couldn’t possibly comment,” to quote a phrase.

  One of the enjoyable aspects of writing contemporary, as opposed to historical, fiction is that I can include some people I know in the book – and the stories can have a soundtrack. As well as any music, I would encourage you to read any books recommended throughout the novels.

  I would particularly like to thank Hej Coffee for their support. I would also understandably like to thank you, the reader. Should you have enjoyed Enough Is Enough, or Gun For Hire, please do email admin@sharpebooks.com and they will forward on any correspondence for me to reply to.

  James Marshal and Oliver Porter will return in Blood For Blood.

  Thomas Waugh.

  Blood for Blood

  Thomas Waugh

  “Sooner or later, one has to take sides. If one is to remain human.”

  Graham Greene, The Quiet American.

  1.

  Summer.

  The light was fading – being snuffed out like candles, after evensong. The swollen sky resembled a fresh bruise. Rain spat against the window, like the sound of a thousand rifle stocks clacking against the ground during a drill.

  James Marshal was perched upon a stool in The Tap-In – a sports bar in South-East London. The décor was modern, but the locals created an atmosphere similar to an old-fashioned pub. Their resident chef, Olly, also cooked up the best Cuban sandwiches south, or north, of the river. The establishment stocked a healthy range of German beers on draught. More than one - or rather more than a half-dozen - of Marshal’s former girlfriends h
ad claimed that he drank too much. Marshal liked to think that he drank just the right amount. Or not quite enough. The ex-Paratrooper ordered a brandy and pint of beer. He yawned, again. He had stepped out for the evening to help wash away boredom, rather than drown any sorrows. Or he was afflicted by a bone-deep melancholy, nagging him in the background like a fishwife. If his soul were a musical instrument, it would have been a pedal steel guitar. Marshal could have denied he had a soul, if he did not occasionally hear the mournful sound it made. His heart sometimes felt as heavy as the thick-bottomed tumbler the barman, Ross, had poured his brandy into. Marshal was not sure when he had last felt alive. Or he did. It was when he had last killed someone.

  The ex-soldier, who had served in 3 Para, had killed over a dozen members of the Taliban in Helmand. Marshal wasn’t necessarily proud of the number of confirmed kills he had racked up in Afghanistan. But he did not feel shame, or guilt, either. He preferred they were dead, to his brothers-in-arms or any innocent Afghanis. People were forever bleating about how awful and “wicked” Donald Trump and Boris Johnson were. They could do with being introduced to the Taliban, for context, Marshal judged. Marshal had seen the aftermath of the Taliban having eviscerated mothers for sending their daughters to school – and homosexuals castrated with butchers’ knives. One village elder was beaten to death too, for retrieving water from a well to give to a dehydrated American soldier.

  Marshal never hesitated and never missed.

  “Do you enjoy killing the enemy?” an owlish counsellor, who had to keep pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose from the sweat running down his face, posed during a designated therapy session at Camp Bastion.