by Thomas Waugh
“How do you know when you’ve met the right woman?” Marshal asked, believing that the date he had brought to the event was the wrong woman.
“You just know,” he replied, content rather than self-satisfied.
Marshal had dismissed Devlin’s words. Until now. He closed his eyes and pictured Grace. Elated. Uplifted. He had checked his phone, more than once, hoping to see a message from her. Marshal half-smiled more than once as he remembered noticing a well-thumbed paperback copy of The End of the Affair poking out of her handbag. I think I’m in love, Marshal had thought to himself. But this time, he wasn’t joking. Grace wasn’t Calypso. She was Penelope.
It was time to make a leap of faith and contact her, he decided. Ask her out to dinner. Today would be the first day of the rest of his life, should she say yes. He pulled out his phone.
Footsteps sounded on the metal stairway which led down to the beer garden. Marshal glanced up and put his phone away.
Baruti.
They’d found him. It was potentially game over. Marshal did his utmost to suppress any flicker of recognition. But inside his heart sank, as if he had just been diagnosed with cancer. He buried his face in his pint glass to hide his expression. Marshal felt like it was only the starch in his shirt holding him up. Part of him was tempted to run. He recalled the NCA files about Baruti entering establishments in Glasgow – and attacking or executing his enemies. Was he here to kill him? Marshal no longer pictured Grace, as if her image was formed in sand and the Albanian had blasted it away. His war may have been over, before it had a chance to start. Half his tactical advantage derived from his anonymity, invisibility.
Marshal took in the Albanian, as he walked towards him. He was unlikely to pull his gun, balancing his coffee cup, with no expedient escape route. With a police station around the corner and CCTV cameras littered along the main road outside. His eyes were bluer than the photographs suggested, the colour of a blowtorch flame. His suit was as black as the grim reaper’s garb, his features as sharp as a katana. Marshal also fancied that, should Baruti had been a little paler and gaunter, he would have resembled a vampire. He was somehow underwhelmed by the infamous Albanian. The spectre – who had haunted his thoughts and dreams for the past couple of days – had been made flesh. He noticed coffee-stained teeth, a small shaving nick, a frayed cuff and a few grey hairs.
Marshal couldn’t afford to lose the remaining part of his tactical advantage. The enemy was still unaware of the intelligence he had gathered. He needed to bluff, lie. Thankfully, life was mostly about bluffing, to oneself and others. Life was a game of poker. People told themselves every day that they were good, honest souls. That they would do anything – absolutely anything – for the sake of their children, aside from stay married and remain faithful. That there wasn’t a racist bone in their bodies, as they moved out of Hackney so they could send their children to a school in Saffron Walden. That they voted against Brexit because they were outward-looking, progressive, lovelier than those who voted for it.
They locked eyes. Neither exhibited any animus. Marshal stared at the Albanian as if he were a complete stranger.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” Baruti politely, yet firmly, asked.
“That’s fine,” Marshal replied, confounded. Dumbfounded. Playing a part.
“You do not know who I am. But I have you at a slight advantage. I know a little about you. I know where you live. I know you had an altercation with a couple of my employees a few days ago,” the Albanian said, stirring his coffee four times and tapping his spoon against the cup twice.
Marshal finally offered a flicker of recognition and pretended that the penny had dropped.
“I remember,” he replied, taking a swig of his pint again whilst casually glancing up at the windows of the pub, scanning for any of Baruti’s associates. He also took in the potential weapons on the table. Glasses, ashtrays. His hardback copy of The Power and the Glory could be slammed into his counterpart’s throat. The slim, stainless steel pen he used to complete a crossword could easily be used to stab the Albanian in the eye or temple. But if Baruti was here to kill him, he would be dead already.
“Please, do not worry. I am alone. I am just here to talk,” Baruti stated, holding up his hands defensively, non-threateningly, as he sat down. The enforcer wanted to initially put the Englishman at ease. Both killers adopted an equitable tone. “Firstly, can I ask your name? I would ask you to do me the courtesy of telling the truth. Honesty is always the best policy. I will know if you’re lying. We now know where you live, on Iliffe Street.”
“As much as your employees may consider that my name is mud, you can call me James.”
“My name is Dmitri,” Viktor remarked, after sipping his coffee. He narrowed his unblinking eyes and scrutinised Marshal, taking in the lines of his jacket to see if he was carrying a weapon. He was surprised to see that the Englishman was still half-smiling. “I take it that you served in the military. Certainly, you are not without some training.”
“How do you know I served in the military?”
“Let’s just say it takes one to know one,” the borderline psychopath remarked. “As much as we be standing on opposites sides of the fence, we probably have plenty of things in common. It may even be the case, after I check your credentials, that I offer you a job within our organisation. Before I can do that, however, I need to know if you are currently working for any of our rivals. Were you paid to attack my men, or are you just some kind of lone, good Samaritan?”
“I’m seldom called a good Samaritan. I could get used to it though. But you now know where I live. I’m not working for any of your rivals. I attacked your men, after I was assaulted by a cigarette butt first, to keep my neighbourhood safe,” Marshal explained, reasonably. He was akin to a swan gliding effortlessly, serenely, across the water – as his legs paddled furiously beneath the surface. He cursed his bad luck at having been found. Or was he at fault? If only he had accepted Porter’s offer to stay at his house – or go on holiday for a while. Or he could still be with Grace. Retribution from the Albanians could prove swift. They could come for him tonight. Should he just grab his passport and toothbrush and disappear? A tactical retreat might be the order of the day.
The rackety noise of a train passing overhead vexed the Albanian and interrupted him, just as he was about to speak. For a few seconds, he glowered at the train. Baruti looked like he wanted to kill every soul on board. He tapped his foot, impatiently waiting for the sound to subside, before continuing to speak.
“As a soldier, I appreciate that you probably have a code of honour. But you need to understand that we have a code of honour too. There must be honour among thieves, no? Like soldiers serving in a regiment, we need to trust one another, fight for each other. Our code demands we should punish you. By attacking one of us, you attack all of us. You understand?”
“I understand.”
The Albanian didn’t know whether to be impressed or confused by the half-smile still lining the Englishman’s features. He was half-expecting that the stranger would attempt to escape, or assault him, or beg for mercy, when he made himself known to his target. Perhaps the ex-soldier was suffering from some form of trauma. Conflict, violence, was too deeply ingrained in him as a way of life. He wanted to fight – or die.
“You do not appear too worried by this. A smarter man would be afraid. Do you have a death wish?”
“I can’t say I’m overly enamoured with life, but I don’t believe I have a death wish,” Marshal replied, remembering a scrap of conversation he had with Porter a couple of nights ago. The fixer was thinking about Devlin and asked Marshal if he was afraid of dying.
“No, I’m not. I am perhaps scared of having something to live for, however. Because then I might be afraid of dying and losing something precious… If you devalue life enough, death becomes more of a reward than punishment… Death is inevitable. I’d be foolish not to accept it. Maybe, given the unpleasantness of life, it’s even worth embracin
g.”
But Marshal had said that before getting to know Grace.
Baruti exhaled and flared his nostrils. He was beginning to grow irritated by the glib Englishman. He wanted to wipe the half-smile off his face. Should he decide to abduct and torture the ex-soldier, he might give him the chance to fight for his life. The Albanian was tempted to test himself against his opponent. It was time to break him.
“You think this is all some kind of a joke? I can say with some confidence that we’ll have the last laugh, James. Do you think you will just be able to go to the police? Now there’s a real joke. We have policemen on our payroll. We will know what’s happening before you do. Your neighbourhood is now our neighbourhood. Should I give the word, your life as you know it will be over. You probably thought yourself some type of vigilante, who was cleaning up the streets? Americans are always accused of watching too many movies. But the English are just as guilty of being deluded. You think you are the cowboy, Shane? That, at the end, some innocent mewling child will call out to you, “You’re a good man, Shane.” But it’s all bullshit. If you are the hero in this story, you’re a tragic hero. You must also understand that your death will not be the end of things. You attacked my friends, my family. Therefore, I will find and attack yours.”
Baruti’s tone was now menacing. He bared his teeth as he spoke – like a vampire baring his fangs.
Marshal pictured Grace. And Oliver and Victoria. He could not return to Windsor, in case he was followed. He couldn’t afford to put them in any danger. Or even contact them. Should Grace call or text he would ignore her. It might be best to delete her contact details, until it was safe. He also thought about his father and wondered if he should apprise him of the situation. His guts became knotted. He wanted the ground to swallow him up, as he buried his head in his hands in despair. Marshal felt like surrendering to his fate. What choice did he have? He wouldn’t beg for his life, but he would beg for others. If they were playing poker, the Albanian was holding all the aces. If they were playing chess, it would be checkmate.
A chill wind cut through the warm air. A burst of laughter emanated from inside the pub, seemingly mocking him. Should Marshal have been in possession of his gun, he looked like he might shoot himself rather than his enemy.
Baruti grinned, as the half-smile was finally wiped from the Englishman’s good-humoured expression. He enjoyed seeing people scared. It amused and nourished his dark psyche. Marshal’s bluff demeanour and bravado disappeared. The mask had fallen to the floor, the Albanian judged. The Englishman finally bowed his head, unable to bear Baruti’s scorching, interrogative aspect any more. His features were strained, as if he were about to breakdown and cry. Defeated, rather than defiant.
“What do you want from me?” Marshal murmured, his voice cracked. Like his heart. His hand trembled as he picked up his pint and drank from it, hoping to moisten his sawdust-dry throat.
“Nothing, for now. But I will be in touch. I want to run some checks on you first, James. Find out more about you. Paranoia is a virtue, a survival skill, in my business. Something about you doesn’t quite add up. But you realise you have a debt to pay. You can either pay it in your blood, or someone else’s. I may offer you the opportunity to work off your debt. Of course, your instinct may be to flee. But not all of your family and friends will be able to follow you. We will make them pay off the blood debt, if you are unwilling to do so. You wouldn’t want us to break our code, would you? We are men of our word. If we say we will pay someone, we pay someone. If we say we will make a delivery, we will make a delivery. And if we promise to kill someone, we will keep that vow. But do not despair completely. We are also businessmen, willing to make a deal with you. From the manner with which you attacked my employees, it appears you have something to offer us. You have a bloodlust, which we can help you satisfy. Our strength comes not from defeating our rivals – but working with them. At first, the Columbians could do without us, but now they come knocking on our door to sell their product. Once, we were the junior partners of the Italians. But now we work with them, as equals. One day they may even work for us. Peace is more prosperous than war. I would rather have you as an ally than an enemy, James. You may even find that you enjoy paying off your blood debt, by working for us. There are worse fates,” Baruti remarked, taking a sip of his coffee, enjoying his moment of triumphant.
Marshal just listened. Took things in. There was little he could say in reply. He was apparently bereft of pithy comebacks. Subdued. Subjugated. The soldier nodded and said he understood his orders. He would not flee. He would not go to the police. He would not interfere with the organisation’s business activities in his neighbourhood.
“Can I go now?” Marshal said, like a child asking to be excused from the dinner table.
“Yes. That will be all, for now. I am about to head home shortly. But I will be in touch within the next few days. How did they say it in the movie, Casablanca? This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Baruti remarked, with a sly, wolfish grin.
Marshal stood up and walked away, his footsteps as leaden as the clouds on the horizon, his chin sunk into his chest, like a mourner walking to or from a funeral.
21.
Celine Dion played in the background, but thankfully not for too long, as the two women sat in the kitchen. Victoria and Grace were working their way through their second bottle of wine. Porter had made himself scarce, retreating into his study upstairs. He was attempting, with a high degree of failure, to tie a couple of flies in preparation for a fishing trip later in the week.
“I didn’t think you liked James at first. I even tried to keep you apart,” Victoria remarked.
“I didn’t. But then I got to know him. I know it sounds silly, or a cliché, but I miss him already. Perhaps I didn’t get to know him enough,” Grace replied. Victoria couldn’t tell if the wine was fuelling or quelling her niece’s distress.
“I should warn you that you may never get to know James properly. He’s a soldier. No one quite knows what they’re thinking about when they have a thousand-yard stare on their face. God knows how long I’ve been married to Oliver – but I cannot say that I know him completely. Which doesn’t mean that I do not love him.”
Grace felt another twinge of regret. She sipped – or more than sipped – her wine. She wasn’t so much worried that she hadn’t got to know Marshal. But that she would never get to know him. There were moments when she had felt she had been in love – and happy – when she was with him. Grace thought of Turgenev. Love and happiness can exist in this world, but only briefly.
The only love stories are tragic love stories.
“I think we may have lost our moment. It’s my own fault.”
“You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Maybe I should be hard on myself though. I have something to confess. I asked Oliver to tell James not to hit on you. I’m sorry, I thought it was for the best. Oliver did tell me today that he thought that James was fond of you though.”
“Did Oliver say anything else?”
“As you may have worked out yourself, Oliver often keeps his cards close to his chest. Even his secrets have secrets. He did warn me that there were certain topics that James wouldn’t want to discuss, such as his time in the army, and the death of his mother and grandfather. James may be someone who just doesn’t give much of himself.”
Grace’s twinge of regret turned to one of hope. James had given something of himself over the past few days. She remembered him opening up about his mother, with a haunted expression, as they spoke, deep into the night, at the hotel bar.
“I think about her every time I walk past a church. She was a devout Catholic. But all I do is walk by, rather than walk in. I worry that if I walk in and find God then I will experience an unbearable amount of guilt, for the times God – and my mother – prompted me to enter and I ignored them. But what if I walk in and I don’t feel anything? What if the hymns ring hollow? What if I take communion and I still feel hungry? If vodka me
ans more to me than the blood of Christ? If I don’t hear the call of God or my mother? The world would seem to me even tawdrier – and less than nothing.”
“The next time you should walk in, rather than walk by. If you feel you’ve got nothing, then you may have nothing to lose,” Grace advised. The Catholic placed one hand on his, on the table, whilst fingering the cross around her neck. There was a look of grief on his anguished face. He was missing his mother, or God, in his life. Or just someone to love him, she judged.
“I wish I had your faith.”
“I wish I had your country music playlist.”
Marshal laughed, as they shared another moment.
Grace also listened as the former officer spoke a little about his time in Afghanistan, and his time afterwards. Marshal didn’t quite know his place in the world, or whether he wanted to be in the world at all.
“I still feel like I should be a soldier, standing a post. But I no longer know what it is I’m supposed to be fighting for… I did some things in Helmand that I shouldn’t be proud of, including being proud of them. There are some sins which shouldn’t be forgiven. There are some debts that can’t be repaid.”
Grace’s heart went out to Marshal, which she felt good about – because it proved she still had a heart. Not all men were bastards. Just most of them. Grace listened with sympathy as Marshal revealed how he was still dealing with his grief, in relation to his grandfather.
“We’re taught when we’re young that we will grow and develop as a person. That society continually improves too, whether we’re on some whiggish journey of progress or, God forbid, we’re heading towards some leftist, communist promised land. But the only truth is that we’re born to die. Society doesn’t always progress, especially in the name of “progress”. Things decay. My grandfather lost his memories and faculties, like leaves falling from a tree. I did my best by him, but I was swimming against the stream. I miss Teddy every day, but I can’t keep grieving. I feel guilty every day. I have to cast out thoughts about him, as though I were casting out evil spirits. But remembering him is just too painful. Even good memories – or especially good memories – hurt. If God created the world then he also built in decay, grief and torment. Rather than praising God for creating an intelligent world, shouldn’t we condemn him for creating a cruel one? But I worry I’m being cruel, as opposed to intelligent, by talking too much. I’m in danger of becoming as dull as Jemima Khan or Damien Hurst,” Marshal posited. Shortly afterwards she caught him gazing out the window, with a thousand-yard stare.