by Thomas Waugh
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 inte
rested. 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 sobered 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.
Devlin realised how much he missed laughing. Laughter was like a song, which he couldn’t quite remember the tune to anymore. But he could remember Holly’s laugh, sometimes reverberating like a love song but sometimes like a dirge. When she laughed, she did so with her body and soul. The sound was unaffected and infectious. She would bend over, sometimes even holding her aching belly. Tears would glisten in her joyful eyes. She loved sarcasm and silliness equally. Her laugh made him laugh. Her smile made him smile. But now Devlin felt devoid of the strength to raise both corners of his mouth that high again. The closest he came was when Violet jumped up at him after spending the day away from home.
Devlin hacked his way through his melancholy and came to the memory of when he had proposed. Holly had laughed – and cried – simultaneously. Her first reaction was to briefly close and open her eyes – in disbelief. Or at having her faith rewarded.
“You make me so happy. I love you so much.”
Emma had never said those words to him. Because she didn’t feel that way – or he hadn’t given her cause to.
Like a dream mutating into a nightmare however the image of Holly accepting his proposal eventually turned into the sight of her in the hospital, after the hit and run. Her sweet face was swollen, unrecognisable. Tubes enveloped her, like briars. Monitors beeped, dolefully. The smell of bleach – and her perfume – filled his nostrils. Devlin sat by Holly’s bedside, as she bled internally. He screwed up his face – and pressed his hands together in prayer – until they hurt. He hurt with a hurt that was more than a hurt.
Devlin opened his eyes and the headstone, with its death date, loomed large. He wanted to kill Jamal. He wanted to kill the driver too, after all these years, even if it was a woman or priest. The afternoon sun disappeared behind a cloud and the temperature dropped. The breeze chilled the sweat on his skin. He wanted God to cut the pain out of him. But no. His grief was real. Grief equated to love. A life without despair somehow seemed fraudulent. An ersatz life.
13.
When Devlin returned to the apartment he went online and booked two first class tickets to Paris on the Eurostar. He also made a reservation at Astrance, just off the Rue de Passy. As well as wanting to do something nice for Emma, Devlin had experienced a change of heart, in regards to arranging the romantic break, as it would prove wise to be out of the country. Whilst away Porter would be able gauge if they had identified him as a suspect.
Emma beamed enough for them both when Devlin told her about the Eurostar tickets and restaurant reservation. Her heart skipped a beat as she momentarily fancied that he might be planning to propose over the romantic dinner. Her sweet semblance was a picture of gratitude and anticipation.
“I’m popping over to Samantha’s this evening to pick up the keys to the flat. Are you still heading out to dinner?”
“Yeah. I’ll be out quite late, so don’t wait up.”
“Have fun. But not too much fun. You’re going to need to save your strength for Paris,” Emma said, humorously and suggestively. She wondered if she had time in her schedule to buy new lingerie.
Devlin was determined to play the doting boyfriend for the weekend. He wanted Emma to have a good time. She deserved it. But when they got back he would have to plan-out, as thoughtfully as a hit, how to end things. He couldn’t give Emma what she wanted. He no longer window shopped for engagement rings.
If he didn’t propose or discuss their future then Emma was determined to broach the subject, either on their last night in Paris or as soon as they got back to London. She intended to tell him that she wanted to have a child. If Devlin wanted a baby too then it would mean they would get married. Neither had lapsed that much as a Catholic. If he said that he didn’t want to have a child, or get married, then Emma would at least know how he felt. And that they didn’t have a real future together.
*
A watched pot never boils but still Birch sat in his wheelchair by his kitchen table, glaring at his phone. Waiting for a message from Devlin. He wanted to know that things were still going ahead for tonight. He also wanted to be ready should Devlin send word that he couldn’t proceed.
The wooden, uneven table was marked with cigarette burns and coffee stains. A half drunken bottle of beer and crunched-up empty can of Guinness flanked his phone and far from empty ashtray. The ceiling and his fingertips were the same shade of yellow. A bin, overflowing with takeaway and ready meal containers, stood in front of a damp patch, which resembled the shape of Italy. The dying light eked through browning net curtains.
Birch was tempted to travel to Green Park. Whe
n the police arrived, he would, like others, congregate around the entrance to the hotel. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the Afghan’s corpse being wheeled out the door. But there was a chance that the police might question him. Or he could be caught on camera and, if the investigation team ran him through the system, they would discover a link to their victim. Hopefully a TV crew would reach the scene of the crime early and film things.
Once Rameen was dead he would look to the future. He promised himself he would cut down on his drinking and get a job. There was a nearby veterans group he would sign-up to. He would also use some of the money Devlin had given him to smarten up his flat. He would buy new furniture and brighten things up with a lick of paint. He resolved to get his sense of humour back and not feel like a victim. With Rameen dead, Birch could begin to live again. He hoped that Devlin would feel equally good and free, after doing the deed.
Birch shifted uneasily in his chair. He felt one of his pressure sores begin to bleed again. The sores, which could be easily contracted but difficult to eradicate, had formed due to Birch spending too much time, lying in one position, in bed.
*
Emma stood on tip-toe and gave Devlin a teasing kiss, before leaving to meet-up with Samantha. Devlin fed Violet, showered and got changed. He placed the Sig Sauer in its holster, the suppressor in his inside blazer pocket and the cap on his head.
Night fell.
He walked halfway down Tower Bridge Road before flagging down a black cab and driving to Oxford St. He popped into Selfridge’s, where he bought an expensive platinum necklace, with a sapphire pendant, for Emma, to give to her in Paris. At first, he was tempted to purchase a pair of diamond earrings for her, but thought better of it lest she mistook the box for containing an engagement ring. Once out of the store he slipped the slender box into his pocket, not wishing to be encumbered by any bag.
Devlin strode down Regent St and dined alone at a restaurant in Chinatown. He ordered a pot of green tea after his meal and waited, patiently. He ran through again the different scenarios he would be faced with when he entered Rameen’s hotel suite. He also made a mental list of the artworks he wanted to see at the Louvre. And he fretted a little about leaving Violet with their neighbours for the weekend. She had been unsettled for several days afterwards when they returned from their previous holiday. At eleven fifteen Devlin received a coded message on a burner phone, from Mariner, confirming it was safe to proceed.
