by Thomas Waugh
Devlin decided he would accept the job offer, providing Tyerman took on Birch too. He could always resign after a few months. By then, he hoped, Birch would have secured his job on his own merits. He could afford to sacrifice three months. It was the least he could do for Birth. Small acts of kindness can add up. But given his sins, Devlin was still mired in debt. How many times must a man post a cheque to a charity, buy a round of drinks or hold the door open for a stranger, to balance the books against killing a man?
Atonement is still a world away.
11.
Muggy. Suffocating. Clouds like cancer growths on x-ray films. The night felt like a nauseous drunk, but the sick would stay in its gullet.
Emma was wearing a white, cotton shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. With jeans. She looked good in jeans. Holly looked better. But she still looked good. Good, but not great. Emma fanned herself with a magazine and blew air out the side of her mouth to cool her cheek, as she sat in the corner of the living room. She craved a cold shower to startle her skin – and mood – into life. She thought how Devlin used to join her in the shower. She loved the way he would kneel before her and kiss the inside of her thighs as rivulets of water coursed over every contour, freckle and goose-bump. He would dab kisses on her stomach, collar bone, breasts and neck – as if her body was a dot-to-dot picture. Sometimes she would shudder or tingle in brilliant pleasure. He taught her how parts of her body were all connected. Complete. His fingertips and mouth were soft, considerate and deliberate. An internal smile twisted itself into an internal sneer however, as Emma torturously thought that she had taught him how to make love. She had been a top model. She had doubtlessly slept her way to the top.
The prickling heat - and thoughts of Holly - irritated her. She hoped a shower would wash away her stresses. Emma half-watched the television whilst covertly glancing across at Devlin. He had the same far-away look in his eye which she had noticed on first seeing him, drinking in the The Admiral Nelson. Aloof or lost.
At least he had agreed to go to Paris the day after tomorrow. Emma suspected he had said yes to keep her silent, as opposed to keep her happy. But they had set a date. He had promised – and she couldn’t remember the last time he had gone back on his word.
He looked past or through the television – showing the latest adaptation of Pride & Prejudice, which Emma had already sat through a dozen times. Devlin was thinking about what he should wear. Not for Paris. But for the job. He would dress smartly, to blend in with the well-heeled hotel guests. A summer jacket would conceal his shoulder holster and gun. A baseball cap would give the impression that he was an American tourist. The cap would also shield his face from any cameras on the street. He memorised the relevant floor plans and the route he would take up to Rameen’s suite.
Anyone possessing a weapon in the Afghan’s room would be a fair target. Guilty by association. Kill or be killed. Should Devlin confront any unarmed innocents in the room he would promptly lock them in the bathroom without their phone. He would also threaten them. If they gave his description to the authorities, then there would be consequences. The policy had worked before.
Should Devlin somehow suffer an injury he would call a number Porter had furnished him with. He would be provided with transport and medical care. Devlin had never had cause to use the service before but he duly programmed the number into his phone. Never say never.
He prayed that any lift he caught up to Rameen’s floor would be timely and empty. Devlin was too proud or angry to ask God for anything else however.
Emma got up from the sofa, when the credits to the film began to roll, and said that she was going to take a shower. Devlin seemingly stirred, woke up from being in a world of his own. Was she just telling him – or was she offering an invitation to join her? Even if he had the will and energy to make love, he would deny himself. Like a boxer, the night before a big fight, Devlin never had sex the evening before a job – as much as it might take his mind off things. Once tomorrow was over and done with though he would make things up to Emma. He would make an effort in Paris. He was still physically attracted to her. But that attraction now came and went, like a flickering bulb. But with Holly his desire had always burned bright. But he had something good going with Emma. Good, but not great. But the more time that passed, the less he wanted to marry her.
Am I getting bored with her? Boredom might indeed be the root of all evil.
Emma’s goodness and innocence had been part of the initial attraction. But Devlin sometimes experienced a sense of shame for coming into her life. The relationship was built on a lie – or at the very least it had been built upon him not telling her the truth.
If she knew me, she would be rightly repulsed.
Ersatz. Devlin had first come across the term when he was a teenager. He had encountered the word in le Carre’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold – and he duly looked-up the definition. The word struck a chord with the disaffected youth – depressing and enlightening him at the same time. And it still explained, or represented, everything about the world today. Everything was artificial, or an inferior version of how things could be. Only the squalid and sinful seemed genuine. Nothing was real or solid. Except death. All is vanity under the sun. Devlin couldn’t quite remember if he had been an angry or sad young man, when he had first encountered the term. Perhaps he had been both. The one fuelled the other. His memory could be fuzzy about his teenage years. Before his first kill. The young Michael Devlin was another person. Another role. He was an old school-friend he was fond of but couldn’t wholly esteem. Decent but weak. Not that Devlin admired who – or what – he had become.
He had told Emma it was likely he would take the job with Tyerman. He asked her what she thought however – and if she had any strong objections he would re-consider things.
“It could be good for you, going back to work… It’s not too dangerous though, I hope,” she replied.
More so Devlin brought up the subject of York Security to provide him with a couple of alibis. He mentioned that the company wanted him to go for a medical in the afternoon – and a supervisor had invited him to dinner in the evening to talk about his prospective duties. Devlin intended to visit Holly’s grave during the day. And, come midnight, he would be striding through the lobby of The Ritz.
Devlin went to bed early that night. Tomorrow would be a long day. When Emma came into the bedroom he pretended to be asleep. For her part, she lay with her back to him, awake for most of the evening. Thinking.
12.
Morning.
Devlin peered out of the window and watched Emma walk across the square below, as if he were a cheating husband eager for the coast to be clear to call his mistress.
He cleared the kitchen table and retrieved the locked box from the bottom of his wardrobe. The converted aluminium camera case contained keepsakes from his time with Holly: photos, with Holly always in bloom and Devlin basking in her light; their marriage certificate; various ticket stubs, from art exhibitions, Chekhov plays and author talks they had attended together; her engagement ring, still brilliantly and painfully gleaming; love letters; a first edition of Lyrical Ballads... The box was also home to Devlin’s shoulder holster and an ink-black Sig Sauer p226, gleaming in an altogether different way to the engagement ring.
Devlin altered the sizing on the holster. He had put on a bit of weight over the past six months. He had changed, but not that much. Everything changes and everything stays the same. He put his jacket on over the holster and was satisfied that the cut still disguised the pistol.
The weapon seemed a little heavier in his hand but it still felt well-balanced and comfortable. As soon as his hand enveloped the grip and his finger touched the trigger he felt that all would be well. Rameen was one step closer to death. The weapon had been as reliable as its user during their jobs together, as if they shared a symbiotic relationship.
Happiness is a warm gun.
He carefully – maybe even lovingly – checked and cleaned
the pistol. He rolled each bullet between his thumb and finger before inserting it in the magazine. As a gesture, to cement his decision to retire, Devlin hadn’t renewed his membership to the gun club he belonged to – although it was telling that he couldn’t bring himself to dispose of the gun at the same time. Perhaps Devlin was too attached to the weapon. Or he always knew he would come out of retirement one day. Kill again.
In terms of killing time, before Devlin had to leave to visit the cemetery, he sat on the sofa and closed his eyes, as calm as a monk, thinking about the task at hand and Rameen. In order to sting his conscience – or the opposite of a conscience – into action, Devlin pictured himself back in the village. He recalled Birch being shot – and Connelly being killed. They fell to the floor, like puppets – their strings cut. Most of the cells in the human body are replaced every seven to ten years. But Devlin’s vow had remained, buried deeper than any cell. Ingrained, like his humanity – or inhumanity. His expression was as unyielding as an anvil as Devlin went over his plan again for the evening, committing it to memory like a schoolboy learning his catechism.
When he opened his eyes, Devlin found himself staring at the print of van Ruisdael’s “Wheat Fields” on the wall opposite. Emma bought the picture after having watched him gaze, fondly and fixedly, at the canvas during a visit to the Royal Academy. She liked the painting too and imagined that the figures in the landscape – of a husband, wife and child – resonated with Devlin. It was what he wanted, deep-down, she believed.
Devlin felt lost and found, absorbed by the landscape. He imagined himself being the weary traveller coming back home, after a long journey, to Holly. To grace and consolation. To the child, they should have had. To God and Heaven. The leaden clouds would eventually blow away – and the blue sky would remain. Beautiful and serene. Like her.
*
Porter barely slept the evening before and woke uneasily, as if the nightmare were continuing into the day. Bleeding into it. Something was wrong or would go wrong, he fervently thought. It was one job too many. Devlin was ill prepared and wasn’t in the right frame of mind. What if Five put a watch on Jamal and Ahmadi again? What if one of the bodyguards got a shot off? The sound would toll throughout the hotel like a death knell. If cornered, Devlin probably wouldn’t let them take him alive. There were a million ways for things to go wrong. But surely, he was needlessly worrying? Devlin would be professional. Porter told himself to be rational. But his brain prickled with anxiety and superstition.
Porter sat in the conservatory. Pre-occupied. Or plagued. He was fully dressed, as if ready and willing to rush out at a moment’s notice. A cigar stub lay in a cut-glass ashtray. He downed the dregs of a whisky, licking any remnants of the single malt from his lips. The weather was sunnier than his mood. He pulled out his phone and was tempted to call his friend – tell him that he’d received new intelligence and Devlin should postpone or cancel the job. But Devlin’s course was set, whether there was a storm on the horizon or not.
We are where we are. What will be will be. – The fixer thought to himself, tarred in gloom.
Porter managed a grim smile, as he found himself being tempted to pray that all would be well.
I should rather ask Victoria to pray for Devlin. You will, quite rightly, be more inclined to listen to her over me.
“Everything okay, darling?” his wife asked, coming into the conservatory from the garden - having just filled up the birdbath and hung some food upon the pear tree. She noticed Porter had smoked his first cigar earlier than usual and had waited all of five minutes after midday to have his first drink. He had been distracted the day before too. “You’re not worried that I’m going to give you salad for lunch again?”
“No,” Porter replied, shaking his head and gently smiling. She always knew when he was troubled – and she knew how to ease his troubles. “I would have poured myself a treble if that was the case. I’m just waiting on some news about an investment,” he said, lying.
“I’m sure things will work out,” Victoria replied, aware that her husband wasn’t necessarily telling the whole truth. “How about we go out for lunch, to help take your mind off things? I’ll drive.”
By saying she would drive Victoria meant that Oliver was free to drink.
“Thanks. Sounds like a plan. This isn’t just the drink talking. I’m not sure what I’d do without you,” Porter remarked, with one hand propping up his head. Ageing, but doe-eyed.
“I do. For one, you wouldn’t eat any salad,” Victoria replied, bending down, stroking his temple and sweetly kissing Porter on his corrugated brow.
*
Devlin picked-up several cigarette butts around Holly’s grave and put them in his jacket pocket. He would toss them in the bin at the entrance to cemetery. The widower then carefully – lovingly – placed the bouquet of lilies next to his wife’s headstone. The petals shone like fine enamel in the lemony afternoon sun. Devlin now went to the florists close to Garrett Lane Cemetery, having previously bought his flowers through Emma, before they started dating. Ironically Emma became attracted to him for the faithful and touching way he still visited his wife’s grave every week. The gesture represented a capacity for love, fidelity and an appreciation of the sacred.
The gold script glinted in the light but Devlin still religiously wiped any flecks of mud away with a handkerchief Holly had gifted him.
“To be beloved is all I need
And whom I love I love indeed.”
The quotation was from Coleridge. The words were seared into his breast as much as they had been chiselled into the black marble. Holly had also inscribed the quote into his first edition of Lyrical Ballads.
“I hope I haven’t ruined its value. But I want you to keep the book forever,” his wife remarked, on the morning of their first anniversary.
“It was valuable. But now it’s priceless,” Devlin had replied, reverently holding the book of verse and cherishing his wife even more. He loved her with a love which was more than a love.
The grass shimmered in the breeze. Stone angels, perched upon ornate headstones, seemed to have turned their heads towards Devlin. But he noticed them not. He was here for Holly and himself. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, as if in prayer.
So, what’s new ? Well I might have a new job. Oliver is right. I’ve led too much of a life of leisure. I’m probably telling you things that you know already. But I don’t have anyone else I can talk to. I’m not quite sure I’ve told you this before but I thought you might be interested. Oliver once tabled the idea that I would make a good spy.
Devlin recalled the scene. The two men were drinking late, in a hotel bar in Covent Garden, unofficially celebrating completing a lucrative contract. The burgundy flowed, as did the conversation.
“You would make an effective intelligence officer. All you have to do is sit in a foreign bar and get drunk with someone mildly important. You allow them to talk whilst revealing little or nothing in return. Indeed, once you’ve mastered the local language you can read the relevant newspapers and glean enough information from them to send back to your controllers and keep the blighters happy… It’s far from a glamorous profession however. You’re more likely to be propositioned by an ageing Cambridge don than you are a svelte Bond girl. The principle danger too comes from paper cuts, from the brown envelopes of cash you need to pass on to contacts. The cuts can be severe however, given the ferocity with which the cretins will snatch the money out of your hand… Despite your qualities though you may be far too moral to truly flourish. You wouldn’t like to leave anyone hung out to dry. Honour is a four-letter word… Arrogant, vulgar Americans ultimately direct resources and policy… Perhaps you’re not ready to come in from the cold or go out into it. I always get the two mixed up. Perhaps I’ve had too much to drink.”
Oliver promised he would put in a word for me should I be interested in joining the trade. Or the circus. But I wasn’t that keen and Oliver was doubtless eager to keep me on his books, when he so
bered up the following day.
Devlin’s mouth became dry. He craved a cold beer – and a cigarette. He reached into his pocket and downed half a bottle of tepid mineral water. As he raised his head Devlin noticed a funeral taking place in the distance. They were lowering a coffin into the ground. A white-haired priest stood among the black-clad mourners. Women leaned into men. Children looked solemn, or bored. A teenager was rightly castigated by his father for tapping away on his smart phone. Music played in the background – something by Dean Martin – as the ground swallowed up the polished pine casket. Devlin had witnessed similar scenes during his visits to Holly’s grave over the years. A piece of his heart went out to the families every time, to the point where he wondered how much of a heart he could have left. He remembered something Holly once said, however, in reference to a person’s heart: “The more of it you give away, the larger it becomes.”
I’m not sure how much of my heart I’ve given to Emma – which is why it’s shrunk. You’ve probably seen me with her. I hope you’re not jealous. It’s more likely you’re disappointed in me by the way I’ve treated her. I’m going to keep my promise to you and not re-marry. I want to keep my word. A man is only is good as his word. I want to keep you. This. I hate thinking that I’m hurting Emma, being unkind. But I worry that I’ll hurt her even more if I break things off suddenly – cruelly. Hyde once told me that I was the bravest man he’d ever known. But, in so much of my life, I have been a coward. And how brave am I being this evening? Does a part of me not want to end my life – suddenly and cruelly? God knows what will happen. He may strike me down – or the greater punishment will be to stretch out my earthly existence, like I’m on a rack. Life is hell. Or the world is hell, filled with hellish people. It’s vile and bestial. Dull and deeply shallow. Nothing means anything. And so I’ve got nothing to lose or gain. There’s so much to laugh at in this life, but that’s what makes it so tragic.
