by Thomas Waugh
There should be no such fucking thing as a friendly.
He blamed the English on the coaching staff. His features were as hard, but not as smooth, as marble. His gnarled eyes were a window into his thuggish soul. From a distance it appeared like Duggan possessed a Kirk Douglas-like cleft chin. But on closer inspection it was a scar, from a broken bottle during a bar fight. Duggan often dreamed of one day encountering the Protestant bastard who had inflicted the injury during his youth. He would not just cut his chin open. Rather, he would cut open the whole of his enemy, from his face down to his groin. Mullen’s lieutenant had taken off his suit jacket, exposing the shoulder holster he wore, containing a well-maintained Sig Sauer P220. Duggan ran his knuckle-scarred hands through his short, bristling red hair. He was anxious, either for the rugby game or that Nolan had yet to call. Part of him wanted to oversee the operation this evening. He wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. The fifty-odd year old wanted to kill again. Feel alive. The war was not over. Every Para and SAS butcher deserved to die, as far as the freedom fighter was concerned. Foster was a modern Black and Tan. He wore the same uniform as those who had interned his kinsmen. Duggan would have to be content with just forming, rather than executing, his plan. He understood Mullen’s desire for him to have an alibi too.
Mullen checked his personal phone, which he had put on silent. He had received two calls from his wife, Mary, and one call from his daughter, Teresa. He had no urge to speak to his long-suffering – and long suffered – wife. His wife had turned into his mother-in-law over the past few years. Part shrew, part religious nutcase. She spent half of her time in church – and the other half complaining or shopping. His wife was one of the reasons why he spent so much time in London. Mullen would have divorced her, if not for the frightening expense of it all. He no longer could stomach sleeping in the same bed with “bony, bitter hag” when he was home. Mary failed to raise a smile, or anything else, when Mullen thought of his wife.
“I can’t fuck her, I can’t divorce her, and I can’t kill her. I can ignore the bint, though,” he had remarked to Duggan, the day before, when she called him then.
Mullen was in no mood to speak to his daughter, either. She would only chew his ear off about not calling his wife enough. Teresa always took her mother’s side, except when she needed to ask for money.
His mistress, Josephine, had also sent him a text, accompanied by a photo of her wearing a new lingerie set she had just bought in Selfridge’s (or rather he had just bought in Selfridge’s). She wanted to know if Mullen wanted to visit her this evening. The former escort, who the politician had seen on and off for five years, had retired (she said). In return for putting her on the payroll as a parliamentary assistant, Josephine had agreed to be his full-time mistress.
Duggan sniffed. Mullen glanced at his old friend, narrowing his cold eyes in scrutiny, or accusation. Had he innocently sniffed, or had he just snorted some coke during his recent trip to the toilet? Mullen had warned his Head of Security about drug-taking while on duty. Duggan needed a clear head, especially tonight. The loyal lieutenant had kept his word to not snort anything while on duty. A promise was a promise. He did, however, rub some coke into his gums in the toilet to help take the edge of things.
Duggan refrained from saying anything, partly because the phone finally rang. The old man’s heart skipped a beat, as if he were a teenager again and a girl was calling. Mullen wiped his perspiring palm against his trouser leg and answered the burner, putting the call on speaker phone. He was only expecting to receive one call on the device.
“We’re ready,” a deep, guttural, Northern Irish voice intoned. “Do you want us to take him?”
It was now, or potentially never. Their fish could slip through the net - if they failed to gaff him immediately.
Mullen glanced at Duggan, who nodded. The father of the murdered teenager would have proceeded even without agreement of his lieutenant.
“Do it,” he ordered, his ruddy face screwed-up in unbridled malevolence. His lips receded, revealing swollen gums and coffee-stained teeth. Mullen’s hand gripped the whiskey tumbler tightly, as if it were about to shatter. Conflict over conciliation. The past, not the future. Justice and resentment laced his words, like the finest of poisons. They were one in the same thing. Semi-divine.
Mullen’s own phone lit-up again, with another message from his mistress. She asked again whether he would like to see her that evening.
Without irony, he replied:
Not tonight, Josephine.
Marshal woke and rehydrated. He checked his phone and opened a message from Grace. She apologised for running late and said she would meet him at the restaurant. Marshal showered, put on one of his few remaining shirts which didn’t smell of cigarette smoke, and headed out.
Bobo Social. It was not just the best restaurant in the area because it was the only restaurant in the area. The establishment managed to combine a relaxed, cordial atmosphere with old-fashioned service. Good produce was cooked well at a not over-inflated price. A bar, renowned for its cocktails, sat at the heart of a dozen or so tables, occupied by couples, families and groups of friends. The aromas emanating from the open kitchen at the rear were suitably moreish. The ribeye on the menu was a match, in size and flavour, for any found at an Argentinian steakhouse. A simple omelette was cooked with skill and love. Marshal was a regular and greeted, with or nod or handshake, several fellow diners. Taj and Richard ordered another cocktail each, still raising a glass to a Conservative majority (albeit the party would always be too centrist for their liking). Oliver Webb-Carter, the editor of the magazine Aspects of History, was working his way through the latest Bernard Cornwell novel and a large gin and tonic. He was waiting for his wife, Marjan – whose idea of turning up on time rivalled Blucher’s. Jeremy Knight, the owner of Hej, a local coffeeshop, was enjoying something stronger than coffee. For a misanthrope, Marshal could be remarkably gregarious. He was also familiar with the staff and a few of them came over, throughout the evening, to say hello. There was the general manager Yoann, a Frenchman who was thankfully not too French. Patricia, or Pati, greeted people at the door – with a consummate sense of elegance and professionalism. Izzy, though only twenty-two, wore more knitwear than a great-aunt. She was never happy until her customers were. Towards the end of the night the chef, Monsur, also popped over to see Marshal. Partly he wanted to check that everything was fine with the food, but more so he wanted to ask his friend when they were next going out for a beer and curry. Monsur was an experienced chef, who still retained a youthful enthusiasm for cooking. He knew his eggs, Cacklebean or otherwise. He preferred to inspire fear rather than affection in his team – and would sometimes gaze out from the kitchen like the Great Eye of Sauron, seeing everything. His standards were as high as his blood pressure – and his jokes as coarse as the pate.
Marshal sat at the bar, a cross between Norm and Frasier, and had a drink with Jeremy while he waited for Grace. And she was worth the wait. Even after a year Grace could still make him go weak at the knees – and compel Marshal to stand-up ramrod straight and puff out his chest as if he were a proud recruit on his first parade. Pati showed the couple to their table. Marshal was initially speechless as he drank in the sight of the former model and breathed in her perfume. Eventually he embraced and kissed her, nearly tripping over a chair before doing so. Her features were sharp and soft, strong yet feminine. Her hair had grown fairer, her complexion more sun-kissed, during the summer. She was dressed in a white, Claudie Pierlot sleeveless midi dress. She looked good in white. But Grace could even look stylish in mismatched pyjamas – and White Reeboks – Marshal judged. The famed model was classically, symmetrically, elegantly attractive – yet Marshal liked the way Grace looked when she cocked her head to one side when reading, scrunching her features in curiosity or amusement. Marshal sometimes thought Grace looked like an English Faith Hill or Miranda Lambert. She resembled Gwyneth Paltrow in Emma and Shakespeare in Love – rather than the figu
re who now pedalled silly beauty treatments and other hokum. But, more than anyone else, Grace Wilde was Grace Wilde. She was too beautiful for him. Too good for him, he thought. There were not many things in the world that were worth getting up in the morning for after turning forty. But Grace was one of them.
Marshal ordered a bottle of the Malbec. He promised himself that he would not drink too much though. He wanted to be largely sober when he got home. He wanted to remember making love to Grace. A brief silence hung in the air, like the smell of perfume, after the waitress left. The couple shared a moment. For once they did not need to force a smile. Music played in the background. Phil Collins was on, again. Chef was a fan.
“If this world makes you crazy
And you’ve taken all you can bear
Just call me up
Because you know I’ll be there.”
Part of Marshal felt prompted to blurt out how much he missed and wanted her. Loved her. That he had even thought about marrying her. He wanted to unburden himself to Grace about his frustration at not being able to help Jack. There were so many important things – secrets and lies – that he had failed to share with Grace. If she knew him, would she still love him? Confession was supposed to be good for the soul. He took a breath and spoke, appearing a little vulnerable. There was a moment when Grace thought he might say something profound or important. But the moment vanished.
“How are things at the shop?”
“Sales are fine. I may even be able to afford to order some non-house wine tonight,” Grace wryly replied. As much as it had been a dream for the model to open a bookshop, and she was fine for money, she still wanted to run a profitable business. “We are hosting a launch party for a bestselling historian in a fortnight’s time. Although every author seems to put “bestselling” in front of their name now. I thought you might like to attend. I may need rescuing from a lecherous literary agent or, worse, a champagne socialist.”
The thought of having to engage with the chattering classes made Marshal’s teeth itch, but he agreed to come to the event. He had been a pillar of support of the bookshop - and Grace - over the past year. The keen reader was a sounding board for Grace’s ideas - and had even worked a few shifts in the shop to help-out. The best and worst part of working at the bookshop, for Marshal, was dealing with the customers.
“How was your trip?”
“I didn’t do too much, but it still felt exhausting – and not just because of the jetlag. I felt like I was through the looking glass, viewing my past, at times. I stayed with Ophelia. She had to work a couple of shoots. I accompanied her on one of the days. The agents are still the hardest working drug dealers in the industry, preferring their clients to pop pills rather than eat. Over reliance on medication is preferable to being overweight. Cocaine is less calorific than chocolate. The fashion photographers are still misogynists or perverts. The designers screech rather than talk. The trade is a circus, populated by clowns and a few ringmasters. At least time spent on the photoshoot reminded me why I retired,” Grace remarked, wistfully. “I feel like a princess – locked up in a tower of a Manhattan high-rise. Any prince I kiss will turn into a frog,” Ophelia confided in her friend, world weary behind a mask of pristine make-up. The uptown girl had yet to find her backstreet guy.
An idle thought struck Marshal while Grace was talking. Modelling was a little like soldiering. The long hours took a toll on the body and soul. You had to follow orders that you were not always comfortable with. You needed to watch your weight. Models possess looks that can kill. Soldiers carry automatic weapons.
Grace went on to speak about the latest production of The Cherry Orchard she saw on Broadway, and the restaurants she visited. The best part of the trip was coming home, however.
“And have you been eating properly while I’ve been away?” Grace asked, with a raised eyebrow and slight maternal look of scrutiny and rebuke. She expected to find a few takeaway boxes in the bin when she got back to the flat.
“Well, I have been attempting to order the right wine to accompany each relevant dish, if that’s what you mean,” Marshal playfully replied.
The candle on the table glowed in front of Grace, illuminating her amused, striking expression. Marshal realised that if he could spend the remainder of his life with anyone – grow old with them – it would be Grace. She understood and appreciated him, at least that part of him which he allowed the world to see.
“You’ve cut your hand,” Grace suddenly remarked, noticing the small scab on his knuckle.
“I accidentally scraped it against a brick wall when I was walking home the other evening. Thankfully, the alcohol helped numbed the pain,” Marshal said, the soul of nonchalance. He did not always feel comfortable lying to Grace, but he also knew he was good at it.
Phil Collins played on. It could have been worse, Marshal fancied. Chef could have been a fan of Will Young.
After their main courses – Marshal had the skate wing and Grace the salmon – the owner of Bobo, Mike Benson, came over to join two of his favourite regular customers. Mike stood at just 5.5 but he walked tall. The staff were split 50/50 as to whether he wore lifts or not in his shoes. He worked hard and smart – and was justly proud of the business he had created. His accent betrayed how the restaurateur was born in Wales – and had worked in France and South Africa over the years. Marshal admired how his friend was able to juggle all his work and family commitments, whilst still keeping a hand on a pint glass when needed. He was good company. Self-confident, but self-deprecating too. Mike was the only person Marshal knew who owned a more extensive collection of books on the Third Reich than him – although Marshal didn’t quite know if that was a good thing or not.
“How are things?” Marshal asked, after inviting Mike to sit at their table.
With the subtlest nod of his head the restaurant owner communicated to the waitress, Sara, to pour him a large glass of Rioja – and to give the diners he sat with a drink on the house.
“It’s another day in paradise,” Mike joked, rolling his eyes, making reference to the Phil Collins song playing in the background and Chef’s unhealthy obsession with the singer.
“Business is good it seems,” Grace commented, surveying the bustling establishment. All the tables were full inside and plenty of people were taking advantage of the fine weather and sipping (or gulping down) cocktails outside.
“Aye, against all odds,” Mike said, as the next song started. “I spent the afternoon with my accountant. Tax really is a four-letter word – and not just for dyslexics. Government assistance! The term could be one of your oxymorons, James.”
Marshal was tempted to stay for a few drinks with Mike – and Chef offered to make the couple something special for dessert – but Grace was a greater temptation and sweeter than anything he could cook-up. He shared a look with her. They may have been a little tired, but they were more than a little amorous too.
Despite his keenness to get home, Marshal avoided the less scenic shortcut he had taken the previous evening. They were barely through the door to his flat when he kissed her deeply and began to take off her dress, breathing in Grace’s fragrance like incense. There were times when she surrendered to him, and times when she took command. For once, the soldier was fine about following orders.
A cooling breeze began to temper the balmy evening. The moon hung in the air, like long-term service medal. Grace fell asleep shortly after making love. Her body was soft, yet also firm, against his. Her arm was draped across his chest. Usually, her skin felt as smooth as silk, but her forearm was covered in goosepimples. He would have been happy to kiss every last one.
With other women, Marshal had felt like they were somehow intruding, outstaying their welcome, after staying over for more than five nights. But he had been happy for Grace to make herself at home. He would even encourage her to stay and fix her breakfast - or invite her for a coffee at Hej. She had spent an increasing amount of time living at the flat during the past year. She hinted how she
would be fine to downsize and live south of the river. It was as if they were already married, or certainly engaged. But Grace desired and deserved more. The sacrament of marriage may be a lie – but it was a good, beautiful, and honourable lie. Especially compared with most of the other delusions out there in the world, Marshal judged.
All he could hear was her breathing. There were no distant sirens or late-night revellers on the street outside. All was well. Grace’s fingers briefly twitched, as if calling out to him. Marshal thought about where he might be able to buy an engagement ring.
6.
Morning.
Lemony sunshine squeezed its way through the curtains. It would be another day gilded with fine weather. Marshal and Grace made love again, with carnality and consideration, stretching out their tired limbs. The dull ache in his stomach returned afterwards, even before he smoked his first cigarette. They then went for a coffee in Hej.
When they got back to the flat, Grace explained how she needed to travel home to attend to various things.
“I will be back later. Let’s have a nice evening in tonight,” Grace suggested, after booking a taxi. The model had spent half her life as a wallflower at endless parties and restaurants. She preferred to spend a large part of the second half at home, with Marshal. And, though she did not openly mention it to him yet, with a family.
“Would like me to cook something?”
“I thought I said I would like a nice evening,” Grace mischievously countered, much to the relief of both their tastebuds and digestive systems. “Have a good day. Have you got anything planned for this afternoon?”
“I’ll be busy doing nothing in some fashion, I imagine.”
Marshal thought he may watch another season of Dexter, finish off a novel or go for a run. He also had a mind to buy a copy of Thatcher’s Willing Executioners, as much as it might vex the ex-Para to read it. There was also the option to decamp onto a bar stall for part of the afternoon, have a nap and then wait for Grace to return.