by Thomas Waugh
“Most of the time
I’m clear focused all around
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground
I can follow the path
I can read the sign
Stay right with it when the road unwinds
I can handle whatever
I stumble upon
I don’t even notice she’s gone
Most of the time.”
Devlin thought how it was almost a year to the day since his last hit. The target had been Rameen Jamal. The Afghan, who had murdered and maimed his friends during a routine patrol of a village in Helmand, had been staying at The Ritz. Devlin had arranged, through the fixer Oliver Porter, to have the cameras hacked and temporarily disabled at the hotel. As well as Jamal, Devlin also assassinated Faisal Ahmadi that night. Ahmadi was travelling in Jamal’s diplomatic party. He was a person of interest for MI6, for his involvement with various Islamist terrorist organisations.
But not all had gone to plan. Devlin was unaware that his former commanding officer, Charles Tyerman, was serving on the Afghani’s security detail. He unwittingly shot the man who, a few days before, offered him a job. A future. Afterwards Devlin told himself that Tyerman should not have elected to work for Jamal (even though it could have been the case that his ex-CO was there that night under the auspices of the intelligence services, to keep watch over the Afghanis). Devlin had to shoot his final target in the hotel suite quickly, else he would have been shot himself. He didn’t know it was Tyerman, before he fired. He told himself it wasn’t his fault. But there are no innocents left in the world.
After the hit a year ago, in the dead of night, Devlin had gone for a walk and sat upon a bench, by the shimmering Thames. Police sirens echoed out in the night then too. Devlin promised himself that, should somehow the authorities come for him, he wouldn’t run and he wouldn’t hide. He also wouldn’t tell, in regards to giving up Oliver Porter in return for a shorter sentence.
It was also nearly a year to the day when Emma walked out on him. If he would have asked her to stay she may have changed her mind. But he didn’t. The end came after Devlin cancelled their trip to Paris. Emma had nurtured a hope that the man she loved would propose there. But she asked the question: does he love me? The inconvenient truth was that Devlin was still in love with his late wife, Holly. He still visited her grave every week, played her favourite songs, stared at her picture and re-read old letters. Devlin still had one foot in the past. Or rather one foot in her grave. Tears streaked down Emma’s face, of despair and anger, as she confessed how she felt. She wanted to hurt him – and said a number of things she later regretted. Her throat became sore. Whilst Devlin remained calm. Or cold. He understood how she felt and it was indeed best that they end things, he remarked. His tone was laced with more relief than regret, which only made Emma despair – and grow angrier – all the more.
There were times when Devlin missed Emma – and was tempted to get in touch to apologise to her. Try to make amends somehow. Atone. But what good would it have done? She had found someone else and he would still ultimately keep his promise to Holly, never to re-marry or fall in love again.
It was almost six months to the day, when his foster-mum, Mary, passed away. Cancer ploughed through her body like a plague of locusts and death came three months after diagnosis. Devlin made the funeral arrangements and gave the eulogy. Before she died Mary made her son promise that he would regularly visit his foster-dad in the care home. The couple had been married for over fifty years. Devlin tried to visit every few days, but Bob Woodward’s condition grew worse after his wife’s death – and lately he barely recognised his foster child. Tragically Bob often forgot that his wife had passed away and he would ask Devlin where she was - and break down on hearing the news, as though he were being told for the first time.
Devlin would take his wheel-chair bound father out into the care home garden for a cigarette and navy rum. His mind and body were diminishing by the week, curling up on themselves like an old, mouldy slipper. Moments of lucidity were rare, precious and increasingly infrequent, like a sunny day in March or October. Everything is born to die. The inevitable truth provides little consolation however. Bob Woodward’s skin was stretched over his face like parchment. His grey hair was now snow white. Liver spots flared up on the back of his hands and temples, like daffodils blooming in spring. His foster-dad’s once wide, toothy grin had grown narrower, or had disappeared altogether. Devlin’s father was sinking further into the black hole of vascular dementia and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt guilty on the days when he didn’t visit the widower – and depressed on the days he did.
Violet, who had been laying on the floor by Devlin, suddenly got up. She padded into the kitchen and then came back again, gazing at her master expectantly. The black and white mongrel had a sweet temper, expressive face and lively manner. Somehow, she had the power to pull Devlin out of his own black hole, when it began to suck him in. He got up from the sofa, walked past the bin in the kitchen, overflowing with bottles of vodka and takeaway cartons, and filled-up her water bowl. Perhaps Emma knew how much Devlin needed Violet, which was why, in one last act of love, she let him keep her after they separated. It broke her heart, but it would have broken his more. Devlin stared down at the mongrel, a former stray. Small beads of water dripped from her chin. Her tail wagged, cutting through the fog of his listlessness. For the first time that day the former soldier managed the semblance of a smile. It was a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless.
“I can survive and I can endure
And I don’t even think about her
Most of the time.”
3.
Oliver Porter stood in his parlour and sampled a glass of the Claret he decanted earlier in the evening. Moonlight washed over a manicured lawn as he peered out through his conservatory window – and caught his own reflection as he did so. He had lost weight and kept it off, he thought to himself, gently pleased. Not even his bitterest enemies, of which the former fixer might have owned a few, could call him “paunchy” now. His doctor said that his blood pressure was “sterling” – and he no longer needed to be proscribed statins.
Porter was wearing a camel-coloured summer suit from Chester Barrie and a crisp, white Huntsman shirt. Not a hair, black or steel grey, was out of place on his head. The former Guards officer had regained a little more of his military bearing and gait since regaining his figure. A tan, gleaned from a recent family holiday in the Seychelles, gifted him a further air of vitality and happiness. Partly he had ventured to the island paradise to go sea fishing. The middle-aged conservative suddenly had an appetite to try out new things. He had started writing a novel, about a wily diplomat serving the Byzantine Emperor Alexios Komnenus during the First Crusade. Porter was also learning to tie his own flies and every Friday night he took pleasure in cooking a three-course meal for his family. Retirement was not the hell he once thought it might be. Few things perturbed Porter. Fly-fishing taught him the virtues of patience and stillness. If he had lost his head, as an officer or fixer, then others would have lost theirs. Being “passionate” was vulgar. The Englishman believed in retaining his sangfroid, even when he didn’t feel like doing so. It was good for business and his soul.
The furniture was somewhat eclectic in the room, but things still worked and played off each other. His wife had been responsible for furnishing most of the house. Her excellent taste was the least of her admirable qualities however. Victoria was waiting for him upstairs. The children were away for a few days, staying with friends. She had asked him not to be too late in coming up to bed. The fixer didn’t need a cryptologist from MI5 to decode what she meant.
Porter emitted a contented sigh and smiled. A number of investments he’d made a decade ago had just matured. Money makes money. His children were performing well at school and thankfully reading outside their narrow curriculums. He recalled his son’s laughter last night, when Porter had told him a joke
whilst they put away his air rifle:
“Margaret Thatcher, Tony Blair and Jeremy Corbyn are all standing in a line. You have a gun but only two bullets – and your mission is to save the country. What do you do?... You shoot Jeremy Corbyn, twice.”
The precocious boy laughed and then cheekily replied:
“I’d need to watch that the bullets don’t go straight through, as there’s nothing between his ears.”
Porter’s smile widened as he glanced at the newspaper on the arm of his wingback leather armchair. Derek Hewson, the Tory MP for Cheltenham, had resigned from office – and Porter hadn’t even needed to fix the welcome outcome. Porter had been hired by Hewson and a group of lobbyist a couple of years ago. A freelance journalist was about to sell a story - concerning the politician having sent lewd photographs, via text messages, to underage girls. Porter bribed the journalist – and arranged to put him on staff at a major newspaper – in return for burying the story. When he returned home that evening, having fixed things, Porter found it difficult to look his wife and daughter in the eye. He’s leapt, before he’s been pushed, Porter thought to himself. He imagined the sleazy MP, standing before the party chairman, wringing his hands and trying to worm his way out of things. In the article, the dutiful politician claimed that he wanted to spend more time with his family. Knowing how much his wife rightly despised him though, Hewson was at least starting to receive his just desserts, Porter idly thought.
He wrinkled his nose briefly, deliberating on whether to smoke a cigar or not. He had cut down on his smoking and drinking over the past year or so, but Porter was still far from puritanical in his habits. Ultimately though he resisted the temptation. There was mettle more attractive upstairs and he didn’t want his breath smelling of smoke when he made love to his wife.
It had been their wedding anniversary a week ago. Porter took Victoria to the same restaurant, near Warminster, where he proposed.
“As much as I admire you Oliver for having given up certain things in your diet, which you used to harp on about not being able to live without of course, the thing I most appreciate is that you have given up your work for me and the children. We’re all enjoying your retirement.”
Victoria had never asked too many questions concerning her husband’s work. Perhaps she knew the truth would frighten or appal her. He called himself a consultant, which wasn’t altogether a lie. But Oliver had spent over a decade consulting on ways to launder money, ruin reputations, cover-up scandals and even assassinate people. When his life – and that of his family – had been put in danger by some particularly unsavoury clients – the Parker brothers – Porter decided that it was time to untie the Gordian Knot and extricate himself from his profession. He had saved himself. But Devlin had saved him too, having gunned the gangsters down before they could get to Porter and his family.
Devlin. His former associate was an old photograph he would take out of the draw every now and then. Sepia-tinged. Devlin was the most honourable man Porter knew – and the most tragic. The two things were linked. His vow to his late wife, never to marry again, had condemned him to a life of loneliness (albeit one could preside over a harem and still be lonely, Porter conceded). Through keeping his promise to one friend in Afghanistan – and assassinating Rameen Jamal – Devin had ended up killing another.
The two men had attempted to keep in touch after their last job together. Porter invited Devlin to lunch at White’s but his guest turned up drunk and they largely sat in silence. A fortnight later Porter invited Devlin to stay over at his house for the weekend. But something was missing. Perhaps the two men reminded each other of their previous lives, which they would have preferred to forget. Victoria noticed the change in her husband’s friend immediately:
“He’s there but he’s not there… Is he on some form of medication? He’s like some burned out candle or empty shell case… Michael looks older as well. You can tell he’s been drinking… The children seem wary of him too, where they used to find him fun and fascinating.”
After that weekend Porter determined not to contact Devlin again, unless he contacted him first. The fixer had come out of retirement for the assassin once, to help with the Afghani hit. But the first time would be the last. His debt had been paid. Honour had been served. He was not his brother’s keeper, Porter declared to himself.
Devlin was just waiting around to die now, although one could have argued that we are all guilty of that. But Devlin was ready to die – and not just in a spiritual sense. He had already purchased the suit he wanted to be buried in. His plot was picked out too, one close to his wife’s grave. He just needed someone’s permission to end things, it seemed. Was he waiting for a sign? Perhaps from his God, Porter mused.
Just before Porter was about to head upstairs his phone rang. Unknown number. He was tempted to ignore the call, but it might have been one of the parents his children were staying with for the weekend.
“Hello,” he remarked. If the word was expressed as a question as much as a greeting then Porter didn’t like the answer.
“Hello, old boy. It’s the ghost of Christmas past, Mason Talbot, here. I apologise for calling you at such a late hour. I hope I’ve not disturbed you and your good lady wife, Victoria.”
His skin prickled and a chill slithered down Porter’s spine as he heard the CIA operative’s voice. Especially when he casually – but deliberately – mentioned his wife’s name. She had never met the American, not did Porter ever want her to.
“No, it’s fine,” Porter replied. Polite, but far from warm.
“I was wondering if you would be free for lunch tomorrow? And I won’t take no for an answer.”
Talbot’s tone was collegiate, charming. Faux English. But beneath the civilised veneer of the agent from New Hampshire there resided a black, serpentine soul. Talbot came from what passed as aristocratic stock, for America. Old family money, originally earned from molasses and later oil, had paid for the finest education at Yale and Oxford. Talbot’s father, a priapic Democrat congressman, had then used his influence to grant his son an entrée into the world of military intelligence. Mason Talbot did possess an official job title, although no one quite knew what it was, but more so he worked in the shadows – a law unto himself. The senior CIA operative, who had recently celebrated his forty-ninth birthday, had been stationed in London for over a decade. He oversaw, or instigated, black-ops in Britain and the rest of Europe. Talbot also ran assets and gathered intelligence, with or without the cooperation of MI5 and MI6. Although the American was not beyond sharing information with his allies, he always made sure he received more than he traded away. “As with when I convert my currency, I like a favourable exchange rate,” he would smoothly remark.
In some regards Porter regarded his American cousin as a fellow fixer. Just a more powerful and menacing one. The two men had several meetings and meals together, around five years ago. Talbot had offered the Englishman a stipend, with the promise of further payments to follow, should Porter be able to provide him with poignant intelligence on his clients.
“Think of yourself as becoming a professional gossip. We are both aware that you work in the service of various people of influence, whether it be in the worlds of commerce or politics. I would just like you to be paid twice for your labours. I would like to know what you know, or who you know… I like you Oliver. We are cut from the same cloth. Indeed, we even share the same tailor do we not? As Thatcher once said of Gorbachev, we can do business together.”
Porter had no intention of being drawn into the American’s web and politely declined the offer to become one of his assets. It had been over three years since he had even spoken or seen the CIA agent. Wariness – or fear – eclipsed a sense of curiosity as to why he was getting in contact again. Talbot was one of the most dishonourable – and dangerous – men Porter had ever met. He pictured the man behind the convivial voice on the end of the phone. His slim, almost feminine, jawline and cleft chin. His blond hair, which he probably now dyed.
His turquoise eyes, bright and yet cold at the same time. Bleached teeth. Handmade shoes. His gold signet ring, bearing his family crest, which he often stared at – as he assessed whether he needed another manicure or not. Talbot could smile, re-fill your class and fraternally clasp your hand – right up to the point, or after, of sheathing a knife in your back. Even his compatriots spoke ill of him, albeit they only did so when whispering. Mason Talbot was akin to an unctuous villain from an unfinished Eric Ambler novel.
Porter noted down Talbot’s precise instructions, after agreeing to meet the American for lunch. His skin prickled again when he mentioned Devlin’s name in passing. Porter firmly pressed “call end” on his phone, hoping that if he pressed it hard enough he might never hear from Talbot again. The smile on his lips had fallen, shattered, like a piece of fine porcelain dropping to the floor. He sighed, wearily. To help settle his stomach Porter poured himself something stronger than wine. He gave some thought as to why the American would contact him, accessing a rolodex in his mind of reasons as to why their paths should now cross. The scene outside darkened, as the moon seemed rinsed of light. Brittle. Porter eventually trudged upstairs. The stairs - or his bones - creaked. His shoulders seemed more rounded. His head was bowed down in prayer or logical thought. The husband would apologise to his wife. He would explain that he was tired, or had a headache. But the last thing Porter felt like doing right now was making love.
4.
There was no CCTV footage of any suspects, regarding the incident in Bermondsey Square, the authorities lamented. Eyewitness reports were contradictory. The photofit of the man the police were looking for resembled a Slavic Jason Statham. Ridley had been put into an induced coma in order stabilise his condition. It was unlikely the gangster could, or would, aid enquiries once he recovered. If he recovered. As disturbing as the crime was however there was a general mood of relief that it was not another terrorist attack. The gangland killings would soon be yesterday’s news.
