Darkness Visible

by Thomas Waugh

  He walked into the living room and poured out a large whisky. Emma had opened the balcony door and the breeze fanned his face. A framed print of Holbein’s The Ambassadors dominated the main wall. Holly had bought it for him. They had discussed the painting on their first date together. To put her own stamp on their home Emma had furnished the walls with several pictures from her previous flat: Brueghel’s ‘Winter Landscape Bird Trap’ and Beuckelaer’s ‘Christ Carrying the Cross’. She had also gifted him a large print of Jacob van Ruisdael’s ‘Wheat Fields’. His and her bookcases flanked a leather sofa. His included various works of military history, philosophy, novels by Greene, Dostoyevsky, Camus, Conrad, Balzac and others. Hers were filled with a collection of Jane Austen hardbacks, historical romance novels and literary biographies. They often read from each other’s shelves however. She wanted to understand him more and he thought she had good taste. A large Persian rug – a gift from Porter – lay next to a rustic oak coffee table. When it arrived at the apartment he was tempted to check the item for listening devices.

  Emma came in from the kitchen. Devlin liked the way her heels clicked on the wooden floor. A film of sweat glistened on her brow, neck and shins. There seemed little difference between the smoothness of her skin and the silk dress. He wanted her more than the whisky – or a cigarette. He always made sure he never thought of Holly when he was making love to Emma, albeit he sometimes pictured her before or afterwards.

  “How was your Mum?”

  “Well, she was complaining that my father was spending too much time at the golf course – and then getting under her feet when home. She mentioned that her neighbour has just bought a “loud and unsightly” foreign sports car. She advised me to grow my hair longer and that I should have “underlings” work at the shop so that I can spend more time networking and courting corporate clients. Whatever that means. As for the rest of the country it’s apparently going to rack and ruin. In short, my mother is fine and feeling herself,” Emma said, smiling demurely as she sided up to Devlin and took a sip of his whisky. She failed to report however that her mother had asked her, again, when Devlin was going to propose.

  Violet soon followed Emma into the room, having finished a late-night marrowbone treat. The friendly, adorable mongrel wagged her tail and leapt up at Devlin when she saw him. He could never be unhappy in her company.

  7.

  The air was awash with citrus sunshine. A few wisps of cloud were scattered, rose petal-like, across a burning blue sky. London was either on the cusp of a heatwave or already experiencing one. Devlin appeared uncomfortable in a jacket and tie and pulled at the neck of his shirt as he walked out onto the first-floor terrace of the Savile Club. Devlin had pressed his shirt with extra vigour that morning, as if he were back in the regiment. He had also polished his shoes as if he were due to step out onto parade in them. He didn’t usually mind if his shirts were a little crumpled, or if his shoes went unpolished. It was a reminder that he was now free of the army and could breathe out in terms of the unpleasantness of Northern Ireland, Iraq and Afghanistan. And he was free from following orders.

  Oliver Porter was already sitting at a table to the rear of the terrace. Whether as a host or guest he liked to be punctual. There is a rule at various London clubs, whether officially stated or not, that members should refrain from shaking hands. It implied that one was doing business at the club, instead of spending one’s time recreationally. The bonds of friendship were far stronger than any ties to a club for Porter however, and he wilfully ignored the rules to shake Devlin’s hand when greeting him. He duly noticed how irritated his guest seemed in his tightly buttoned-up shirt.

  “You’re welcome to loosen a button, Michael. I won’t tell anyone. I get paid for keeping secrets – but I’m happy to keep this one for gratis,” Porter amiably exclaimed. Devlin glanced at the table and noted that his friend had already worked his way through half a bottle of burgundy. He half-smiled, nodded in reply and unfastened his top button.

  With no more than a wink, a pencil-skirted waitress briskly attended to their table so Devlin could order a drink. Maria had served Porter on more than one occasion. She now knew when to approach the charming (but never forward) club member and, more importantly, when he didn’t want to be disturbed. She also knew that, whether he was having a three-course meal or just a coffee, she would receive a crisp fifty pound note as a tip - (which Porter made sure went to the sweet-natured waitress, instead of going to the establishment).

  “You’re looking well,” Devlin remarked, after ordering a large vodka and tonic. And he meant it. Porter always looked well, like a well-preserved piece of waxed, oak furniture. He couldn’t help but notice how much weight his friend had lost since he had last seen him a few months back. Where once Porter had been jowly his countenance was now lean. His skin, stretched across his face, made him look slightly reptilian. But perhaps he was being unkind in thinking such a thought, Devlin considered. So much and so little can change in a few months. Devlin internally winced, thinking how much it must have cost Porter to buy an entire new wardrobe.

  “It’s the new and improved me,” Porter replied, briefly looking down at his stomach – or lack of one. “Retirement suits me better than I thought. Victoria has been Stasi-like in keeping watch over me, in terms of what I eat and drink. But I’ve also been good myself. It felt somewhat strange at first – and I’m still not wholly enamoured with my new regime – but the aim is to continue to be good.”

  Devlin couldn’t quite tell if Porter was referring to his diet, or moral health, after he finished speaking. Perhaps he meant both.

  “Retirement suits us both, it seems,” the former contract killer asserted, with less enthusiasm than his friend.

  “And how’s Emma? I hope you’ve been smart enough not to let her slip through your fingers. I liked her – and not just because she kindly laughed at all my bad jokes. Ill-dressed feminists will of course shrilly despise me for saying so and accuse me of being patronising – but women are our better halves. What was it Kingsley Amis once wrote? “Women are really much nicer than men: No wonder we like them.””

  “She’s fine. We’re good,” Devlin replied, slightly uneasily, as he recalled how, after making love to her the previous night, he thought of Holly. He had also drunk a large measure of brandy, in attempt to wash away the craving his mouth had for a cigarette. Devlin sat up in bed in the middle of the night and stared fixedly at the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room, wanting to scratch the itch of holding his gun in his hand and cleaning it – and experiencing the kick of the recoil again. But Emma lay asleep next to him, her head resting on his chest.

  “I’m pleased to hear it. I thought you might have asked to meet to tell me the news that you’re getting married.”

  Porter noted that Devlin was still wearing his wedding ring from his first marriage. He should have taken it off years ago. There were occasions when Porter judged that his friend, like Hamlet, displayed a degree of “unmanly grief” in his attachment to Holly. He worshipped her memory as if he were the last devotee to an ancient religion.

  The words almost stuck in Devlin’s throat, partly because he couldn’t ever recall the last time he had put them together in a sentence:

  “No, I’m not getting married again. I wanted to see you to ask for your help.”

  Devlin proceeded to tell his friend about the attack in the village and its aftermath. His voice was devoid of emotion, as if he were delivering a routine sitrep - which is not to say that his heart wasn’t full of ire and pity as he spoke. Devlin also declared his intent to murder Rameen before he returned to Afghanistan.

  “He’s staying at The Ritz. I could use the help of your hacker to find out what you can about his itinerary – and what protection he has. I will also need him to get into the system and turn the cameras off… I’ll be willing of course to pay the going rate for any services you provide.”

  Devlin only knew the name of Porter’s hacker by the name of
“Mariner”. Mariner had access to foreign and domestic government databases. As well as providing a wealth of intelligence for Porter, Mariner had also helped Devlin during a hit a couple of years ago, when he shut down the security and camera systems of a boutique hotel in Marseille. Devlin suspected that the famous hotel would be a difficult hack, but not an impossible one, for Mariner.

  Porter listened to his friend and only occasionally interjected to clarify a point or two. He gently nodded his head, furrowed his brow and steepled his fingers – as if he were Sherlock Holmes deciding whether to take on a case or not.

  A sterile, or diseased, silence hung in the air after Devlin said what he needed to say. Porter took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks on exhaling, all the time craving a cigar. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, either in despair or to wipe away the film of sweat on his skin. Ironically, he judged Devlin was being absurd or conceited in believing that he owed this Birch fellow, or the dead young squaddie, a debt of honour. Yet Porter would not deny help to his former associate – because he owed him a debt of honour. He would however attempt to talk Devlin out of a decision which could ruin his friend’s life – and potentially his own too.

  “It’s only proper that I should tell you what I tell other people who come to me in a similar vein. If there is any other way to gain restitution, or solve the problem, then do so. There is an attractive finality to death but our sins have a way of coming back to haunt us. Whether through the agency of God, some cosmic fate or more mortal means, it is all too often the case that we must atone for our actions. As much as I may be able to lower the risk, a risk still exists nonetheless. Before you make your final decision, you should think of Emma, of your foster parents and what will happen to you – and them – should you be captured and prosecuted. If you fail, then Rameen or his father Hakim might succeed in the role of avenging angel. This John Birch could also be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Even if Mariner proves successful in temporarily disabling the security there are still too many variables involved in the job. We do not know the quantity and quality of the security personnel. What if you encounter a hotel staff member in the hallway, after coming back out of Rameen’s room? What about if the room is full of escorts or innocent civilians? I’m all for reducing the number of British civil servants we have, but there are kinder ways of doing it. And what if you are caught on a tourist’s mobile phone when walking through the foyer? You’re breaking your own rule of making a leap into the unknown. God knows what you will face when you pull out your gun and step into the suite. If I had come to you with this job, to complete in such a small timeframe, you would have doubtless said “thank you but no thank you.” You used to think you had nothing to lose. But you don’t anymore,” Porter argued, resisting the temptation to tell Devlin that his own safety could be at risk if something went awry. He selfishly wanted his retirement to last. “You mentioned you owe it to your friend to go after Jamal – but if he was any sort of friend he wouldn’t ask you to jeopardise everything… Your war is over. Let the past remain in the past. Killing him won’t make your friend walk again or bring that poor boy back to life… As you know, when you first retired, I was keen to have you come back and work for me. But then, I must confess, I admired you for giving yourself a second chance. You got out. Why do you want back in?”

  “I made a promise to someone,” Devlin replied, his voice a mosaic of regret, resignation and dogged determination.

  “Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; take honour from me and my life is done.”

  “The world won’t fall apart if you break your word, Michael. I have recently been reading about William Marshal, the medieval knight. Chivalry was always more of an idea than a reality. England’s greatest knight broke his word more times than a cabinet minister. I am of course worried that, whether you are aware of it or not, you are getting back into the game for a different, darker reason. Have you ever heard the name George Scarrow?”

  Devlin shook his head, half noticing the portraits of Edmund Burke and David Hume which hung behind Porter.

  “Scarrow was, like you, a soldier. He first served in the paras and then the SBS. He was pensioned off early when a bullet injured his shoulder and he couldn’t be fit for active service in any regiment. Scarrow was smart, brave and not a little insane when his blood was up. Soldiering had been his life and no sooner did he leave the army than he signed up as a mercenary. He worked in personal protection in Afghanistan, he worked the oil tankers in Somalia and did a few jobs for myself. The work paid well and he told me – and himself – that he had to keep working to pay for two divorces and school fees for his children. But after one or two drinks Scarrow would tell you the real reasons why he couldn’t retire and adjust to civilian life. He told me that he missed the adrenalin rush of being a soldier. There was no other drug like it – and trust me he experimented with a few. If he didn’t have a mission or cause, then there was a gaping hole in life. He knew how absurd he sounded when he said it too – but he had been a soldier for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. He thought he wasn’t good for anything else. As Thomas Paine once wrote, “Habit makes more converts than reason.” And so George kept working. He drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney. His reflexes slowed and he grew careless on jobs. The spirit may be willing but the flesh is all too often weak. George contracted cancer and passed away around half a dozen years ago. Old soldiers do die, as well as fade away. There must have been no more than ten people at his funeral to mourn and celebrate his life. Even his ex-wives and children were absent. I visited George in hospital and one of the last things he said to me was that I shouldn’t ever go chasing past glories – because you can never catch up with them. I would rather you didn’t follow George’s path. Give yourself something to live for, rather than die for. Civilian life isn’t all that bad, so long as you don’t spend too much time in the company of other civilians,” Porter asserted. He felt a shard of shame at lying to his friend – as he had made-up George Scarrow and his emblematic life story – but things needed to be said, he judged.

  “It’ll be just one last job. But I’ll understand if you can’t help me, Oliver.”

  “But you’ll proceed even without my help?”

  Devlin nodded his head. Porter sighed - and then sent Mariner a text message to say he needed to meet with the hacker after lunch.

  Emma shook the charity tin on the counter at the florists and smiled, as she heard the rustle of several notes inside. Sunlight poured through the window like honey and a symphony of scents sewed themselves into the air, like fine silks embroidering a tapestry. The shop looked beautiful. Takings were up for the week, again. But something was wrong. Emma shifted on her stool, uncomfortable, like a princess with a pea beneath her mattress, as she recalled her prosecco-fuelled conversation with her friend Samantha at lunchtime:

  “You should stop having sex with him until he proposes. Or give him the best sex of his life, in order to prompt him to pop the question,” Samantha half-joked, as she offered a demure look to their Italian waiter. Although recently married, the bored housewife was not averse to having some fun while her sales executive husband was away on business (“I know that he cheats on me when he’s in Paris, so why shouldn’t I cheat on him occasionally?”).

  Emma had laughed at her friend’s comment, but bittersweetly. She was ready to commit to him. She loved him. And marriage would deepen, sanctify, their love. There are some Catholics who like to collect sacraments like service medals. And the sooner she married the sooner she could have children.

  “Or, I’ve got an even better idea,” Samantha remarked, her eyes narrowing in a spirit of gleeful, tipsy deviousness. “I can let you have the keys to our apartment in Paris. If he doesn’t propose to you during a romantic weekend in the city of lovers, then he never will. And it’ll be his loss.”

  Emma tapped her foot on her stool in excitement – and nervousness – as she considered the plan. With every tap, she vacill
ated between hope and dread, painting scenarios of him proposing – or her leaving. Emma also thought of all her friends who had married (and some were now divorced) – calculating how long they had dated their partners before they had gotten engaged.

  If only he’d take off his wedding ring. Show me a sign.

  8.

  Good weather only lasts for so long. Around dusk the clouds congregated together like a pitchfork-carrying mob and soon afterwards the heavens opened. The storm hissed and spat like a mongoose. Violet lay curled-up on the sofa and, her brow furrowed, gazed out the window, gloomily wondering if the drear and violent weather would ever end. She lay in between Devlin and Emma. A selection of country songs, by Hank Williams, Glen Campbell and the Dixie Chicks, played in the background. As Devlin had often remarked over the years, to anyone who would listen, country music was one of the best things America had ever given the world.

  “Now, you’re looking at a man that’s getting kinda mad

  I had a lot a luck but it’s all been bad

  No matter how I struggle and strive

  I’ll never get out of this world alive…”

  “It sounds like a plan,” Devlin said, after half-listening to Emma talk about arranging a trip to Paris. “Can we finalise things next week though?”

  Devlin was distracted, like a man on a train worried about missing his flight at the airport. Emma noticed how he had been on the same page of the book he’d been reading for over ten minutes. The oppressive humidity only fanned the flames of their frustrations. He needed space and quiet, to think about the job. He needed to research various pieces of information on his laptop, but dared not for fear of Emma glancing at the screen and quizzing him. He wanted to think about Rameen, stoke the furnace of vengeance in his heart. He wanted to work his way through the bottle of Grey Goose vodka in the freezer, instead of just having a couple of glasses. He wanted to take out his weapon and lay its constituent parts on the kitchen table and clean it – smell the gun oil on his fingers. He wanted a cigarette and to listen to more Hank Williams, with the volume turned-up. He wanted his privacy and home back for the night, with only the dog and the ghost of Holly for company.