Darkness Visible (Michael Devlin Thriller Book 2)

by Thomas Waugh

  “This is not all about me. This is also about getting justice for Christopher. The only way we can. You know I’d do it myself, if I could. If I wasn’t in this,” Birch asserted, his face contorted in frustration and enmity, as he banged the sides of his wheelchair. Terry – and the regulars – briefly turned around but then buried their heads back into their pints. Devlin had also positioned himself so that he blocked any view of the raw rage and resentment smouldering in Birch’s features.

  Murdering Rameen wouldn’t bring Christopher back, Devlin thought – rather than saying it out loud.

  “I know,” he remarked, nodding his head in agreement. Devlin remembered how trigger-happy Birch had been back in Helmand. He didn’t lack for courage, albeit some might have questioned his ability to shoot accurately.

  “You must have taken on more difficult jobs, at shorter notice,” Birch whispered.

  Although Devlin couldn’t be wholly sure whether he regretted making his promise to kill Rameen Jamal, he was beginning to regret his decision to tell his friend about his former profession. He had done so when Birch had been at a low ebb. Devlin wanted to show to his friend that he trusted him – and that he could easily afford to give him the envelope of money he left on the crippled soldier’s bedside table. Birch reacted by saying, half-jokingly at best, that he wished he had enough money to hire Devlin and fly him to Kabul, to kill Jamal there. Birch also enjoyed hearing about some of the jobs. Most of the targets deserved to die. Murdering corrupt politicians, pension stealing businessmen and debt-ridden B-list celebrities wouldn’t cure the world of all its evils, Birch thought. But it was a start.

  “I’ve taken on more difficult jobs. We just need to be careful. I have to think about Emma though. I’ve retired and forged a new life for myself.”

  Should Porter have offered him a similar contract then Devlin would have walked away, with no regrets. There were too many unknowns. There was no time to properly reconnoitre the target and location. ‘Normal life’ may have dulled the steel it took to pull the trigger too.

  I could be rusty…Train hard, fight easy. Fail to prepare, fail to prepare.

  “But I’ll do it,” Devlin added, with more resignation than determination. A promise is a promise.

  The past lingered, like the taste of cigarettes.

  4.

  The two men had a couple more drinks, but mainly sat in silence. Brooding, for different reasons. More than most, soldiers keep their own council. Just before Birch left, Devlin reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-inch thick brown envelope.

  “Are you okay for money?”

  Birch shrugged his sloping shoulders again, unwilling to admit how desperate he was. He still, just about, had his pride. But he took the money.

  For the next couple of hours Devlin had a drink with Terry and a stream of regulars, who drifted in and out of pub.

  Drink lubricated the atmosphere. No one virtue signalled. No one talked about the latest reality television show. People just laughed and joked with others – and about themselves. The afternoon sun glinted off a brass plaque, which hung over the bar: “When you have lost your Inns then drown your empty selves, for you would have lost the last of England.” Hillaire Belloc.” Devlin didn’t quite know if he was being himself or forgetting about himself. But the laughter and jokes were as welcome as a cigarette. Perhaps even more so.

  Devlin squinted and turned his face away from the blast of light and warm air that hit him on leaving the pub. He sent a message to Emma to say he would be home soon – and that he would take her out for dinner that evening. He also sent a message to Oliver Porter, asking for a meeting as soon as possible. He would call in a favour from his former employer. Devlin needed to get away with murder, again.

  *

  Porter was couched in a new black, leather Eames chair in his office, at home, when he received the message from Devlin. He raised his eyebrow in mild surprise and, such was the curiosity or concern he felt, put his glass of Sancerre back on his desk rather than to his lips. Distinguished flecks of silvery-grey coloured his slicked-back hair. He wore a Brooks Brothers cream linen summer suit, along with a tailored pale blue shirt from Harvie & Hudson. Polished gold cufflinks and a vintage Patek Phillipe watch adorned his wrists. As a hangover from his time as a Guards officer Porter was clean shaven. Sometimes he even shaved twice a day. He liked the way his wife cupped her slender hands around his face. It was both sweet and sensual. Porter’s face was also tanned, from a recent family holiday to Florida. He broke a promise he made to himself that he would never set foot inside Disney World, “the high temple of vulgarity. Filled with plebs.” And the place proved even more awful than he imagined, both in terms of the cuisine and overly sentimental people. “For every selfie they upload, God should take a day off their life,” he had remarked, in earnest, to his wife – shaking his head in disappointment as much as disparagement just before he took a bite of a greasy beef burger (whilst closing his eyes and picturing himself back in Boisdale).

  Porter now maintained a study inside the house instead of working in a specially constructed outbuilding at the end of the garden in his home, situated in a village just outside of Windsor. Porter had largely retired from his job as a fixer. He certainly refrained from taking on any contracts that operatives such as Devlin fulfilled. Having become a target of the Parker brothers six months ago, Porter decided to take stock of his life, while he still could. With the help of Devlin, he retired the gangsters - permanently. Porter only took on consultancy work now and acted as a facilitator for putting relevant people in contact with one another. He didn’t miss the long hours, or threats to his life. Instead of reading intelligence reports - or emails from oleaginous representatives of thuggish Russian oligarchs - the latest thriller by Michael Dobbs sat open on his antique walnut desk (which the dealer claimed had once belonged to Ford Madox Ford). A portrait of his great-grandfather, a ruddy-faced bushy-moustached cavalry officer from the Great War, gazed out imperiously across the room. A thick column of smoke, from a King of Denmark cigar, vaunted upwards.

  Porter spent most of his time at home nowadays, instead of attending meetings in Geneva or at the Garrick Club. He went shopping with his wife, Victoria, or spent idle afternoons fly-fishing on the Kennett. He drove his children to school and picked them up. He was teaching his youngest son how to play the piano and bought his eldest son an air rifle, which they used to shoot at foxes from the drawing room window. “Ideally, I’d like a socialist or Gerry Adams to come into our sights,” he had wistfully remarked to the boy. On the advice of Devlin, Porter bought a dog and regularly walked the handsome looking – but admittedly slightly dotty – Dalmatian, which the ex-soldier had affectionately named Marlborough. As a result of the extra exercise provided by Marlborough Porter had lost some, albeit not all, of his paunch. He smoked and drank a little less – and duly looked and felt healthier. Life was good.

  The smell of his wife’s rosemary lamb filled his nostrils. The faint sound of her singing from the kitchen gently poured into his ears. Since spending more time at home he realised how much – and how well – Victoria sang. The children were away and they would have the house to themselves tonight. They would curl up on the sofa and listen to Wagner or, more likely to please his wife, some caterwauler called Celine Dion. Should they time their mood and energy levels right they might even make love, he fancied.

  Porter read the text message from Devlin. He wanted to meet. Over the past few months the fixer had ignored similar messages, or politely declined to meet, other former associates. He was out of the game – and had no desire to be tempted back into it. Devlin was surely out of the game too. He wished his ex- employee well. Porter had met Emma, back in late January. She was pretty, witty and decent. A nice catholic girl. And she was good for him. A part of Porter had to acknowledge however how much Devlin’s retirement was a waste of talent. When securing a client, Porter would often advertise Devlin as being “a natural born killer.” He was methodica
l – engaged and yet detached. Devlin didn’t necessarily enjoy killing. But he was good at it – and could live with himself, as easily as the politicians he knew could live with lying. Some of the kills Devlin had carried out over the years had been made to look like accidents. But some needed to be violent – and make a statement. Porter recalled how a client had once asked for a target to be taken out by a knife, instead of a gun. It had something to do with the target having killed the client’s father with a machete, during the Rwandan genocide. Devlin had worked to the brief – and Porter sold the knife on to the contractor, for him to display in a glass case in his government-funded house in Sierra Leone. Poetic justice costs more than mere common or garden revenge.

  Porter would meet with Devlin. He owed him a debt of honour. Porter had dug them both into a hole - (a coffin-shaped hole) - with the Parker brothers six months ago, but Devlin had dug them out of it. Victoria and his children were safe because of him. Because of Devlin, Porter had been able to give himself a second chance. He just hoped that Devlin was giving himself a second chance too. The fixer sent a message back to say he could meet Devlin tomorrow. He would book a table out on the summer terrace of the Savile Club. Porter thought how he could do some shopping along Jermyn Street beforehand.

  Perhaps he is getting married and wants to invite me to the wedding.

  *

  Devlin continued to walk home, his head bowed down. For some reason, he was gripped by a strange sense of superstition (whether it was a hangover from being catholic or a soldier) and he avoided stepping on any cracks in the pavement. Devlin remembered how he had played the same game before his first kill for Porter. Mossad had commissioned the hit. The target had been an obese computer hacker, one Ralph Herron, from Camden. Mossad wanted Herron executed for having released government files on the internet which put several of their agents and troops in harm’s way. That the hacker’s heroes included Julian Assange and Bono didn’t endear Devlin to the target either. He tracked Herron down, shot him in his damp flat and retrieved the relevant files. Few would mourn the man - save for a handful of warped lefties who read his blog about Palestine, the escorts he booked and the owners of local takeaway shops he ordered food from.

  Devlin was tired. His bruise-coloured eyelids weighed as heavy as the burden on his shoulders. The heat sapped his strength, or enthusiasm for life, too. He stopped, waiting for a gap in the traffic on a busy road. Devlin glanced across the street to witness a rat-faced teenager throw an empty Coke can at a bird on the pavement. He then heard the thumping sound of a loud car stereo to his right. The driver had his windows open, sharing the too-many-beats-per-minute with the world. Devlin was tempted to teach the man a lesson. He was wearing a shell-suit. A tattoo, which Devlin couldn’t quite make the details out of but knew it looked ugly, was splayed across his neck. Zombie-like he bobbed his head to the rhythm of the music, either stoned or wishing to appear - in his mind - cool. A baby in a pram started to wail as it passed by the garishly coloured vehicle. An elderly lady winced, almost in pain, as the polluting noise assaulted what was left of her eardrums. Devlin imagined going up to the driver. He would politely ask him to turn the music down. No doubt he would refuse – and have a few other choice words for the pedestrian. Devlin pictured himself grabbing the man by the back of the head and smashing his face, twice, into his steering wheel. And he would have deserved it, either for his original sin or for wearing a shell suit, Devlin darkly and dryly mused.

  But Devlin just walked on. A police siren could be heard in the background. People bumped into one another and offered up half-hearted apologies, or not, as they remained glued to their smart phones. Devlin thought again about buying a house in the countryside, in a village which had a nice local pub and a florist’s, that he could buy for Emma. He could endure the poor air quality of the capital. It was merely everything else that seemed to choke the life out of him. Devlin felt like he was the only one who knew he was diseased, or that he was the only one immune to modern life. London was diverse yet dull, liberal yet self-obsessed. As an eighteen-year-old Devlin had adopted a Manichean view of the world. There was as much good as evil on the planet. But the soldier had seen too much, or thought too much. Cruelty outweighed compassion, vanity eclipsed valour. If only more people read The Pilgrim’s Progress. They used to.

  But, instead of the Slough of Despond, London had turned into a giant Hollywood film lot – replete with greed, egos, tawdry affairs, vacuity and backstabbing. But London told itself it was the dream factory, full of philanthropy, internationalism, creativity and moral certitude. Nothing was more precious than a sixteenth minute of fame. People judged themselves to be all powerful moguls or directors but, in truth, they were just someone else’s sceneshifter. Everyone was an actor or actress, spouting out clichés. They just didn’t all know it.

  Devlin’s head throbbed, either from the drink or despair. Emma was thankfully still at work when he got back to the apartment. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Images of Christopher Connolly, Birch and a bestial-eyed Rameen branded themselves in his thoughts but eventually Devlin buried his head in a pillow and fell asleep. Dead to the world.

  5.

  Sequin-like stars adorned the velvety night sky. The dark jade river rippled and shimmered. Occasionally, when there was a lull in the hubbub of the restaurant, The Pont de la Tour, Devlin could hear the distant sound of the Thames splash against the bank. True to his word he arranged to take Emma out to dinner, after he had slept and then taken a cold shower. He hadn’t once craved a cigarette since she returned to the apartment.

  Emma gazed out the windows and took in some of the affluent, attractive couples walking by. Holding hands. Being – or projecting being – in love. Blissfully happy – or blissfully ignorant. Perhaps there wasn’t such a world of difference between the two, she fleetingly fancied. Women tossed their heads back and laughed. Men ran their hands through product-filled hair and covertly glanced at other women. Emma took comfort from the thought that she wouldn’t want to swap Michael with any of the younger, gayer peacocks on show. Her other boyfriends had read Men’s Health magazine and carried the baggage of unfulfilling careers in the finance sector. Devlin read Tolstoy and had once carried a gun. He was a generous lover. She never tired of him running his fingers along her spine – making her entire body tingle. She would arch her back in sinuous pleasure and stretch out her toes in reply, willingly surrendering to his strong yet tender touch. And Emma believed that she loved him better than any of her sorority outwardly loved their partners. But Emma’s satisfied air was tinged, tempered, with the thought that she still didn’t know Devlin as much as the other women knew the men they were with. There were gaps, like missing notes in a symphony. How could she help him if she couldn’t first diagnose what the problem was?

  Emma smiled at him – nigh on toothily grinning. Her freckles were in bloom. She was wearing a silk, floral print mini-dress he had bought her just before Easter, just before he had taken her away to Florence for a romantic weekend. They had also gone on holiday together to Gambia and Holland – for the Tulip festival in May. Every trip had been wonderful, although on every trip she wondered if he might propose to her. It wasn’t just the good Catholic girl in her that wanted to get married and have children. Although it was perhaps the good Catholic girl in her that wouldn’t commit to children before marriage. Emma’s red hair glowed in the candlelight. The crucifix glinted too, resting on her chest, above the plunging neckline of her dress. Emma was a Catholic, but thankfully no nun. Her sapphire earrings, which Violet had also acted as a courier for on the day after Valentine’s, sparkled - but came a distant second to the light in her eyes. Devlin thought how, whilst he believed most people were guilty of some form of sin when encountering them, Emma believed everyone was worthy of forgiveness. Both stances seemed equally Catholic. He often wondered if she would forgive him, should he confess to his sins. To his crimes. But no. He couldn’t risk losing her.

  People were often
attracted to each other out of a strain of narcissism, he considered. They saw something similar in their partners and duly loved them for it. But Devlin was attracted to Emma for traits which were absent from his own history and character. Her clemency. Her unaffected kindness. It came naturally, that Emma’s first thought was for others – whilst what came naturally to Devlin was violence. Emma remembered everyone’s birthday and listened to the concerns of friends and strangers alike. She regularly drove an elderly widow, who lived in their apartment block, to her hospital appointments. And she was compassionate and thoughtful not because she could then tweet about her actions and receive “likes”, as if the world were watching and scoring her like a talent contest on TV. No. Emma was good-hearted because she believed God was watching her. And Devlin admired her for it.

  He smiled at her. She noticed how, more than most, he looked younger when he smiled. His jawline softened. The taut muscles in his cheeks and around his eyes relaxed. Devlin was wearing a navy-blue blazer she had bought him for his birthday. Desire gleamed in his aspect, replacing the tiredness from his afternoon spent drinking. Emma’s grin became a little abashed when she remembered the last time they were at the restaurant. It was the evening of Devlin’s birthday. A few days beforehand Emma had accidentally come across a picture, of Holly, in a draw. The former model was stunning. Envy prickled her skin and innards. The feeling, justified or not, that she was Devlin’s second choice – a booby prize – compared to being married to Holly struck her, like a gavel on a block, again. And again. As uncharitable or unchristian as it felt Emma grew to resent Holly, her beauty, (which, annoyingly, was natural rather than manufactured). Initially, when they started dating, Emma wanted to convey to Devlin that she had no desire to replace Holly or have him forget about his first wife. She never mentioned that she didn’t like him wearing his wedding ring still (if only because it caused confusion with some people). She knew how he regularly visited her grave and, in some senses, still talked to his wife. More than he spoke to his girlfriend. But things had changed. If asked she wouldn’t be able to nail the reason down, but Holly was akin to the ‘other woman’, casting a shadow over her relationship and future happiness. She was a rival. The enemy. Emma had caught a glance of Devlin’s phone the week before his birthday, whilst he was listening to music, and the screen read ‘Holly’s Playlist’. And so, during their meal in the restaurant, Emma had enticed Devlin into the restroom, locked the door, and had sex with him. She needed him to forget about her. Emma needed him to prove how much he wanted her too.