by Thomas Waugh
“I’m worried about Michael,” Porter replied, realising that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t lying to his wife about the reason he was travelling into town.
“I’ll drive you to the station,” she immediately resolved, lovingly placing her hands over his in comfort and support. Victoria didn’t need to enquire why her husband was worried about not being able to contact his friend. She already knew.
Porter endeavoured to call Devlin multiple times from the train. He even dialled the numbers of his burner phones. But there was no answer. As he got into Paddington and saw the traffic he decided to suffer the underground, as it would take him over an hour to get to Devlin’s apartment by car during the rush hour. As he stood up, being buffeted on the District & Circle Line, listening to the inane conversations of his fellow passengers, he started to appreciate why his friend often wore headphones while he was out, to cut him off from the world.
It had been a long day. His lunch with Talbot that afternoon seemed like a lifetime ago. He was bone-tired. Yet Porter still mustered the energy to walk briskly as he alighted from Tower Hill tube station and crossed the bridge, weaving his way through groups of tourists and city workers alike.
As he breathlessly strode over Tower Bridge, in what some might have deemed a mercy dash, Porter took in the Tower of London and remembered how he had taken Victoria there on a date, when they had first started courting. He had read a book on the Tower beforehand, hoping to impress her with his knowledge of the historic building.
Porter cut a desperate figure when he reached Devlin’s apartment complex. His tie was askew, he had lost a cufflink on the tube, hair oil and sweat glazed his forehead and his shoes were scuffed. But he didn’t much care. He just needed to see Devlin. Put his mind at rest.
He pictured the scene of knocking on his friend’s door and waking him up, from a drunken stupor or otherwise. He would recount his meeting with Talbot and take Devlin out to celebrate with a meal and a bottle or two of Sancerre. He thought he might run some ideas by him, regarding his novel. He valued his opinion. He regretted not telling him how much.
Porter’s stomach churned – and his legs nearly gave way – as he pictured an alternative scene - of finding his friend dead. His body sprawled across the floor, next to the Sig Sauer pistol. Violet licked his fingers and face trying to wake him up.
Neither scene prevailed when Porter reached Devlin’s apartment. But Devlin had committed suicide.
19.
Derek, the grey-haired Pakistani concierge to the building, found the body. Or rather Devlin had arranged for Derek to find the body, after giving instructions, earlier in the morning, for the concierge to pop-up to his apartment at a given time. Devlin had also arranged for a neighbour to dog-sit Violet for the day.
Porter arrived ten minutes or so after Derek had called the emergency services. The concierge sobbed as he spoke and reported what had happened. He was clearly still in shock - and distressed. “He was a good man.”
He peered into the room from the doorway. Derek explained that the police had instructed him not to let anyone into the property, until they arrived. And Derek, in his freshly dry-cleaned uniform, was a stickler for the rules.
Life doesn’t end with a bang. It ends with a whimper. The air smelled of furniture polish. Devlin had recently cleaned the flat. Death wouldn’t be given a chance to fester in the place he and Holly called home. Porter briefly wondered how much Emma had called it home. Devlin lay curled-up, or contorted, on the sofa. He was dressed in a sky-blue shirt and beige trousers. Sunlight flooded the room, almost screechingly so. His pale face resembled polished ivory, or the death mask of a Roman nobleman. Porter couldn’t quite decide if he was smiling, or if his mouth was twisted from having suffered a stroke. But Porter told himself his friend was at peace. In some ways, he was happy for him. Devlin’s wedding ring glinted in the light, as if winking at Porter. Showing him a sign. A couple of bottles of pills sat on the floor, by the sofa. No doubt Devlin had researched which ones would be most effective. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. There would have been method in his madness. But how mad had he been? He could still tell a hawk from a handsaw. A framed photo, of Devlin and Holly on their wedding day, lay clutched to his chest. He also noticed a few candles, which looked like votive candles from a church, alight on the window sill.
Porter recalled the last time he and Devlin had spoken. It had been at night, over the phone. Devlin had been drinking and, rarely for him, he opened-up a little to his friend. Porter had mentioned how he didn’t want the hitman to go to war with Talbot and Cutter. Devlin replied, “Don’t worry. I trust you to fix things, Oliver. The only war that’s left is the one with my soul.”
Porter couldn’t be sure whether, by dying, his friend had won or lost his war. If he had been courageous or cowardly. It was all such a waste.
Music played in the background. As ordered, Derek hadn’t touched anything. Not even the volume button on the stereo.
“Now, I’ve heard of a guy who lived a long time ago
A man full of sorrow and strife
Whenever someone around him died and was dead
He knew how to bring him on back to life
Well, I don’t know what kind of language he used
Or if they do that kind of thing anymore
Sometimes I think nobody ever saw me here at all
Except the girl from the Red River shore.”
Over the music Porter heard the lamentable sound of Violet moaning from the neighbouring apartment, as if the mongrel already knew something was wrong. He would take the dog home with him.
It’s the least I can do.
Later that evening Porter broke down in tears in front of his wife. And quite rightly so too.
The day before he passed away Devlin disposed of the pistol, wiped his computers and removed all other evidence of his profession from his home. He also pre-arranged for his lawyer, Milton Fiennes, to oversee his finances and will. Milton also served as Porter’s lawyer. The two men had nicknamed him “Jaggers”.
Devlin left his apartment and the bulk of his estate to Emma. She was welcome to keep the capital or sell off his assets and give the money to charities of her choosing. It was up to her. His one stipulation about the house and its contents was that Emma should pass on the framed print of Holbein’s The Ambassadors – and any books that he wanted from his library – to Oliver.
Certain sums of money were also set aside for John Birch, Terry Gilby and Derek, the concierge, by way of an apology for putting him through the trauma of discovering Devlin’s body.
Porter fixed it with Father Matthew so that his friend could have a Catholic funeral. During the service, it was mentioned that Devlin died in his sleep, from heart failure.
More people turned up to the funeral than Porter expected. Neighbours from his apartment block. Regulars from the pub (and a bottle-blonde barmaid who sobbed hysterically; at one-point Porter feared she might even try and drape herself over his coffin). Brothers-in-arms from the regiment, some of whom owed their life to Devlin’s bravery and skill in Afghanistan. Porter was pleased that Emma attended the funeral too. He couldn’t help but note how she was without her husband.
Porter delivered the eulogy. It was an edited version of one he could have given. He spoke about Devlin’s courage as a soldier and how much he loved his foster parents, Bob and Mary Woodward. He also mentioned Holly: “Maybe she called to him in a dream, which is why he didn’t want to wake up.” Porter didn’t share half as much he as could have, but he felt it was enough. Violet would be a prompt for Porter to think about his friend every day.
Just after the service Emma spoke to Porter. She wore an elegant black dress. Her melancholy face was bronzed and blooming with freckles, although she thought it prudent not to wear any make-up lest she wept and looked-like a raccoon from the make-up running.
“I’m not sure if you know but I met Michael for lunch, a couple of weeks before he passed away. I wonder
if I should’ve noticed that something was wrong.”
Porter immediately placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself, for anything. Michael was Michael.”
He was tempted to make the argument that, if not for her, Devlin would’ve ended his life sooner. But he thought better of it. Instead Porter recalled a couple of lines from The Heart of the Matter. Devlin had bought his friend a first edition of the novel, as a Christmas present.
“No human being can really understand another, and no one can arrange another’s happiness.”
