by Thomas Waugh
9.
The two men had a quick lunch and took their leave. Porter needed to get home and fix various things. For the first time in a long time he would work in his office in the garden.
Devlin took a cab home but then decided to get out prematurely at the Elephant & Castle. He needed some air. He resisted the temptation of stopping off at the Charlie Chaplin pub for a few drinks. As many sorrows as he had to drown he needed a clear head. He walked the rest of the way home, collecting his thoughts. He felt like he was in a maze – and he hadn’t even reached the centre yet, let alone found a way out. Before, when plying his trade as a soldier or contract killer, he had the semblance of a choice to pull the trigger. But this was worse than his time in the army, when he had killed for a cause (however misguided that cause may have been). He had also killed to prevent the enemy from shooting himself and his friends. And as a hitman he had selected his targets. But now he was being forced to take another man’s life. He was trapped, like a performing monkey in a cage. He wasn’t scared of prison, or even solitary confinement, but he couldn’t countenance making Bob or Emma pay for his sins.
Devlin told himself that he had killed better men than Slater, as well as worse, and that the self-serving politician deserved to die.
When he got back to his apartment Devlin checked beneath his carpet, to see if the crisps he had left there had broken beneath a trespasser’s foot. Similarly, he checked if the ash he had left on part of his laptop had been disturbed. He swept for bugs and cameras on a device Porter had given him a couple of years ago. The flat was clean. But Talbot had little need to surveil Devlin now anyway. He had him where he wanted him.
After walking Violet along the river Devlin grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and researched Ewan Slater on his computer.
The politician had been born in Mells, an affluent village in Somerset. His father had been a senior civil servant, his mother a ceramics teacher. Despite his self-proclaimed solidarity with “the ordinary, working man” Slater was schooled at Harrow and Keble College, Oxford. After university, he joined various activist and militant organisations, including the League Against Cruel Sports and the Surrey Socialist Chapter. His general political stance throughout the years, which remained either nobly or stubbornly consistent, was that the state should aim to curb, or abolish, capitalism. The establishment directed world affairs – started wars, caused economic crashes, rigged elections through the media – to keep themselves in power (Slater also hinted on occasion that the world was directed by a cabal of Jews, as opposed to American capitalists). Government should control the means of production. The state should also punitively – or “fairly” – tax anyone in a higher income bracket to himself. The people with the broadest shoulders should bear the heaviest burden. “It should be a crippling burden,” Slater had even once venomously remarked off air, whilst his microphone was still on. The former editor of the Morning Star implemented a U-turn recently however on his proposed policy to target highly paid footballers – blaming them for all that was wrong with society. He dropped his proposals of a special wealth tax after his Director of Communications ran several focus groups on the issue, which concluded that the policy wasn’t gaining traction. He duly reverted to blaming bankers and “fat cats” for the country’s woes. “The most important challenge facing this country is battling against the few, who oppress the many. Trade Unionists – and the activists involved in organisations like Vision – must man the barricades and fight the good fight.”
Slater’s first wife was Katerina Schiller, who, it was rumoured, had strong ties to the Baader Meinhof gang in the nineteen seventies. Together they had one son, Rupert, who attended one of the country’s top grammar schools (despite it being party policy that grammar schools should be abolished). Also, despite the charges of cronyism and nepotism that Slater levelled at the establishment, Rupert worked as an assistant to the leader’s number two in Vision, Pat Snyde – the fair-weather Marxist and apologist for Sinn Fein.
Katerina divorced Slater in the mid-eighties. She claimed that the prominent member of CND and Amnesty International physically abused her during their marriage. Slater even, allegedly, punched his wife and broke her jaw on the night of Thatcher’s landslide victory in 1987. Although the final settlement was undisclosed, it was said that Slater had to withdraw money from his family’s trust fund to finance the alimony – and he was kept from selling the family pile, Cypress Manor, by the skin of his teeth.
Slater’s second wife, who he was still married to, was the journalist Stella Brighton. When Owen Jones wasn’t available, Sky News would call her up for her passionate and progressive viewpoints. For years Brighton had worked as an ardent campaigner for LGBT rights, gender equal pay and the criminalisation of all forms of hunting (including fishing). All the great and important issues of our time. She had an enviable amount of twitter followers and would often boast, whilst at the same time play the victim, about how she had received death threats online from trolls. But she would not be silenced, unfortunately. Brighton’s focus of campaigning in the last year had revolved around visiting Syrian migrant camps (but only if she could be filmed at them and the BBC paid her expenses and a modest fee). On more than one occasion Brighton had stated how she would be willing to take in a migrant refugee family. “It’s the humane thing to do.” When a journalist recently asked her why she had still failed to take in anyone, or even apply to do so, the self-titled “neo-feminist” tetchily countered that, “this tragedy isn’t just about me – you should focus on the big picture… There are children dying… You should be ashamed of yourself… As my husband recently said, the refugee crisis is the most important single issue facing the country today.”
The refugee crisis was last years’ news though. Her next crusade would be against (white) people guilty of cultural appropriation. She was already in talks with Channel 4 about a documentary. She had been tempted to address the subject of female genital mutilation, but her husband would need the Muslim vote in the forthcoming general election.
The couple made a formidable team, in terms of gaining air time. Brighton’s Irish brogue and time spent being bi-sexual ticked plenty of diversity boxes. It helped that several of their friends from university now worked at The Guardian and the BBC as well. Ewan Slater’s star was shining bright, since Strictly Come Dancing. The politician made the front page of the Sunday papers for the first time in his career, dressed up in a fat suit as the Prince, from Beauty and the Beast. After being voted off the programme he had brought in an image consultant to sharpen up his act - and softened some of his more radical views. During a recent interview with The Independent a reporter had done his homework and challenged Slater about some of his previous opinions and affiliations. During the eighties the activist had taken part in fund raising rallies for the IRA – and stated that any soldier who had participated in the Falkland’s conflict should be prosecuted for war crimes. Israel was also “a stain upon the world’s conscience” – and that “Stalin is the most misunderstood figure of the 20th century.” Slater’s reply was to argue that the reporter should, “Look to the future rather than dwell upon what was allegedly said the past. Most of this is fake news… A vote for Vision is a vote for hope. I want to see a new kind of politics. That’s the most important thing you should convey to your readers. I want to be judged by the electorate - the kind of people who watch Strictly Come Dancing - not the right-wing media.”
When the subject of Slater’s party came up the journalist raised a couple of issues. Firstly, had he been aware that the BBC were sitting on a documentary exposing how Vision had targeted certain anti-Israel student bodies to recruit and campaign for the party? Also, was he aware of the fact that members of Vision were briefing students on how to vote twice in the general election, both in the constituency of their university and that of where their family home was located? Slater denied any knowledge of the documentary and remarked, for the record, that voter fraud was a crime: “Young peopl
e are our future. We should invest in them, not criticise them.” In reply to allegations of anti-Semitism among party members Slater was forthright in his condemnation of any form of prejudice: “Vision has a zero-tolerance policy on such misdemeanours and will expel any party member guilty of hate speech or anti-Semitism.” When asked how many members had been expelled in the past Slater replied that he didn’t have the figures to hand. The answer was later found out to be none.
Devlin’s search of images for Ewan Slater brought up an array of photographs of him shaking hands with “edgy” (but politically correct) stand-up comedians and past performers from the Cambridge Footlights. When he stubbed out another cigarette Devlin wished he could stub out half the world. Or himself. He thought about pouring himself a large whisky but he continued drinking water as he found a series of speeches and quotes by the self-proclaimed “man of the people”. It was often the case that the more the assassin knew about his target the more he judged that they deserved to die. But that might be the case with everyone, Devlin grimly half-joked.
“Inequality is unnatural. All property is theft. The state is a tool to compel people to live in harmony… I care about the NHS more deeply than anything in the world. It is our oldest, greatest institution. Despite these recent stories about abuse, corruption, waste and unlawful killings, it is still the best health service in the world. Every staff member, especially the migrant workers, should be given a badge with “angel” written upon it… We must live within our means, even if we need to borrow money to do so… Because of the courage and goodness of the IRA we now have a peace process… I believe in trade unionism, social justice and nationalising the railways. That’s my religion. And I want my congregation to be the entire country… This is not a time for self-aggrandisement, but Vision is my vision… Have you been to Cuba? Well, I have. And everyone in Havana walks around with a smile on their face. If Fidel Castro was a dictator, he was a benign one - who cared about his country as much as I care about mine… There are times when I can sympathise with the caliphate. America is Satan… Providing all-female carriages on our trains is the most important issue dominating my time at the moment. It’s not segregation, it’s emancipation. Why? Because I say so… Price and wage fixing, high taxation and five-year plans can work. If you just have the vision, pardon the pun. If you just have hope.”
Devlin reacted with amusement, boredom and worry at different junctures during his browsing. Eventually tiredness started to get the better of him – and Violet deserved his attention, far more than Ewan Slater. But he didn’t want to succumb to sleep quite yet. He had a proper drink – and then another – before having a cold shower. Devlin closed his eyes and imagined the water washing his sins and troubles away. The plughole burped, with satisfaction, as it swallowed them down. But as Devlin opened his eyes he knew that there were some sins that could never be washed away. Or forgiven.
10.
Porter removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was late. His head ached. His stomach rumbled. But there was still work to be done. He put his glasses back on, drained what coffee was left in his cup and continued to read the intelligence reports on Mason Talbot that Mariner had sent over in a secure file. He just needed one nugget of evidence or information to use as leverage against the American. He needed some “treasure”, as George Smiley might have called it, Porter wistfully thought. He searched in vain however for a compromising link between Talbot and Ewan Slater. He was even tempted at one point to contact Slater and confront him on the issue. But it was too risky. He didn’t want to just hazard a guess that there was a connection between the two men.
Porter had spent most of the night reviewing the agent’s career and profile. Searching for a chink in his enemy’s armour. He was unsurprised to discover that, before his posting in London, Talbot had worked in Iraq, overseeing the set-up of “Camp Redemption” at Abu Ghraib. He had also been involved in several of cases of rendition. Porter noted how late amendments to the reports stated categorically that Jack Straw and David Miliband had no knowledge of any of the operations Talbot and his agents participated in.
Porter recalled the paddle-shaped scanner again Cutter used to check for electronic devices. It reminded him of the wooden paddle his Housemaster had used on him at school, years ago. The fixer wasn’t prone to violent thoughts, but he felt an urge to throttle Talbot with the scanner (or his old Housemaster’s bat) when he was at the house in Boston Place.
As Porter reviewed Mason’s character and career he felt a nagging sense of shame, as well as revilement, as he noticed parallels between himself and the American agent. Had he not blackmailed people in the past and exploited assets to secure his objectives? Had he not acted as a middle-man in carrying out numerous contract killings? Porter had as much blood on his hands as anyone. The words “charming”, “cultured” and “ruthless” were employed to describe the American. The same words had been used to describe Porter.
He glanced at the family photo next to his computer and felt an invisible blow to his solar plexus, winding him, as he imagined what would happen if he defied Talbot. The story might make the tabloids, as well as the broadsheets. The summer party invites would dry up, although he would be attending in spirit as a central topic of conversation, no doubt. His clubs would revoke his membership, although not all of them. Some would still be happy to take his money. It would be difficult, after all, for him to show his face at an establishment whilst also serving a long prison sentence. Those who already knew about his profession – and had hired him – would act with the most pronounced shock and opprobrium, he fancied.
But Porter had experienced enough “society” to last him ten lifetimes. His wine cellar was equal to the Garrick’s too. His dog Marlborough was sufficient company – and far more loyal and trustworthy than any politician or magistrate.
Porter’s heart sank, however, as he thought of his family. His children would be shunned or bullied – and asked to leave their schools. Victoria’s friends would turn their back and look down their noses at her (women are the fairer – and crueller – sex). She would be cast out of her church, as if she were a witch from Salem. The charities she was involved in would ask her to resign – for the good of the organisation. He would be responsible for ruining her life. Why wouldn’t she leave him? Why shouldn’t she leave him – and take the children? They would have to sell the house – their home. The authorities would utilise new terrorist legislation and aim to appropriate his assets.
Some of it may be considered blood money, but it’s still my money.
More importantly Porter knew that, should Talbot leak information about the contract killings he oversaw, his life could be forfeit. Although he had neither ordered the hits, or pulled the trigger, the associates and the families of the victims could hold him responsible. Half his business had been generated over the years from a sense of grievance and vengeance, on the part of his clients. Nothing was sacred to them, except the need for the debt to be settled. For justice to be done. Porter believed that revenge should have some usefulness, utility, rather than just be a crime of passion. But he long ago conceded that he wasn’t made like other people. His enemies would consider his family a justified target as well, to repay the debt they owed Porter. And Talbot knew that too.
The fixer found himself grinding his teeth and cursing Devlin’s name. The widower had nothing to lose. Whilst the husband and father had everything to lose. But he breathed out and quickly forgave his friend. Devlin wasn’t the enemy. Talbot was.
All was not lost, Porter told himself in a feeble fit of logic or optimism. Mariner had messaged to say that he was still digging up information on the CIA operative. The fixer had called in a favour from a contact at MI6 to pass on any intelligence too. From the sigh Porter emitted – and his hollowed-out expression – all seemed lost however.
“Darling, it’s getting late. Would you like me to leave you some supper out on the kitchen table?” Victoria exclaimed, from the
other side of the door to his office in the garden. There was a chequered strain of fondness and falsity to her tone. She wanted to convey that everything was as normal, but she really knew that something was wrong. Her anxieties would remain bubble-wrapped and boxed-up though. A marriage can’t survive without its secrets and small – or large – deceptions.
Porter dabbed at the film of sweat across his corrugated brow with a handkerchief his wife had given to him on his last birthday. He then sculptured his features into a crescent smile before opening the door.
“I’ll be finished up soon, I promise,” Porter remarked.
“It’s a beautiful night. I may stay up and have a glass of wine on the terrace,” she replied, hoping to further coax her husband outside.
It was indeed a fine evening. The stars seemed as polished as the buttons on his dress uniform. The sky was a glossy sable. Birdsong threaded its way through the hedgerows and trees. Lilting, lulling – as opposed to just loud.
“It is beautiful.” Porter agreed, without really noticing or caring.
Yet he thought to himself how his wife was beautiful and a welcome sight. Her skin was bronzed, but as soft as velvet. She wore a simple floral-print dress which fluttered in the breeze and yet quite rightly also wanted to cling to her elegant figure. He caught the scent of her shampoo in the air and breathed it in. He tried to identify the constituent parts of the whole: cinnamon, jasmine, coconut, lemon. Porter increasingly thought how much older than his wife he must now look, but took consolation from the fact that no matter how old he got she would make him feel younger. The former officer knew that some people thought him as dry as piece of flat-bread. But with Victoria he could be romantic – and even sentimental. Porter didn’t much care if others considered him cold or stuffy – because he knew that she knew the truth.
