Home Front: A James Marshal Thriller Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  “I hope you don’t mind, but people may mistake you for being my boyfriend this evening,” Grace said, as she got out of the vehicle.

  “There are worse fates.”

  “I just wouldn’t want to make Violet jealous.”

  Marshal’s half-smile turned into a full, piratical grin – as they shared another moment. A stream of people moved around them, like foaming water bending around a rock in a river.

  16.

  Evening.

  The party had started. The house was lit up like a lava lamp from the nineteen seventies.

  During the afternoon, Olivia welcomed Grace and, along with a bottle of Prosecco, took her for a walk in the woods. Olivia chatted to her old friend about the state of her marriage. Grace was already aware of some of Simon Yale’s previous infidelities. Olivia had found incriminating evidence of another affair in the past month. She had confronted her husband and he explained that the affair had been meaningless, a one-night stand. He said he had got drunk and coked-up in London, after hearing about the death of his uncle. He had slept with someone who had come onto him. Seduced him. It meant nothing, he vehemently argued. “We shouldn’t throw away what we have over a drunken mistake.” Simon promised not to see her again – and he kept his word. Partly because he had a second mistress, which his wife was unaware of. Olivia said that she thought they were now through their “bad batch” and her husband was more attentive (he had recently bought her a new car and they were planning a trip to Tuscany). Simon was stressed from work and long hours meant he had to sometimes stay overnight in their flat in London. “We’re going to be fine. We’re happier than other couples I know.” Grace nodded her head and offered her friend a shoulder to cry on as they sat on a stump in the woods. But she thought the lady was protesting too much. It wasn’t only men who lied to themselves. Without deceiving herself a woman cannot live. The advice she wanted to offer was to keep any hard evidence of her husband’s unfaithfulness, so Olivia could one day pass it onto a lawyer during divorce proceedings.

  “But how about you? Have you got your eye on anyone? Or it’s probably the case that someone has got their eye on you,” Olivia posed to her friend. She had always been jealous of the attention her model friend attracted. She had hoped that Grace would be jealous of her, when she married Simon. But, annoyingly, she didn’t feel any envy towards her.

  “I’m keeping my eye out for Cupid, mainly to avoid his arrows rather than to step in front of one,” Grace replied. She didn’t mention her driver. There was nothing to say. Or was there?

  Whilst Grace spent time with Olivia, Marshal waited in the car. He read and napped, which was a welcome return to his normal routine. His body felt stiff and sluggish when he woke. Part of him wanted to go for a run, feel his thighs burn and gulp down the country air. As much as he was looking forward to spending the evening with Grace, he was looking forward to returning to London too. He wanted a drink, whether a pint in his local pub or a large whisky back at his flat. He wanted a coffee back in Hej. Somehow other coffee tasted second-best. Grace was now waking him up and perking him up, instead of caffeine. He also wanted to book in time at a gun range.

  Marshal swapped a few texts with Grace to arrange to meet her at the front of the house. He changed in the car. Apparently, the dress code was quite relaxed. He wore jeans, a shirt and suit jacket. For some reason, he felt nervous. His palms perspired. His heart rate was up. His insides fizzed, but he put that down to hunger. He never got nervous when going on dates, so why should he somehow be nervous now?

  They met by the sculpture, but Marshal only had eyes for the natural beauty of Grace. She was wearing a dark blue Roland Mouret crepe fitted dress and Kurt Geiger heels. The cross around her neck glinted in the light, like a distant star. The lines of her figure cut through the air like the prow of a narrow ship gliding across the sea. Her bare skin – her shoulders, arms and shins – shimmered like Persian silk. Grace beamed, happy to see him. Her lips seemed fuller, and not just because of the lipstick. Her eyes were the window to a kind, humorous soul. Should Marshal have gone for a run, he might now have been weak at the knees. Desire – and something else – acted like bellows to stoke his being. He wasn’t dead inside, for her.

  “You look like Natasha Rostova, before a ball,” he warmly remarked, after catching his breath.

  The butterflies in her stomach fluttered some more, and she hoped she wasn’t blushing too much. The model had received a torrent of compliments over the years. Too many to mention or remember. But she would remember that one. Grace wondered whether Marshal was more akin to Pierre or Prince Andrei from War & Peace. Perhaps he was like both. Perhaps he was like neither.

  “And you’re dressed like a hedge fund manager. You’ll fit right in.”

  “There are worse fates. Although I can’t quite think of any at the moment.”

  They walked through into the large ground floor area which hosted the party. Marshal’s eyes darted around the room, examining possible threats, weapons and exits. Unfortunately, he also noticed salmon-pink leather sofas, chrome coffee tables, more gender fluid sculptures and the odd daubing by a painter who Simon proclaimed was “the new Basquiat”. He stood on a peacock-blue tiled floor. The space resembled Ikea’s latest showroom. Like the outside, the inside projected wealth rather than taste. Light sparkled off sequined dresses and jewellery, as if several disco balls hung from the ceiling. A pianist played in the corner, although she could barely be heard above the chattering classes.

  The party spilled out onto the lawn and through the rest of the house, like poison ivy. Attractive catering staff, wearing faux satin French maid outfits, brought around glasses of Cristal champagne. Apparently, the caterers were the ones used by Harry and Megan at their wedding. Thin-lipped lawyers, balding financiers, smartphone-wielding lobbyists and media people (a classification which covered a multitude of sins) populated the room. Marshal wryly smiled, as he was indeed dressed like others at the party. He could have been mistaken for a Master of the Universe too, albeit he shuddered at the thought. He mused upon what the collective noun for lawyers might be. A pocket? And what about the collective name for media high-flyers? A slough? He read somewhere that the collective noun for feminists was a conceit. But surely that couldn’t be right. Could it?

  Non-white faces were conspicuous by their absence. The companies that guests ran had recently instigated small diversity schemes, however, which they were keen to publicise.

  Alluring, statuesque women adorned their men, like accessories. They wore diaphanous, flowing gowns or chic cocktail dresses which seldom reached four inches above the knee. Outfits clung to gym-toned figures, like vacuum packed meat. Glossy, coiffured hair crowned bronzed, botoxed faces with taut, strained smiles. The women were achingly gorgeous, fantastically vain and wonderfully dull. There were, of course, exceptions which didn’t disprove the rule. There was so much obtuse beauty in the room that it was somehow ugly. Overbearing. Marshal’s eyes began to water from the fog of perfume which wafted over him.

  The noise wasn’t deafening enough, as he could still hear their cricket-like voices. He felt like his ears might burst, as if he were on a plane suffering from a change in cabin pressure. Throughout the evening Marshal would overhear more than one guest brag about how much their house cost, and how little they paid their staff. Various other gobbets of conversation made him wince or sigh.

  “Anyone who voted for Brexit should be gassed, or at the very least they shouldn’t be allowed to vote… Single-use plastics. They’re evil. Wicked. Worse than knives or guns… I can’t think of a greater crime than to have zero women directors on the shortlist for the Oscar. Can you think of something more unfair and egregious? I despair… You have to admire Mark Zuckerberg… There are dead people who probably pay more in tax than I do, thanks to my financial adviser. I would rather divorce my wife than fall out with him… Fucking Grenfell! I had to find a new cleaner and dog sitter when they rehoused the residents. What a disaster it was,
trying to re-staff… I voted for the Green Party at the last election. Caroline Lucas knows what she’s talking about.”

  Marshal could also intermittently hear the chopping sound of credit cards cutting up cocaine on mirrored table tops.

  The consolation of being with Grace was soon taken away from him as Olivia approached and led her friend off, in order to introduce her to a top literary agent.

  “You don’t mind, do you, if I steal Grace away?” Olivia asked, without waiting for an answer. She considered him “just staff”. Marshal couldn’t quite decide whether his hostess had a sweet or sour face.

  Grace mouthed “sorry” to him as she was dragged across the room, weaving her way through the glittering crowd. Olivia plonked her friend in front of the lauded agent, Julius Lavender. The Philip Green look-alike all but licked his lips, for various reasons, at the prospect of working with the stunning model. Lavender had slept with more than one aspiring novelist over the years, as writers grew starstruck with the famous agent, who could often be heard on Radio 4 or holding court at the Groucho Club. He was a “literary Svengali” and had “the Midas touch”, according to his Wikipedia page, which he had his assistant setup. Lavender changed the subject when Grace asked about the possibility of arranging book signings with his clients (partly because he wouldn’t be able to make any money out of the paltry events).

  “Have you ever considered writing a book yourself? If you give me your number, we could discuss one or two projects over dinner next week.”

  “I am afraid I’m too busy at the moment to write a book.”

  “We could still go ahead. Don’t be spooked, but I could always arrange a ghost-writer for you,” the agent said, laughing at his own weak joke whilst placing a hand on her bare forearm.

  Grace neither laughed nor smiled. Her skin crawled and she subtly recoiled from the sebaceous agent. She wanted to find Marshal, spend the night with him.

  Marshal yawned and nursed a bottle of beer. Usually, he would have drunk heavily to take the edge of his mood at similar gatherings. But he was on duty. He might still need to drive Grace to her hotel. He searched around for a sight of her, not just out of a sense of duty. He was like a parent looking around for a line of sight on a child, or a child searching for a parent.

  Unfortunately, instead of seeing Grace, Marshal caught sight of someone who looked remarkably like Lily Allen, stamping her foot and shouting at one of the serving girls. She was dressed in an even more ill-styled dress than the ill-informed singer, if that was at all possible.

  “I said I wanted two olives in my fucking drink. Do you understand English? I could send out a tweet about your catering company and fucking destroy you.”

  The social media “influencer” was high on coke, and her own self-importance. She had been in meetings all day with her publicist, trying to decide whether to promote MAC or Bobbi Brown lipstick. She would duly recommend the company which paid the most.

  The pianist finished her set – and a melange of modern pop music poured, like swill, out of the sound system. Marshal began to develop a headache. Perhaps he should get drunk. Vodka was like a magic potion, which gave him special powers to endure society. He felt like he had a thorn lodged in his frontal lobe. He desperately needed some fresh air – and a cigarette.

  After smoking a couple of cigarettes outside, Marshal headed to his car to retrieve his portable phone charger. He came back to the house via a side entrance. From a distance, he noticed a few other guests by the side door, having a drink and smoking. He also saw one of the serving girls, attempting to collect glasses, and heard voices. Nicola could have been no older than twenty-one. She worked for the caterers to help pay for her studies. The comely girl was used to clients hitting on her, but they usually took things in good grace when she politely declined their advances, or subtly mentioned she had a boyfriend.

  “Stay and party with us, out here. We’ve got champagne and coke. The only thing missing from the party is you,” one of the men, Aaron Smyth, remarked. Smyth was around thirty years old and dressed in the obligatory jeans, shirt and suit jacket. He reminded Marshal of various chinless wonders in the civil service – and Ruperts he had encountered in the army. Smyth was sat around a table, with two friends. The first, Gareth Hunte, had the build of a fly-half. The second, Brad Masters, was tall and olive-skinned. He was strikingly handsome and physically imposing. He probably swam or rowed. Marshal thought he looked like an Argentinian polo player. He could have been a model for Marks & Spencer’s Blue Harbour range of clothing.

  Marshal quickly surveyed the scene. A few unused chairs were spread around the area. A couple of empty bottles of Cristal sat on the table, along with a couple of empty wine coolers, a credit card and the remnants of a line of cocaine. Hunte and Masters flanked Smyth. They seemed half cut and half high. Another figure stood apart from the trio, smoking, telling himself that the waitress could handle herself. That it was all just innocent fun. Smyth placed his hand on the serving girl’s thigh as she leaned over to collect the empty bottles. She squirmed and wriggled free from his paw.

  Smyth sized the newcomer up, with a thinly veiled look of contempt. The currency trader didn’t recognise Marshal as being part of his circle. Although dressed smartly, his clothes were low-rent compared to others.

  “Evening,” Marshal said, turning towards the waitress. “Would you like some help taking those bottles inside?”

  “Who are you? She’s staying here, aren’t you Nicola?” Smyth said, his voice dripping with arrogance and entitlement. When he screwed up his face the former Bullingdon Club member appeared pugnacious. He was used to getting his own way. He was used to women falling for his charms. The trader had rowed with his girlfriend earlier and left her back in their apartment in Chelsea. He would exact his revenge by sleeping with the young waitress, or someone else, tonight.

  “You can fuck off inside though,” Masters exclaimed, in a honking, New York accent, before sniffing up any detritus of cocaine stuck in his nostril.

  “Nicola, would you like to go back inside?” Marshal asked, ignoring the would-be alpha male and his cohorts.

  The girl nodded, visibly distressed.

  “Get lost or get hurt,” Hunte said, brusquely. The cocaine had kicked in. He was keen to either fight, or fuck someone, this evening, so as not to waste the high.

  “You can’t be one of Simon’s friends in finance. If you were, you would be able to count better. There’s three of us and one of you,” Smyth asserted, running his hand through his long blond hair. His “mane”, as he called it.

  “I don’t mind you fetching a couple more of your friends, if you want to make the odds more even,” Marshal replied, with the flicker of a smile. His expression soon returned to one of even less thinly veiled contempt.

  “You’re funny,” the trustafarian said, humourlessly. His features tightened, as the tension in the air congealed even more. The Master of the Universe was not used to being challenged or defied. Or, worse, treated as a joke.

  “You’re providing me with plenty of good material,” Marshal replied, amiably and goadingly. He was fully prepared to engage with the trio, who were harassing the waitress.

  His chair scraped across the floor as a riled Aaron Smyth quickly rose to his feet and approached the stranger. Hunte and Masters stood up in solidarity. The former Para didn’t flinch as the currency trader closed in. Smyth believed he was a hawk to Marshal’s dove. He wanted to affirm his superiority. But Smyth was boxing himself into a corner. He knew he couldn’t now back down and lose face in front of his tribe.

  The calm, confident half-smile on Marshal’s face became more mocking than wistful. He was keeping his cool, in inverse relation to Smyth losing his. Yet, the ex-soldier’s body remained a coiled spring. Ready to strike. He was a firework, ready to explode. All it needed was for someone to light the touch paper. The knight-errant was keen to protect the lady’s honour. But, perhaps even more so, he was keen to beat the men in front of him to a pulp b
ecause he would enjoy it. Marshal would no longer feel dead inside, during the fight.

  The backswing in Smyth’s untrained punch was far too pronounced. Marshal could have seen the blow coming from as early as yesterday afternoon. But instead of comfortably moving out the way of his opponent’s fist he shifted his head so that Smyth’s delicate hand struck him on the top of the head. Marshal heard the distinct sound of bones cracking.

  Not even the cocaine could numb the pain. The imperious plutocrat let out an animalistic howl of agony. The ululation was abruptly cut short by Marshal delivering a left jab and then scything right hook. He deliberately aimed for his opponent’s nose and cheek, to prevent his hands being injured by his combatant’s bleached teeth. Smyth fell to the floor.

  Hunte and Masters gawped on in stunned silence, like goldfish with their mouths permanently open, and were slow to react. But Marshal wasn’t. He had no desire to stop and admire his handiwork, as much as the sight of Smyth groaning on the floor, with his nose broken and hair far from styled, was a welcome one. He grabbed the nearest chair and launched it at Masters. The American did and didn’t know what hit him. The metal stanchion of the chair struck him just above the eye and broke the skin. A rivulet of blood streamed down his cheek like a tear. The chair also slammed against his elbow. An injury to the funny bone is no laughing matter.

  The handsome venture capitalist, a Harvard graduate from Long Island, was more concerned about the state of his looks than the fate of his friends. Brad, when he felt the smart of pain and witnessed the blood on his fingers, retreated inside. He fervently craved a mirror to assess any damage. He had terrifying visions of being disfigured. Masters no longer did any business with Smyth either. The contract between their companies had expired.