by Thomas Waugh
Grace finally hung up the phone. It was good to hear her friend’s voice again. It was like medicine. There were few people in New York, who she was leaving behind, she could call a friend.
“That was Olivia. She’s hosting the party in Witney, tomorrow. I’ve already sent you the address. I am planning on getting there a bit earlier now. I’m not sure how late I’ll be staying yet, however.”
Grace was looking forward to meeting her friend, but not necessarily looking forward to meeting her friend’s friends. She could picture the scene now, of men, married or otherwise, trying to chat her up. Their egos wouldn’t allow them to admit that Grace wasn’t interested or attracted to them. Or if they did, they would consider her frigid or a bitch. The women at the party may well scowl at her more though, believing that Grace was attempting to steal their man and demand to be the centre of attention. But she would paint a smile on her face, after putting on her make-up, and survive.
But life should be more than just about surviving.
“Would you like to come to the party with me?” Grace asked, after taking a breath, as if she were about to plunge into the sea. Not only might he be able to ward off some unwanted advances, if people mistook Marshal for her boyfriend – but the truth was she wanted to spend more time with him. “I could use the company, and I wouldn’t just want you to wait in the car all evening. Olivia says that high society will be attending, as well as various celebrities, but don’t let that put you off. I’ve booked us a couple of rooms in a local hotel, so I can order us a cab at the end of the night. We can pick up the car in the morning. You will then be able to have a drink at the party. I’m not sure I will be able to suffer high society if sober, so I shouldn’t expect you to do so too.”
Marshal experienced flashbacks to similar parties he had attended as an officer. He could feel the stiff collar again rubbing against his neck, like a Redcoat wearing a stock. He could hear a thousand wine glasses clink together, sounding like crashing wave – about to capsize his boat. He pictured his head nodding like a marionette, his smile resembling a rictus, as he listened to modish or fascistic opinions. He flinched a little as he imagined hearing shrill laughter or plummy guffaws – or conversations about holidaying in Tuscany. Attending a party, by the good and the great, was the last thing that Marshal felt like doing now.
“I’d love to come, thanks.”
Marshal realised he had said yes not because of anything he owed Porter, but because he wanted to do Grace a favour. He knew her enough to want to get to know her more. She also made him laugh. And he found himself laughing with rather than at her, which was a refreshing change.
14.
Marshal retreated into the guesthouse when they returned to the house. Sleep beckoned to him, like a succubus, but he drank a strong, black coffee and opened his laptop. The image of Grace kept inserting itself in his head, and her unaffected laughter echoed in his ears. But he did his best to banish visions of the model, like a monk endeavouring to banish tempting, intemperate thoughts.
He proceeded to enlarge his intelligence picture of the Albanians. He memorised key home and business addresses. He researched the locations of CCTV cameras in the areas. He once attended a lecture by a former MI5 operative, who briefed the room on building-up an intelligence picture. The more information he had, the better informed his decisions would be. He had to study his enemy’s distribution network, funding, recruitment process, hierarchy, known associates and operational procedures.
Marshal closed the blinds, ensured that the door was locked and opened the aluminium case that contained the Glock. He clasped the hard, coal-black weapon, with its pimpled grip, wanting it to feel familiar in his hand again. Wanting it to feel part of him, an extension of his arm and soul. He rehearsed the process of removing the gun from its shoulder holster and fixing the suppressor several times. The action needed to become muscle memory, second nature. All thoughts of Grace disappeared, as he pictured Rugova and Baruti – framed within the sight of the Glock. Marshal couldn’t hesitate when he confronted the Albanians, as they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. He was willing to pull the trigger. He had the heart, or lack of heart, to do so. The faces of the Taliban he cut down didn’t haunt him at night, but rather they hung in his mind like trophies on a mantlepiece. Marshal remembered his grandfather always kept a loaded Webley pistol in a drawer by his bed. He argued that he wanted to protect himself, should he encounter any intruders. There was a significant part of the veteran soldier which desired to be burgled, in order to fire the weapon again.
“The bastards deserve to die.”
A memory slotted itself into Marshal’s thoughts, like a knife sliding in between two ribs. Helmand. A village. The air, even in the shade, felt like a furnace. A routine patrol turned into an ambush. Marshal and two of his men – Cooper and Jarrod – were taking fire in a market square, as they took cover behind a brace of stone benches. They were caught in the crossfire, between three Taliban fighters positioned behind a wall at the end of the market and a sniper (or snipers) firing down on them from a first-floor window. The dead body of Marshal’s Corporal, Billy Tyson, lay at his feet. His freckled, shocked face was as white as a snowdrop. A round had ripped out his throat, nearly severing his head. The tough, bawdy Ulsterman had been deployed in Helmand at the same time as Marshal. The two men drank together, played darts together and fought together. Tyson had saved his Captain’s life on more than one occasion. But Marshal had to devote himself to the living rather than to the dead.
Bullets zipped through the air and chipped away at the stone benches. Cooper had radioed for support but there was no way of knowing when it would arrive. The village was a viper’s nest, full of enemy riflemen and IEDs.
Marshal calculated that they would eventually be sitting ducks. They would have died already, if the sniper was more proficient or one of the enemy possessed an RPG. He decided to go on the attack. The officer first handed his rifle to Jarrod, who had just exhausted his ammunition. He next asked his men to provide a burst of cover fire, before scrambling out from behind the benches. Bullets kicked-up dust around his feet as he raced towards the end of the square. As he reached cover, Marshal let out a blood-curdling scream and howled out, “Man down! Man down!” He wanted the sniper to believe he had injured him, that he was no longer a threat. Sweat drenched his grimy face and stung his eyes. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Marshal drew his pistol – a Glock 17 – and made his way through the narrow streets, avoiding any potential line of sight with the sniper, towards the building where the Taliban was positioned. Although his blood was up Marshal controlled his breathing. He stealthily entered the apartment building and slowly climbed the stairs, mindful that if he trod on a creaking step, he may well alert the enemy to his position. A burst of fire from the Taliban’s weapon could easily go through the plaster wall parallel to the staircase and cut him down.
The good news was that there was only one sniper present. The bad news was he spotted the British soldier out the corner of his eye as Marshal stood in the doorway. He was quick to pull his rifle around and aim it at the infidel. But not quick enough. The first shot from Marshal’s pistol ricocheted off the AK47, rendering it useless, and struck the sniper’s bicep. The second shot tore a hole in his gut, flooring him. The wound was serious, but not necessarily fatal. Marshal approached the sniper. The Afghani could have been no older than twenty. His attempt at a beard was almost comical. Rage had been replaced by a piteous expression. A couple of tears streamed down his cheeks. He said a couple of words in his native language, before uttering, “Mercy, mercy.” The young captive could well prove a source of valuable intel. Marshal shot the adolescent twice in the face and then, from his elevated position, threw a grenade at the remaining Taliban behind the wall.
The bastards deserved to die.
The two women were fussed over, and not purely because of their attractiveness. When Victoria and Grace arrived at the Italian restaurant, Garibaldi’s, they were
welcomed with open arms by the owner, Roberto, who had an uncanny resemblance to Eli Wallach. Porter had recently provided Roberto with help, which had saved the establishment from going under. The women were shown to a quiet table at the back. A complimentary carafe of Chianti and a plate of antipasto were waiting for them. Dean Martin played in the background. The walls were decorated with wood panelling and pictures of Garibaldi, Augustus Caesar, Caprera – and Tony Bennett. Freshly cut flowers and wicker placemats furnished each table. The aesthetic of the restaurant wouldn’t have looked out of place in the seventies, eighties or two thousand and thirty. Some of the remaining décor appeared kitsch, or just plain cheap, but the food and service were excellent.
Victoria invited her niece out for dinner because she imagined Grace might want to spend the night away from her driver. She hadn’t been terribly impressed by his presence the previous evening. They could also talk more freely if it was just the two of them. Ironically, Grace could barely stop thinking about Marshal throughout dinner. And when not privately musing upon the ex-soldier she would subtly interrogate her aunt about Marshal (as nonchalantly as possible, of course).
“His mother died when he was young, Oliver told me… James is estranged from his father, Donald. His father was disappointed in his son becoming a private military contractor, effectively a mercenary, after leaving the army. James was conversely disappointed in his father for the way he abrogated his responsibilities towards his grandfather. Donald advised his son not to throw his life away looking after the recent stroke victim, that he should just leave him in a care home.”
Grace leaned forward over the table, rapt by her aunt’s every word. Unwittingly or not she was building up her own intelligence picture of Marshal. The more information she had, the better informed her decisions would be.
Before Victoria had the opportunity to say anything else Roberto re-appeared, carrying a second complimentary carafe of wine.
“You must let us pay. I can, of course, get my revenge by leaving a generous tip,” Victoria said, protesting as best she could.
“Your husband has already paid us, tenfold. The local authority – parasites – were going to raise our rent and rates again. Not even the Cosa Nostra extort money from small businesses the way the government does. They had already promised our restaurant space to Pizza Express. We argued that we had been part of the community for twenty years. That we had paid, without complaint, the extra rent and rate rises over the past five years. Oliver heard about our problem and calmly said, “Leave it with me. I’ll fix things.” I didn’t hold out much faith, I must confess, but within a fortnight the council contacted us and said we would now experience a rate freeze, instead of a rate rise. I still don’t know how he did it. Your husband was a godsend. He is a good man. The best of men. It’s only natural that the wife of mister Oliver should be the best of women. And the best of women must have the best wine,” Roberto exclaimed, gesticulating with his free hand, and filling the two glasses on the table.
“Well, you might not think that Oliver was the best of men if you had to sample his cooking. But thank you, Roberto.”
The rosy-cheeked owner departed, thinking about which kind of special dessert he could ask his chef to cook-up for the two ladies.
“So, when did you first realise that uncle Oliver was a good man, or the best of men? You’ve never told me about when you first met. All I hear from my friends are tales of infidelity and divorce. It’ll be nice to hear a story with a happy ending for once. Was it love at first sight?” Grace asked, enjoying the wine and briefly thinking about what she might wear for the party tomorrow night.
What would he like?
“Oh, I think it might have been loathing at first sight. He looked good in uniform, but most men look good in uniform. As well as swearing an oath to Queen and country, Guards officers also seemingly have a duty to be full of themselves when they receive their commissions. Some remain faithful to that duty until the day they die too. I only started to find Oliver interesting when he stopped trying to impress me. Being terrified of my father helped him behave himself… The main reason why I liked him, which he never realised, which only made me like him more, was that he made me laugh. He still does… But getting married doesn’t mean it’s happy ever after. If they gave out long-service medals for staying married in the army, they wouldn’t have to cast too many… When he retired there was still a part of Oliver which remained remote. He became devoted to his work. It was like he had a mistress down in London. He argued that he was working hard to provide for me and the children, but I doubt if he even believed that himself. I’m still not quite sure what he did, during his time as a consultant. He said he provided financial services and advice on security. He certainly arranged drivers and close personal protection for clients,” Victoria explained, thinking that part of her didn’t want to know what her husband did. Semi-ignorance is bliss.
“Was there a moment when you knew Oliver was the one?” Grace asked, hoping the answer might prove as easy and obvious as two plus two equalling four. She felt moved and undeniably attracted to Marshal, earlier. It was when he had spontaneously recited Pushkin. If it had been a performance, then what a performance. If the melancholy in his features and voice were real – then he was like no one she had ever known. I live on, alone and jaded. Grace also recalled the appreciative (enamoured?) glint in his eye when she announced that she was opening the bookshop. He was genuinely happy for her. Had they shared their own moment?
“There may well be two answers to that question. The first was when Oliver said, in all earnestness, that if I gave the word, he would be willing to sacrifice his career in the army for me. I still remember the second moment vividly. We were having dinner with my family, and my father had also invited several senior officers over to meet Oliver. Halfway through the evening Oliver excused himself and went upstairs to use the bathroom. After being gone for some time I found him. My grandmother, who was staying with us at the time, had called out from having a nightmare and Oliver had popped into her room to make sure she was okay. I can still see him now, perched on the end of her bed, reading a Georgette Heyer novel to her. “He’s a nice man, a keeper,” she said to me the following morning. And one should always listen to one’s grandmother, as well as one’s aunt.”
The garden was swathed in lambent moonlight. The stars shimmered like silver dollar fish on the surface of a black sea. The light shone in the darkness. The two men sat, satiated, on cushioned chairs. A small table sat between them, holding two tumblers filled with eighteen-year-old Macallan and a pair of ashtrays, containing King of Denmark cigars. The meal had been simple, but delicious. Porter had picked up a couple of fillet steaks from his local butchers and cooked them with some new potatoes and button mushrooms. For dessert, Victoria had whipped up some Eton Mess beforehand. It was one of her husband’s favourites, as it reminded him of his childhood. Although they had just eaten their supper in the kitchen Porter was still dressed for dinner. The crease running down his trousers was straighter than a Roman road. Marshal fancied that someone could prick their finger and draw blood on the tip of his handkerchief, such was the sharpness on the point, which hung out of his breast pocket. He also noticed Porter’s gleaming silver novelty cufflinks, of two shotgun cartridges – a present from his wife. Marshal was dressed more casually, in jeans, a blue polo shirt and white Reeboks (an unofficial uniform, of sorts, for some South-East Londoners).
The two former officers discussed ex-colleagues. Some had left the army, but more so they gossiped about those who had recently left their wives for younger women. Divorce had cost some of them their dignity, or more damagingly half their pensions and their homes. Porter also mentioned a fellow ex-Guards officer who had been awarded a peerage. He had first contacted the Tory party to secure his entry into the Lords, but they had been lukewarm in their response. So, the former General approached the Liberal Democrats (albeit there was little that was liberal or democratic about the party). “He has no
shame, but he does have a peerage,” Porter tartly remarked. “I understand he’s regimental about signing-in each day at the at the Palace of Westminster, whilst keeping the cab running and turning back round to go to lunch – which he duly puts on expenses.”
“Have you never thought about going into politics?” Marshal asked, refilling their glasses with the Sancerre his host had liberated from the special corner of his wine cellar. Violet sat by his chair, either from devotion or she thought the guest might drop some food on the floor.
“By God, no,” Porter exclaimed, nearly choking on a piece of steak. “Perhaps if I was more dishonest, if I held fewer, or no, principles, I might be able to consider it. If I only possessed a will to embezzle – or could be bought by a lobbyist. I am not sure I have the energy to feign concern about climate change – or hold passionate opinions about subjects I know or care nothing about. I can’t bring myself to say a woman is a man, just because that’s the way she feels. If only I was as intelligent as David Lammy, as un-shrill Anna Soubry, as honourable as Grant Shapps, as honest as John McDonnell, as competent as Chris Grayling and as wise as Diane Abbott then I might be tempted to go into politics. But I’m content to remain retired. Yet you still have a fair amount of your working life ahead of you, James. Have you thought about coming out of retirement?”
“I’m good for nothing. Which is why I’ll probably continue to do nothing,” Marshal replied, shrugging his shoulders. The soul of insouciance. “I flirted with the idea of being a journalist at one point, believe it or not. But journalists tend to compose more tweets than articles these days. I would have ended up preaching to the converted, or throwing pearls before swine, I imagine. Or am I supposed to get a desk job somewhere, with a bank or at the MOD? In the Paras, I was serving beside men next to me who would watch your back, who would sacrifice their lives for me. If I worked for the civil service the men next to me would watch Celebrity Big Brother, and begrudgingly sacrifice the use of their phone charger. I say this with a sense of remorse rather than pride, but the British Army is one of the last bastions of a sense of honour and professionalism in the country. After signing up to the Paras, signing up to anything else would prove an anti-climax.”