Home Front

by Thomas Waugh

  Marshal shuffled into the corner a little more. He wanted to be out of earshot of Simon Posner, the Conservative MP for one of the safest seats in the country. Posner was as intelligent as David Lammy, as competent as Chris Grayling and as honest as Nicola Sturgeon. In a recent interview Posner had cited Liam Fox as being the politician he most admired. Over the past five years the right honourable member for Maldon had been caught embezzling party funds, selling government contracts to companies he was a board member with, and sexually harassing a colleague in the workplace (Tim, a seventeen-year-old intern). The whip was not removed, lest his father removed his annual donation to the party.

  As well as perfume, the air was thick with envy, petty-egos, cronyism, and self-aggrandisement. The chattering classes were chatting too loudly. Cameras were fished out of Mulberry handbags and held up, albeit people took more selfies than photos of the event. All is vanity under the sun. He overheard Doleman give a sermon on the evils of Brexit. “All Europe is my home,” he shrilly protested, unwittingly quoting Oswald Mosley. Marshal felt nauseous, as if staggering around the deck of a listing ship in a storm. Sometimes the world resembled a comedy, sometimes a tragedy. It was tragic because it was so comic – and comic because it was so tragic. If somehow Mullen walked through the door, he would have picked up the letter knife by the till and stabbed him in the throat. He needed some fresh air, or a lungful of cigarette smoke, to right himself.

  But then he saw her. Grace. He forgot about the files he was waiting for and what they might contain. He forgot about the contempt he nursed for most of the other people in the bookshop. She was a sight for sore eyes, as welcome as hearing a favourite Christmas song being played over the radio. Her anxious expression softened at spotting Marshal. Grace was the most beautiful woman in the room. She always was – and not just because she had been a successful model. It was more than that. Much more than that. She was the kindest woman in the room, he judged. The most Catholic.

  She was wearing a rhubarb and purple full-length pleated dress, belted at the waist, by an independent designer that Grace had championed during her modelling career. Xanda Doleman wondered who she was – and if she knew who he was. He even stopped talking about himself, to take her in. His reptilian eyes lapped her up, crawling over her body like a spider at night. Grace’s aspect sparkled like a disco ball. Her almond eyes appeared to lift at the corners, smiling - like her wide, delicious mouth. Her beauty felt bittersweet, however, as Marshal remembered what he needed to do. Duty before love. On any other night he would have made a promise to himself to make love to her. He would have planned how to unfasten the dress whilst planting kisses on different parts of her gleaming figure. But he needed to deny himself. He wanted to unzip the holdall in Foster’s storage unit even more. Retrieve the guns. Use them. Tonight was the night when Marshal had to tell Grace that he couldn’t make love to her, like a boxer abstaining from sex until the fight was over. They could not go home together. He would tell her that he did not want to see her for an unspecified amount of time. He would ask her to trust her, to have faith in him. He did not want to wholly deceive her. But he knew he could not be completely honest either. He just needed some time away from Grace. Marshal could not be dedicated to killing Mullen, and be a devoted boyfriend. He recalled the quote from The Quiet American again:

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

  Grace’s heels clacked upon the wooden floor, the sound growing louder as she approached him. His smile was and was not forced as he walked towards her. She laced her fingers in his. He pulled her towards him, unable to tell the difference between silk and her skin. Becky stood to the side, judging it was an inopportune time to serve Marshal another wine. Her lips tasted better than any canape on offer. He breathed in her perfume - sweeter and different to others. The dull ache in his stomach returned, like mild appendicitis.

  “I bet you hate everyone here,” Grace whispered in his ear, almost kissing it. She had bought a bottle of Talisker for him earlier, as well as new lingerie, anticipating that he would come back home with her after the event. If he just wanted to talk about Jack and things, that would be fine too.

  “Not everyone, of course. Thanks to that dress, I am still smitten with you. I think I would also only hate them if I got to know them,” Marshal playfully replied.

  Grace laughed a little, like she used to.

  Becky filled his glass. He downed half the measure, wishing it were something stronger. His phone vibrated. He checked to see if it was a message from Porter, but it was just a missed call from Paul. Grace noticed how his screensaver was now blank, as opposed to a picture of her.

  “How was the funeral? Did you get to say a few words?”

  There was a slight catch in her voice. Her legs felt weak, as if a heel had just snapped.

  Her kindness stung him. Burned him. Irritated him.

  “No. I’m not sure I have, or can, say goodbye quite yet. Something’s still missing,” Marshal said, partly to express how he felt and partly to set up his gambit. “I still have some of Jack’s correspondence and possessions to go through. I just need some time to myself. I hope you understand.”

  Grace nodded and replied:

  “Of course.”

  The hurt and discomfort were palpable on her beautiful, brave face. The dull ache in his stomach was replaced by fizzing self-loathing. Grace thought that their time apart would be the beginning of the end. She sensed that there was something Marshal was keeping from her. A pause hung in the air, like a foul smell. The tension increased, like someone turning the screw a couple of times on a garotte chair. Grace’s eyes watered, but not from the smell of perfume.

  A knife chimed against a wine glass, signalling that someone was about to give a speech. To Marshal, the noise was either a death knell, or a bell marking a break between rounds. The editor, who was now secretly worried that he had overpaid for the book, introduced his author with fulsome, plum-rich praise:

  “Xanda has been a pleasure to work with. A gent… The book reads more like a novel than a history book… As much as Europe needs to now save Britain from itself, there was a time when Britain saved Europe… Xanda captures the courage and stultifying fear of individual combatants, the blood and brutality. You can smell the cordite in between the pages…”

  As the tittering crowd moved forward, to better hear the speeches, Marshal let go of Grace’s hand. Or did she let go of his? His phone vibrated again, this time with a message from Porter, providing details of where and when they should meet tomorrow. The meeting could not come soon enough for Marshal. The money he had saved on buying an engagement ring would be able to pay Mariner’s fee, he judged.

  Using the distraction of the applause – and Ashbeck starting a speech which, like his book, needed editing – Marshal worked his way through the scrum and went outside, drinking in the fresh air like spring water. His hand trembled as he lit a cigarette, frightened that he had lost Grace. Or he was deliriously happy to be free from the crowd. Hell is other people. There was too much phoniness, or civilised society, inside. Too many cutglass accents, spouting insipid or invidious conceits. He had overheard one woman assert that “People from the North should not be allowed to vote, unless they can first prove that they understand the issues at hand.” Marshal balled his hand into a fist - but he wanted his fingers to grip themselves around a gun. He hailed a black cab, asking the driver to take him back home. He would send a message to Grace to apologise for leaving early. He did not want to ruin her evening, or life, further.

  11.

  “As awful as James might feel about the sad death of his friend, he will feel a lot worse if he loses Grace,” Victoria had argued, as she drove her husband to the train station.

  Porter had nodded, remarking that he would have a word with his friend during their lunch. He said that he was due to meet Marshal in order to provide some financial advice and contacts, in relation to helping him deal with John Foster’s estate. Po
rter might mention Grace in passing, but he did not want to get too involved or meddle. Fixing romantic relationships had never been part of his brief. Porter was also aware that there was method in Marshal’s madness. He was putting distance between himself and Grace to protect her. He could not be an attentive boyfriend and concentrate on the task at hand. Porter knew only too well how difficult it was to lead a double life.

  The train rocked a little, like a crib. A pleasant vista of verdant fields, hedgerows and a shimmering sky unfurled itself outside the window. He had the carriage to himself, aside from a handful of commuters and an attractive forty-something who sat opposite him. The blonde divorcee, Gloria, eyed him more than once and offered up a suggestive smile. He looked good for his age, she thought. The lawyer noticed his wedding ring, but he seemed wealthy and powerful enough to keep one, or more, mistresses. Porter was wearing a linen suit, with brown brogues from John Lobb and a teal shirt from Harvie & Hudson. A silver tiepin and silk pocket square finished off the outfit. Gloria was close enough to smell his expensive aftershave – and recognised that his suntan was from a holiday rather than sunbed. A slender, costly laptop – and a hardback book – sat on the table in front of him.

  Porter offered up a courteous smile to the lady opposite him, after fastidiously picking a couple of Violet’s hairs from his left lapel. She tucked her hair behind her ears, and he noticed how she had freshened up her make-up in the toilet. Porter was familiar with certain indicators of interest. She smiled again and would have said something to her fellow passenger – but he buried his head behind his laptop once more. The fish would not bite. It was the briefest of brief encounters. For all his sins, Porter had remained faithful to his wife over the years, despite ample opportunities to conduct affairs without the risk of getting caught. It was debatable whether he could consider himself a good man, given his previous career, but Porter at least could call himself a good husband and father. Victoria often complained that he had been married to his work, but that was the only mistress he had. He was no angel, but no adulterer too. Porter also fancied that he had remained faithful to his wife because he wanted to prove to himself that he had not turned out like his father, who had constantly hurt his mother when he was a boy, with his barely concealed infidelities.

  Porter knitted his brow in worry and disdain as he worked his way through some of the intelligence files which Mariner had sent over. The fixer, who was familiar with statesmen and intelligence operatives who had dealings with Mullen and the IRA, was not shocked by what he read, unfortunately. Mullen initially served as a foot-soldier and recruiter during the Troubles. He had served in the famous, or infamous, Belfast Brigade – the “Dogs of War” as they were known. Mullen had kneecapped Protestants, been involved in the abduction and murder of British soldiers, and been implicated in various bombings, in Northern Ireland and on the mainland. The terrorist turned politician had called himself “the Irish Nelson Mandela” after the Good Friday Agreement had been signed. He had seen the light, “experienced a Damascene moment”. It was surely coincidence that his Damascene moment came a couple of days after he was told that his supporters in the US would no longer fund any form of terrorism, in light of the events of 9/11. Mullen not only preached the gospel of the Good Friday Agreement but he laid claim to having the ear of the leading players during negotiations. “More than anyone else, I was the architect of the deal,” he claimed in his autobiography, Green Peace: The Life and Troubles of John Mullen. “What Northern Ireland needs is good governance, not guns,” he preached from the political pulpit, as his lieutenant held an assault rifle to the head of his rivals, to discourage them from running for office against his master. The British intelligence services kept a watch on the person of interest, despite his claims to have “given up the gun”. Mullen had not turned his back on his para-military comrades. Far from it. Grainy clips, taken at various backroom and basement gatherings over the years, showed a tub-thumping Mullen still believing in a united Ireland. The “long war” was just that. The phoenix would rise from the flames. Intelligence suggested that Mullen was not just aware of current Real IRA operations, but that he was still issuing orders within the organisation. He was suspected of being behind the recent punishment beating of his brother-in-law, in retribution for an adulterous affair. Mullen was also suspected of receiving campaign contributions from the Real IRA. The freedom fighters were not averse to drug dealing and extortion to fund their sacred cause. Mullen could still be considered a boss of one of the largest criminal enterprises in Europe. Transcripts within the intelligence files also highlighted how Mullen changed his message depending on his audience. In one speech he claimed that a united Ireland should see its future at the heart of Brussels. During another speech, dated a month later, the firebrand statesman argued that a united Ireland should celebrate its independence: “We should not free ourselves from one occupying force, to shackle ourselves to another. Europe is the sick man of Europe! No taxation without representation! We need to take back control!”

  Part of the dossier Mariner provided intelligence on covered Mullen’s lieutenant, bodyguard and enforcer – Sean Duggan. A weathered, scarred face looked out from the laptop at Porter. Strands of wiry red hair poked out of a broken nose, which appeared as if it had been placed haphazardly on his countenance, like a child pinning the tail on the donkey when drunk. A worn septum betrayed a cocaine habit. Patches of grey mottled the stubble of the ginger hair covering his head and lantern jaw. Duggan’s father had been shot by the British Army, during a bout of rioting after Bloody Sunday. He had been just a few years old at the time. Duggan had made his first kill at the age of seventeen. The youth had been a promising boxer and an apprentice plumber, but he put the cause before any personal ambitions. The recruit was given a taste of violence and he thirsted for more. Mullen took the zealous, fearless adolescent under his wing in the eighties. He was the father figure the boy never had. The intelligence report alleged that Duggan served on various killing squads and “disappeared” a number Catholics living on various council estates, suspected of working for the British as informers. Although there was insufficient evidence to force an arrest, Duggan had been the chief suspect in the death of Alice Brady. A single mother to four children, the devout Catholic and nurse had rushed out of her house to attend to a wounded British soldier. For this act of “treachery,” Brady was abducted and executed. Her back was flayed, her eyes were gouged out and her breasts were sliced off. After being raped. Mullen, either as a reward for the crime or to take the heat off Duggan, arranged for his lieutenant to travel to Libya. Duggan was trained in counterintelligence and marksmanship. Numerous shootings were attributed to the sniper when he returned to Belfast. Duggan was eventually arrested, for conspiring to commit a terrorist act. Mullen campaigned to have his enforcer released, arguing that Duggan was a victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time – that he was not terrorist. After the Good Friday Agreement, however, the newly elected politician arranged for Duggan to be put on the list of terrorists who should be released under the terms of the deal.

  Although Duggan shared the same alibi as Mullen for the murder of Foster, a Special Branch officer, one DI Coulson, posited that Duggan would have been behind the operation to surveil and snatch the target. Coulson asserted that Duggan’s own lieutenant, Fergal Nolan, led the kidnap and killing of the former soldier. Duggan’s niece and nephew were also in London just before and after the crime was committed. The pair were known intelligence operatives for the Real IRA. It had also been Duggan’s trademark, during the Troubles, to dump the corpses he was responsible for outside their barracks or homes. He had sent the same message, Coulson believed, by discarding Foster’s body outside of the Special Forces Club. Again, though, the Special Branch officer’s assertions were supposition and circumstantial. Mariner had also included a file from the RUC in the intelligence cache, concerning a spate of sexual assaults committed by Duggan in Belfast. He used his niece and nephew to lure teenage boys and
girls back to his apartment. He would proceed to drug and rape them. A case was brought against Duggan – and one of his victims put themselves forward to testify. The youth was found soon afterwards, eviscerated, with his genitals having been stuffed in his mouth. The charges were dropped, and no other victims came forward. Mullen secured various injunction through the courts so Duggan’s name was kept out of the press.

  Porter scrolled through a few of the photographs of Duggan’s victims. The fixer was far from squeamish - but he winced, and his stomach turned, before closing the laptop. Gloria smiled at Porter once more, but he did not have the strength or will to be polite. He thought that Marshal might be biting off more than he could chew. Mullen travelled with security at all times. His properties, an apartment in London and farmhouse outside of Belfast, were well guarded and rife with CCTV. The likes of his car and offices were furnished with bulletproof glass. Porter envisioned the scenario of a captured Marshal being tortured and interrogated. The monster of Sean Duggan could somehow find his way to his own front door. His daughter’s bedroom.

  Porter’s heart and body jolted as the train entered a tunnel - and darkness reigned.

  Lunch would be on the terrace at the National Liberal Club. Porter hailed a taxi from outside Paddington Station. He asked to be dropped off at Farlow’s, where he happily let a sales assistant reel him into buying a new fishing rod and bait box. It was just after midday. Porter allowed himself a pint in Chequers on St James’s, before buying a few books in Hatchard’s (David Goodhart’s Head Hand Heart, Charles Spencer’s The White Ship and a couple of Eric Ambler novels). Porter bumped into a bookdealer friend in the store, who told him he could get his hands on a first edition of E. W. Hornung’s Raffles stories. Porter said he would pay £500 for the book, but not a penny more. He proceeded to pop next door into Fortnum & Mason’s, where he bought a selection of luxury foodstuffs, by way of an apology to Victoria for cancelling their lunch date. Porter liked buying things, both for himself and others. He wanted something good to come from his less than clean money.