Death Order

by Jan Needle

  ‘Poor little bastard!’ Liz had been screaming, barely five minutes earlier. ‘What sort of a birthday is it, anyway! Ten to three this morning you got in, and you’re like a dishcloth! He comes into the bedroom and you shout at him, you bastard, you shout at him! You pig, you utter pig. And you won’t be here tonight, will you? You won’t have remembered the party, will you? Or the present, or a bloody card! Go on, get out. Go to work. Go and be a hero. Go and drive your nice new car.’

  Liz’s face was long, and white. Her pupils dilated, and she looked about her, wildly, as if for something to throw at him. He was dispassionate for a moment, felt a pang of pain and pity for her as a human being, not a wife. The pupils were probably dilated with the drugs, he thought. Jesus Christ, how had it come to this?

  ‘Liz,’ he said. ‘Please. I got in late. I was exhausted. I know, I know! It’s not an excuse, it’s my job, OK! But I’ll make it up to him. Johnnie understands. He’ll let me off.’

  ‘Well he shouldn’t! You’ve got no right to be let off. You’re a selfish, piggish, piggish…’

  She ran out of steam and Wiley pulled the front door open and shouted up the stairs: ‘Come on John. I know you’re up there! For God’s sake come and tell your Mum you still love your selfish bastard of a father. It’s upsetting her.

  Johnnie was at the doorway, in his pyjamas. His face was pale, but then it always was, he got that from his mother. He smiled, but it was a pretty miserable affair.

  ‘Will you be?’ he said. ‘Honestly? Here tonight?’

  ‘Yes, I will be here, it’s all arranged. Unless Paisley runs off with the Pope, I’m off tonight, OK? And I’ve got a birthday present lined up for you, to collect. I might be a bastard, but I’m not a total one. It’s your birthday, for God’s sake. Big school next term.’

  Johnnie nodded, seriously. He was a quiet boy, small for his age, thin and wiry. Like his mother, he was not wild about the place they lived, although he did not actively hate it, as she did. He had his computer, and there were two or three other boys of his own age in the married quarters to play football with, and one especial friend living in another Army enclave at Holywood, whom he met as often as possible to play chess with. The thing he hated most was the lack of Bill. Until they had come to Ireland two years before they had spent an enormous amount of time together, they had been best friends.

  While John was getting his school clothes on, Bill returned to the kitchen. He was dressed for work – jeans, trainers and a sweatshirt – and he had trimmed his moustache in front of the dressing-table mirror. He hoped the fight was over, and he was holding a small pair of scissors as part of the truce. He waved them. ‘There’s a bit sticking up my nose. I can never get it without risk of bleeding to death. Give us a snip will you, love?’

  Liz did not move. Her eyes were on him, bright with misery.

  ‘You’re trying to turn my son against me,’ she said. ‘You’re trying to make me into the nagging, carping wife.’

  ‘What?’

  His surprise was genuine, but his wife did not believe that.

  ‘You had forgotten, hadn’t you, you liar? And you haven’t got a bloody present, waiting to be collected.’

  ‘I have! It’s up in Belfast! I’m going up there!’

  ‘Liar! What is it then? Tell me!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Liz. John’ll hear you. It’s a surprise.’

  ‘It will be, when he doesn’t get it! You don’t even know what a boy of his age likes! You don’t even know how bloody old he is!’

  Her voice was rising, and Wiley felt his hands, involuntarily, form into fists. In one of them, like a dagger, he held the scissors. He became aware of them as a shock. He lowered his own voice, a counterpart to hers, he was prepared for pleading.

  ‘Liz, darling, please. It’s all right. I’ve got the present, it’s even paid for. For G— For John’s sake, keep your voice down. Please.’

  ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘I won’t! I’ll fucking shout my head off, if I want to! I won’t keep quiet!’

  ‘Liz! For Christ’s sake!’

  Johnnie was at the door once more, his white face whiter, like a sheet. Bill felt the small chrome scissors collapse within his fist. He hurled them to the floor.

  ‘John,’ he said. ‘I’m going to work. Your mother…Look, son…’

  ‘And he won’t be back!’ screeched Liz, big tears pouring from her eyes and down her face. ‘Whatever he says, he won’t be back.’

  Bill moved towards her, forced himself to stop and turn, and went towards the door. He said to Johnnie: ‘We’ll talk. We’ll see a doctor,’ and Johnnie turned and ran, crashing into the newel post. Liz was rushing at him, so Bill side-stepped and broke her forward moment, prevented her from hurting her body against the kitchen wall.

  ‘I’ll ring,’ he said, opening the door.

  She picked a beaker off the work-top – light, plastic, useless – and flung it at him. It bounced off the closing door. ‘I hope you die,’ she said.

  Bill Wiley, on the other side of the kitchen door, tried to control himself. It was despair, not fury, despair in hot black waves. Then he heard Liz tear open the other door.

  ‘Johnnie,’ she called. ‘Hurry up. You’ve got to go to school.’

  Her voice was changed, although still shaky. She sounded almost calm. Bill closed his eyes.

  Then Liz said, ‘We’ll go and get you something extra, Johnnie. After school. Your daddy won’t be back, you know. He won’t be back.’

  Bill could either leave, or he could go back into the kitchen and kill her.

  So he left.

  Three

  By the time he reached the office block in central Belfast, Bill had got complete control again. He had driven first to Holywood, where an unpleasant colonel, with more power than brains, had redirected him tersely back to the city for a meeting with a ‘Mr Boswell.’ He rode the lift to the third floor, smiled at the receptionist – who knew him – and entered the outer room. Two minutes later the connecting door was opened, and Boswell took his arm.

  The meeting was brief. Boswell was a large fat man with a bald, shiny dome and a face not filled with humour. He watched Wiley like a hawk, as if he knew something detrimental to his character and standing. Bill wondered what it was.

  ‘Are you bored with it yet?’ he asked. He had seated himself behind a big green desk, covered with papers. Considering his position, it was not very opulent.

  Bill affected surprise. But he was used to Boswell’s gambits.

  ‘I wouldn’t say so, sir. It keeps me off the streets.’

  ‘Two years nearly. I suppose that helps.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The extra risk, the extra adrenalin. Jesus Christ Almighty, Bill, the boyos aren’t as stupid as they’re painted, are they? They must have at least an inkling by now of who you are. And what.’

  Bill nodded, non-committal.

  ‘They change, we change, I get around. It doesn’t worry me yet. Not very often.’

  ‘When did you last get to kill one? A bogwog?’

  Boswell chose the word carefully, and noted Wiley’s face. It was a word that neither of them would normally have used, so the man behind the desk was testing something. Wiley, face impassive, shrugged.

  ‘I was involved in that shoot-out down near Omagh not so long ago. May, was it? Nothing very bloody, though.’

  ‘Not bloody? There was slime and guts all over, is what I heard. Two bogwogs vaporised. Two of the big ones. Doesn’t that bother you?’

  Bill let the pause develop, as if he was giving it deep thought. He shrugged. Didn’t give a fuck.

  Boswell dropped the urbanity.

  ‘Well it damn well should,’ he snapped. ‘We want you out of here. We want you on a plane at one o’clock. We think you need a rest from the front line.’

  He smiled at Bill’s expression.

  ‘Is that OK with you? Any commitments, loose ends, jobs need passing on?’

  Bill looked into the f
at face. It was glistening with moisture. The window was open, but the heat was still oppressive.

  ‘Are you talking burn-out, sir? I assure you I—’

  I what, he wondered? Jesus Christ, I’m like a wound up spring.

  ‘Of course we’re not, man. Who mentioned burn-out?’ Boswell said. ‘It’s just a meeting. In England. There’s a job. I don’t know any details.’ He sniggered, sharply. ‘But I think you’ll like it. Oh, indeed I do.’

  Bill said, unexpectedly: ‘My son’s eleven today. There’s a birthday party.’

  The voice was slightly puzzled: ‘Congratulations. So?’

  Bill stood, shrugging. He must get a sandwich, quickly. He was on the verge of sounding like a basket-case. A nut. He forced a smile.

  ‘Nothing. The wife was keen on it, that’s all. Me being there. She bawled me out this morning. The rules of fatherhood. You know.’

  The face was crinkled like a big bag pudding.

  ‘Oh I say, I’m sorry,’ Boswell said, almost in a chortle. ‘I’ll ring Silversmith, shall I? Tell him you can’t make it!’

  ‘Christ,’ said Wiley. ‘Silversmith? Is it his?’

  The smile, the chortle, humour, all were gone.

  ‘It’s Silversmith. I’m telling you, it’s a good one. Lots of fun. Something to blow away the cobwebs.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bill.

  Boswell levered himself upright and thrust his hand across the desk. It was clammy and immensely muscular.

  ‘How is the wife, by the way?’ he asked silkily. ‘I heard she … well, no, let’s put it this way. How is she coping with it all? The strain? Be honest with me.’

  Oh Christ, thought Wiley. It’s like living in a goldfish bowl. He dropped the hand, a fraction of a second too early.

  ‘She’s fine. We all have our little problems, don’t we? But in general terms, she’s fine.’

  Boswell sat.

  ‘Grand. One o’clock we want you on that aeroplane. See Anne outside. She’ll organize tickets, parking, everything. You can use the telephone, can’t you?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To phone the boy, of course. From England. It’s his birthday party, isn’t it?’

  Of course.

  Four

  The flight, to Wiley’s surprise and slight relief, was not the Belfast shuttle that ‘bodies in swift transit’ normally took, but from the Harbour Airport. It was a scheduled flight, in a De Havilland Twin Otter operated by a small private airline, to Blackpool via Ronaldsway on the Isle of Man. The fact that he was armed had been dealt with in advance, and the fact that he was scruffy was not as noticeable in the eighteen-seater as it would have been among the business suits and stewardesses. He gazed at the extraordinary beauty of Belfast Lough and the small, immensely troubled city as it wheeled beneath him, then settled back to enjoy the gin and tonic served by a fierce-eyed girl in jeans. He wondered what the hell was going on.

  At Blackpool, the murk began to lift, but only slightly. As he checked out, he saw a man in clothes not dissimilar to his own, leaning casually against a partition. Takes one to know one: they wheeled into step together as naturally as breathing, although they’d never met. The man approached a silver-grey Sierra, and unlocked the passenger door.

  ‘We’re not formal are we, sir?’ he said. Sir. So he was not an officer, probably a Finco in the Intelligence Corps, who knew Wiley’s particulars. Bill – not formal – got into the passenger seat with a grunt.

  On the journey, there was little talk. The sun was at its hottest, and the sea air blasting through the open windows was fresh and delightful. Bill was a southerner, and he studied the flat, lonely landscape with its scattered farms with interest. Lancashire, in his geography, meant cotton mills and mountains. When they pulled into a large ramshackle hotel/pub on the bank of the River Ribble he breathed the sharp warm smell of mudflats with deep pleasure. It was a sort of secret spot, beyond his expectation.

  The driver nodded, and Wiley followed him round to the front of the building. In the corner of a terrace, under an umbrella, sat Silversmith. He had known he would be here, but it made no difference, the chemistry of his stomach altered. Silversmith turned. His face had not changed, in four years and three months. He raised a hand, swung heavily to his feet.

  ‘Bill,’ he said. ‘Glad you could make it. Long time no see. Sergeant, a pint of bitter for our man. Yes, Bill?’

  Bill nodded.

  ‘Surprise,’ he said, to Silversmith. ‘I thought you’d given up on all this shit, sir. As far as I know you flog electrical goods from a shop in Bristol. I keep my finger on the pulse, see?’

  Silversmith grinned.

  ‘Prat,’ he said. ‘Welcome aboard. We’re only short of one more body, now. Christ, let me sit down again.’

  Silversmith was not a large man, although he moved like one. He had been in the SAS before attachment to the SIS, and he had smashed both legs up in a parachute refresher exercise. He had an open face, round and unthreatening, with a large bald patch fringed with silver-grey, and bushy eyebrows. There was a sudden heady whiff of mud, and the nostrils wrinkled.

  ‘I’ve got you here today because there’s a job on, Bill, since you didn’t ask me. It’s a difficult one, possibly the most difficult I’ve ever done in some ways, and I had to have the best. Well, that goes without saying, doesn’t it, and it also smacks of—’

  ‘A steaming pile of testicles.’

  Silversmith left the briefest pause.

  ‘Bill,’ he said. ‘you’ve been mixing with the Army far too long, you foul-mouthed swine. But if I didn’t think you could do the job you wouldn’t be here. To be quite frank I only need a couple of you, so I was looking for something specific. An attitude. It’s an odd one, as jobs go. Bit of a bastard.’

  They could hear an outboard motor on the slight, warm wind. A white rowing boat, with two teenagers in it, moved slowly up the river, between the mud banks. Bill thought of home, the estate near Lisburn, empty and baking, the lonely Army wives sun-bathing in their bikinis on their dish-cloth garden squares. He thought of Johnnie’s birthday, and of Liz.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Silversmith continued, ‘I’m not exactly sure just what that attitude needs to be. It’s a foreign-country job, and it means treading on the feet and laws of a foreign power. Several foreign powers. And all of them, more or less, friendly. What do you think of perestroika?’

  Wiley was amused. Typical Silversmith. A gambit.

  ‘Too early to say,’ he said. ‘Gorbachev’s a gambler, isn’t he? If he can convince us he means business, he can cut his arms bill and give his punters what they want. If he can’t…well. It’s not destabilization, is it? They don’t want us to take him out?’

  Silversmith’s pleasure was almost tangible.

  ‘Daft prat,’ he said, fondly. ‘No killing elder statesmen.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Elderly, maybe, but…’

  Bill’s mind was wandering. A long, slow vista of his life in recent months unwound before his eyes. The drab reality of the war in Northern Ireland, more boring than a proper war and quite unwinnable, run by hypocrites for hypocrites against hypocrites. Days in the pouring rain, nights in ditches, endless, ball-aching, interminable meetings with the warring factions who were in control. Oh Christ, he wanted out. Oh Christ, he wanted things to be all right again.

  ‘What, then?’ he said. ‘Quite honestly, I’d do anything to get out of that shit hole. I’d do… Anything.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Silversmith. ‘You’re done with Ireland, it’s written in your face. The biggest open mental hospital in the world. Armpit, Arizona. Well this is your big chance, my son. Your ticket out. Distasteful, maybe – but that’s the worst of it. A wee bit of distaste.’

  The sergeant pushed open the double door onto the terrace, emerging with a tray. After him came a man in a brown leatherette coat and cheap greenish trousers. Medium height, rotund, with long wavy hair in silver-mouse, like a sepia picture of Wild Bill Hickok. Despite himself, Bill Wiley felt
his heart sink to his stomach.

  It was Peter-Joe.

  This was getting serious.

  Five

  That evening, after Silversmith had made his proposition and left them to it, Bill talked it through with Peter-Joe in a double room that overlooked the river. It had clouded over and the wind was blowing harder from the west, although it was still quite pleasant. The tide had risen, and the wide expanse of water was grey and rippled. The outboard motor boat had not come back.

  ‘So what d’you reckon?’ said Peter-Joe, pouring whisky for the pair of them. ‘Here, take your medicine like a man. Were you impressed?’

  Wiley raised his glass, but did not drink.

  ‘Impressed? At the idea of murdering a ninety three year old cripple? Does it matter what I think?’

  The tubby man sipped. He had his coat off, but looked no smarter. His shirt was pale blue and dirty, with a hint of hairy belly two buttons up from the belt.

  ‘You’re right. Why should we give a shit? We’re like the men who pick the johnnies up off Blackpool beach before the kids get there in the morning. The dirty workers. Who asks for references? Nice to see you, anyway. How’s things?’

  ‘OK. Not bad. Not good. Fucking terrible, if you want to know. And Silversmith just put the tin lid on it. I was surprised to see you, though. You’d dropped out of sight. And the new image. Jesus Christ.’

  Peter-Joe was amused. He looked down at his clothes appreciatively.

  ‘Not bad, eh? How would you describe it?’

  ‘Ageing alcoholic? A bankrupt with a dream of getting up again? You look as if you think you’ll pull the birds, in face of all the contra-evidence. You look like a jailbird.’

  ‘Holed in one. I was. Two years in the US of A, deep cover. Learning about this job. They’re serious, Bill. This is the big one. The hairy belly joggled up and down. ‘And as for pulling crumpet – well, since I went like this, I haven’t had a sniff. Back to masturbation!’