Gun For Hire: A Michael Devlin Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  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 methodical – 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, fl
oral 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.

  The comely waitress placed Devlin’s entrée of scallops on the table but his eyes still feasted on Emma. His nose also drunk in the perfume she was wearing. Not just because he too recalled their previous visit to the restaurant, or rather it’s restroom. There was no one else on the planet he wanted to be with right now. But Devlin feared that, should he tell Emma how he felt, she would immediately question if there was someone else, in Heaven as opposed to on Earth, he would rather be with.

  “So how was your friend today?” Emma asked, as she took another sip of wine.

  “He’s in a bad way, unfortunately. It’s hard to adjust to civilian life, let alone being injured. He’s still reliving the conflict, or wants to re-fight the same enemy. You can either leave a piece of yourself back in Afghanistan or bring a piece of the war back with you,” Devlin replied, hoping that his candour about Birch would in some way compensate for his own guardedness.

  “You so seldom speak about your time in the army,” Emma countered, her voice tip-toeing but deliberate.

  Did he speak about it with her?

  “There’s not much to tell. I spent most of my days getting sunburnt and reading Flashman novels,” Devlin replied, feeling that he was being, at least, half-truthful. “My duties mainly involved babysitting aid workers and civil servants. I remember one senior wonk from DFID. He lasted all of three days in Helmand. He claimed he was suffering from diarrhoea and needed to go back home. But when he heard any gun go off we suspected that he started shitting himself for a different reason.”

  Emma laughed. It was one of the nicest sounds in the world. She didn’t, however, want to let him off the hook in terms of deploying humour to deflect attention away from how army life – and then civilian life – changed him.

  “How much do you think Helmand changed you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Devlin remarked, truthfully. Reading Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche had, perhaps, a greater effect on his thinking than any time spent in the army. The great changes in his life had come from when he first met Holly – and then when she died. He recalled a quotation from Nietzsche: “That which does not kill us, makes you stronger.” But Devlin wasn’t now so sure. Had meeting Emma changed him? Time would tell, he sometimes thought. At other times, he believed she had – and changed him for the better. But she wasn’t Holly.

  “You should try and talk about your time in the army more,” Emma said, concerned. “It doesn’t need to be with me. Are you due to see any other old friends soon from the regiment?”

  Devlin was going to argue that he didn’t need counselling, like Birch – and that his time in Helmand didn’t define him. He was also going to posit, testily, that he didn’t need to go to confession. But he refrained from saying anything. Devlin didn’t want to fight.

  “No. But John mentioned that my former CO is keen on getting in touch – to offer me a job. He runs a company which organises personal security. I’m enjoying my retirement too much however. Which reminds me, I’ll be having lunch with Oliver tomorrow. We’re having a catch-up and he’s got some investment opportunities he wants to discuss.”

  Devlin didn’t enjoy lying. But he had to admit that he was quite good at it.

  “You should meet up with this CO still. You might be able to persuade him to give John some work.”

  “That’s a good thought.”

  It was – and he would duly contact Tyerman. But as Devlin worked his way through a carafe of wine and waited for his main course his thoughts turned to Rameen and The Ritz. The streets would be busy around the hotel and he could easily disappear into the crowd. But he would not be able to conceal himself from the numerous security cameras in the lobby and each individual floor, even if he could disguise himself as an employee.

  6.

  Emma mentioned that she needed to get home to call her Mum, but she didn’t want Devlin to rush in finishing his coffee.

  “You may want to take your time. I’m sure you’d rather not overhear a conversation about how much I’m not disappointing my mother, but how I could do so much better if only I listened to her advice.”

  “I’ll catch you up. Say hello to your Mum for me. And that of course I agree with her, in that her daughter can do better than me.”

  “Don’t tempt me. Besides, she thinks you’re the one thing in my life that doesn’t need changing. Mum called you a “gentleman
.” And Daddy called you “a real man” when he first met you. I think he envied the fact the you carried a gun. Sometimes he wants to carry one too. Especially when he’s home alone with Mum.”

  “Can’t I be both? Probably not,” Devlin drily replied.

  When he got up to kiss her goodbye he pulled her close, gave her more than just a peck on the cheek and ran his fingers down her spine, along the zip at the back of the dress, which he would pull down when he got back to the apartment.

  When Devlin left the restaurant, he decided to take the more scenic route home and walked along the riverbank. The route also didn’t pass any shops which sold cigarettes. He wanted to be good. Devlin sat down on a bench, which he often stopped at when taking Violet out for a walk each morning. He liked the openness and serenity of the river. Warm lights – red, white and amber – glowed from the buildings on the opposite bank. He put his earphones on and listened to a few songs on his smart phone. Holly’s Playlist. He had found the playlist whilst going through her iPod, a few days after her death. She had mentioned, long before that, how she had a special collection of songs which she listened to – that reminded her of Devlin and how she felt about him.

  “You’ll always be a part of me

  I’m part of you indefinitely

  Boy don’t you know you can’t escape me

  Oh daring ‘cause you’ll always be my baby.”

  A sleek party boat, blaring out Abba, motored past and a gaggle of women, from a hen party in full swing, waved at Devlin and blew him kisses. He half-smiled but wasn’t tempted to reply in kind.