by Thomas Waugh
Marshal never hesitated and never missed.
“Do you enjoy killing the enemy?” an owlish counsellor, who had to keep pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose from the sweat running down his face, posed during a designated therapy session at Camp Bastion.
“I enjoy not being shot by the enemy,” the soldier replied, before yawning out of boredom or contempt.
Marshal’s last kill had not occurred in Helmand, however. It had been on the streets of South London. He had gunned down three members of the Albanian mafia, after they had threatened to execute him and his girlfriend, Grace. Marshal did not hesitate or miss, as he emptied his Glock 21 into the murderous trio. He had started and ended the war against the criminal gang, after an Albanian drug dealer had dared to flick a cigarette butt at Marshal. The spark ignited a fire inside the soldier.
“Well, I get up in the morning and I get my brief
I go out and stare at the world in complete disbelief
It’s not righteous indignation that makes me complain
It’s the fact that I always have to explain…”
Thankfully, Van Morrison drowned out the din of the football fans at the far end of the bar - crowing or offering up feigned despair over a throw-in.
Marshal took another swig of his brandy, not knowing if the alcohol was quelling or fuelling the dull ache in his stomach. It was the same dull ache he felt during the last months of his career in the army. Perhaps it was the equivalent of a five-year itch. Something was calling him to action. Marshal sometimes felt like he was a gun, laying too dormant – waiting to be fired.
“You will not go far in the army with your current attitude,” his commanding officer asserted, after giving him a well-rehearsed but uninspiring lecture in relation to following orders. Marshal (just about) respected the man, who religiously collected biographies of the Duke of Marlborough – and had famously, or infamously, carried out an affair with his sister-in-law.
“I hope that’s a promise rather than a threat,” Marshal drily replied, having already decided that his current tour would be his last. Choosing to enlist in the army had been one of the best decisions he had ever made. But leaving the army had been another.
One of the other locals, Paul, walked in the bar and sat next to Marshal. It was difficult to tell which thing Paul loved the most - beer or Chelsea FC. It depended on their league position and how much he had drunk during any given evening. He was a good man, who could stand a round - and make and take a joke. The two friends greeted each other, and Marshal gave Ross a nod to get a round in, including one for the barman. Ross was on the cusp of celebrating or commiserating. His claim to fame was that he had been one of the first actors to play Simba in the London stage production of The Lion King. Ross had recently auditioned for the part of Mufasa and was waiting on news of a call back. “It’s the circle of life,” he had half-joked.
“How’s Grace?” Paul asked, asking after Marshal’s girlfriend, who occasionally came down to the Tap for a drink. The former model was a welcome sight – and could make and take a joke herself. No matter how gripping the match, few customers remained glued the screen when she walked into the bar. Men leered. Women sneered.
“She has been away, in New York, visiting friends. Grace has the wisdom to spend some time away from me. You can have too much of a good - or mediocre - thing. She’s back tomorrow, though. I’m cooking her a meal. If the sight of me doesn’t turn her stomach, then my chilli con carne might,” Marshal remarked, the joke or the thought of Grace bringing a smile to his face. The forty-plus year old suddenly appeared five years younger.
“She’s a great gal, one in a million. Far too good for you, of course. Are you thinking of making an honest woman of her, though?”
Initially, cynically, Marshal thought that “honest woman” might be an oxymoron. The smile briefly fell from his expression, like ice cream running down a child’s hand during a sweltering afternoon, as the prospect of marriage loomed large in his brain, like a tumour. The dull ache in his stomach increased. “The marriage hearse,” William Blake wrote. Now there was an oxymoron. Marshal was in little doubt that he loved Grace. He did not want anyone else. But everlasting love was another likely oxymoron. Marshal was all too aware of his inability to remain faithful to a cause or person – for five weeks, let alone five years or more. He had abandoned his education and various intellectual pursuits – despite having attended Harrow, Magdalen, and Sandhurst. He cut short his career in the army. He must have written the first three chapters to at least half a dozen novels. But no fourth chapter. After the army Marshal worked as a PMC (Personal Military Contractor) in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as doing a stint for the shipping companies hunting down Somali pirates. But nothing was long-term, permanent - or purposeful. Like his relationships. When he returned to England, Marshal was hired by the fixer, Oliver Porter. Porter arranged for the former soldier to serve as a close personal protection officer. But, again, his heart was not in it. He was as constant as Cressida – or Charlie Sheen. Loving Grace today was no guarantee of loving her tomorrow. And what if they brought a child into the world? Did Marshal want to bring a child into the world? A world in which Jeremy Corbyn and Grant Shapps existed. He would not be able to keep both a gun and child in the house at the same time. He even employed some warped reasoning and flirted with the idea that it was better to break things off – to hurt Grace a little now instead of hurting her a lot in the future. Marshal could count the number of successful marriages he knew of on one hand. Divorce rates were as high as his cholesterol levels. Grace would know just as few successful long-term relationships, but still he sensed that she would prefer to be married. No one wanted to live in sin, albeit everybody did in some way, he darkly mused. Was there not a part of him which wanted to be married too, to sanctify their bond in a house of God? Catholicism ran through Marshal, like veins through a block of marble.
“If she can make an honest man out of me in return, then Grace will be one in a trillion,” Marshal countered, regaining his humour and composure.
2.
The rain abated. The starless sky was now mottled, like an antique gun barrel. Marshal downed another brandy and left the bar. He had a lunch with an old friend, Jack “Nails” Foster, the next day. There were several rumours pertaining to his nickname. Some explained that he was as hard as nails. Others that he once killed an assailant with a nail gun. Others that he had disarmed a nail bomb in a pub in Belfast. Foster neither confirmed nor denied any of the stories. It was unlikely to be a dry lunch. The idea of a dry lunch was anathema, or an oxymoron, to the former member of the SAS, Marshal thought. There had been an edge to Foster’s voice when Marshal had spoken to him over the phone. The soldiers would drink, until the edge was tempered.
Marshal walked home; head bowed down like a mourner. The temperature had dropped, but not so dramatically that his shoulder, injured from a bullet received in Helmand, began to stiffen. His square jaw was dusted with stubble and his light brown hair (cut short, but not army short) was peppered with a few, or more than a few, grey hairs. His brown eyes appeared tired or, at best, wistful. His expression may have often been world weary, but thankfully Marshal could still laugh along with the joke of life. It was important to laugh in the face of a pernicious world, otherwise you became the punchline. Beneath a dark blue sports jacket, with a dog-eared copy of Graham Greene’s Gun for Sale poking out of the pocket, Marshal wore a black polo shirt which Grace had bought for him. She knew what he liked. He also wore some faded jeans which, like their owner, had seen better days. What with it being South London, he also wore a pair of white Reeboks.
Marshal had lit a cigarette, within a few steps after leaving The Tap-In. He smoked less since meeting Grace but couldn’t quite wholly quit. He liked to smoke after eating, after sex, and in between drinks. The cigarette often ousted any bitter taste in his mouth, from tedium or misanthropy. When Oliver Porter once asked, “You don’t particularly like people, do you James?” Ma
rshal wryly replied: “I can’t believe that anyone can much like people, after getting to know them. Life is a sexually transmitted disease.”
Neon flickered in the takeaway signs. Grim, jowly faces peered out of grimy bus windows. Pasty youths glared, mesmerised, into phone screens, barely avoiding being run over by Prius after Prius gliding by, waiting for the latest Uber customer to book a ten-minute journey. London churned out more vacuity and selfishness than petrol fumes. Clusters of cranes, like groups of steel, skeletal dinosaurs, loomed large on the horizon - building and destroying the capital at the same time. The circle of life. Gigantic glass and aluminium phalluses also littered the landscape, appearing like a computer-generated backdrop to an underwhelming, utopian sci-fi film. But modernity was a veneer, the caked-on make-up of a drab. It is always difficult to polish a turd. Antifa had not quite created paradise yet. London was still a mix of Vanity Fair and the Slough of Despond, Marshal considered - all the worse for so few of its inhabitants being familiar with John Bunyan and The Pilgrim’s Progress.
Marshal’s phone vibrated. He grinned. It was a message from Grace.
Just arrived at another dinner party. Hiding in the toilet. Trump has just been compared to Hitler and someone has boasted that she uses the same eyeliner as one of the Kardashians. I miss you. Don’t drink too much tonight. On second thoughts, do drink too much. It’ll make it easier for me to take advantage of you. xx
He replied:
I miss you too. Am picturing you wearing an “I like Ike” campaign badge and a short skirt that’s tighter than a Scotsman. xx
Grace replied:
You are awful. But I like you. xx
Marshal put his phone back in his pocket and crossed the road, deciding to take a shortcut back to his flat. He headed into a backstreet, which would have been ill-lit even if it did not run beneath a railway arch. Pigeon shit covered the pavement like a bad, or highly regarded, Jackson Pollock painting. The air reeked of piss, weed and pizza. The alleyway was deserted, or rather almost deserted.
Even after a few drinks the ex-soldier was more aware of his surroundings than most. It was his training, partly. As much as weariness sometimes infused his bones, wariness had been grafted onto him, like a tree developing a new branch. His eyes had learned to flit left and right each time he entered a village or crossed a road in Helmand. During his time as a close protection officer Marshal was accustomed to assessing the entrances and exits to each location and taking in any suspicious, or innocent looking, figures inhabiting the space.
The first figure occupying the alleyway sat upon a moped, tapping away on his phone but occasionally, furtively, glancing up. The youth wore an open-faced helmet. Gaunt. Foreign. Dressed in a Man Utd top, beneath a stained leather jacket. His teeth were yellow, as if he swished urine around in his mouth every morning. Greasy, black curls poked out of the helmet.
Another figure, well-built but ill-dressed in a purple puffer jacket and grey tracksuit bottoms, stood on the other side of the street. They looked like brothers, or cousins, Marshal considered. He noted a skull tattoo on his thick neck. His nose was as crooked as a hedge fund. He buried his hands in his pockets. Perhaps he was trying to keep them warm, perhaps he was clasping a knife. His head was shaved, his features as hard as gnarled bones. He looked unpleasant. He was unpleasant.
Marshal remembered Ross mentioning how the area had suffered a recent spate of mobile phone and laptop thefts. One man would snatch an item and then quickly jump on the back of his confederate’s motorbike. Or the two of them would ride past their victims and grab the phone or laptop from a table. Some locals, mainly women, had also been robbed at knifepoint. The Southwark News had covered the latest crime spree, reporting that the police believed the suspects to be Romanian – although no arrests had been made.
Toma had sat on his moped and witnessed the man put his phone in his pocket, cross the street and head towards the alley. It would be easy pickings. He sent his cousin, Luca, a text message – reminding him to take his wallet and watch, as well as phone. Once the mugging was finished, they would ride over to Camberwell – and then Dulwich and Peckham Rye. They had already pinched devices from Blackfriars and Waterloo earlier in the evening. Their aim was to steal a dozen items by the end of the night. If they somehow got caught the authorities would try – but fail – to deport them. Most victims probably did not even bother to report the thefts to the police. Their insurance would cover things. They would get a new phone, or an upgrade.
“We are doing them a favour,” Toma half-jested to his cousin, a month ago, when they had started the enterprise.
The pair were not affiliated with any gang, but Toma’s goal was to join the Romanian mafia. He dreamed of being a pimp – and unconsciously licked his lips every time he imagined the scenario. He would have sex with the girls whenever he wanted and earn more money than he ever could if he had remained in his village, just outside of Brasov. Toma envisioned himself working his way up in the organisation. The benefits system was generous - too generous - in England. The trained carpenter had originally come to London to find work and send money back to his family. But crime paid better. His favourite film was Scarface, having watched it over ten times in the past year.
Luca enjoyed the look of fear in his victim’s eyes as he snatched their phone or purse – and the blade of his knife loomed large in their terrified expressions. The stuck-up English women, who usually looked down their noses at the Romanian, appeared as frightened as little girls. He relished the power. The usually stern-faced thug would break out into a grin when his victims would scream or sob, as he climbed on the back of the bike and sped away. They would have good/profitable night again, Luca judged. He thought of some of his friends, who had travelled over from Romania, who worked as kitchen porters or cab drivers. They toiled endless hours for little reward. They were fools, as weak as women. Luca would go out tomorrow evening and enjoy the fruits of his labour. Beer. Cocaine. He would book a prostitute again. London was the promised land.
Marshal passed the point of no return. There had been a moment when he had registered the prospective danger – and he could have turned back onto the main road and relative safety. Some say that once a Catholic, always a Catholic. And once a Para, always a Para. The regiment’s motto was “Ready for Anything”. When the regiment was founded in 1942, Churchill described the soldiers as “men apart”. They were the first to fight and the last to leave the battlefield. Marshal was never going to turn back and re-join the main road. No retreat. No surrender. Part of him wanted the suspect figures to attack him – so he could attack them in return. Hurt them. Take them out of action, like the Taliban. He wanted to deliver justice – and feel alive. He never went looking for trouble, Marshal told himself, but he was content for trouble to find him.
Marshal’s square jaw became squarer, as he clenched his teeth. His hand balled into a fist, knuckles cracking. The words of various instructors, from his time in the army, milling, chimed in his ears. Controlled aggression.
Toma nodded to Luca to set off after their quarry. The brutal thug intended to grab the Londoner’s coat, twist him around and punch him in the face, without a word said. His victim would hand over everything, whilst still in shock. If the Englishman hesitated, Luca would pull the knife from his pocket. If he tried to fight back, then the Romanian would use the knife. He had stabbed opponents before. It was stab, or be stabbed, back on the streets of Brasov, when opposing gangs or football fans clashed. He had scarred people for life, without a moment’s regret. If his initial blow knocked the Englishman out, then the burly Romanian would duly search through his pockets for his phone and wallet. He would check for a watch worth selling on too, to a pawnbroker they regularly dealt with - who was more than comfortable with selling stolen goods.
Toma sniffed - trying to mine any remnants of cocaine from his nostrils - and got ready to start the bike. The revving of the engine would drown out any noise emanating from underneath the railway arch.
/> Luca wore black trainers. His footsteps were quick but quiet on the pavement as he moved up behind the Englishman. But not quite quiet enough. Marshal turned around as his assailant was half a dozen paces away. Usually, his victims flinched or cowed when the imposing, intimidating figure of Luca approached his prey. Or they tried to run away. But the Englishman advanced towards the Romanian, covering the ground between them in the blink of an eye.
Instead of using his fist to strike his opponent, for fear of breaking his hand, Marshal swung his elbow around into the Romanian’s face, breaking his nose. Cartilage split through skin. Luca remained on his feet, his neck acting like a shock absorber. Before his opponent could recover from the initial blow, the Englishman buried his foot into his groin – and then followed-up with a few punches. Marshal resisted hitting Luca as hard as he could. But he hit him hard enough. The Romanian staggered and fell. The back of his head struck the asphalt with a sickening crack, further disorientating and weakening him. Marshal needed to put the man down - methodically and viciously - before his confederate entered the fray. Which he did.
Toma’s face was twisted in malignancy and fury, as if his features had been turned in a kaleidoscope. The Romanian spat out a curse as he witnessed events unfold. Unravel. A couple of victims had tried to run or futilely attack Luca before. But this was different. Dire. Toma dismounted from the bike and raced over, to defend his cousin and attack the Englishman.
The Romanian spat out another curse in his native language and drew a kitchen knife. Marshal saw the blade. It would be fight rather than flight. His mind and body became even more alert, his brain awash with endorphins. Before his new opponent reached him, he took off his jacket and held it up, like a matador would his cape, away from his body.
“Drop the knife, or I will use it on you,” Marshal warned, his voice remarkably calm – making a promise rather than a threat.
