by Thomas Waugh
“Is there something wrong, darling? Did you know the man?” Victoria said, her Home Counties accent awash with genuine concern.
“No. I may have met him in passing at a party though,” Oliver replied, distracted by his own thoughts rather than his wife’s words. The wheels of his mind turned as he tried to hammer out the ramifications of Virginia Pound’s outburst. Firstly, it was conceivable that the Parker brothers may well send someone round to visit the widow – and it wouldn’t be Santa. They would first interrogate her and retrieve any evidence linking them to her husband – and then they would silence her. Porter had seen a look of steely conviction in his eyes when Byron Parked had paraphrased Stalin to him over lunch: “Seven grams of lead to the head solves any problem.” The Parkers may not be viewing the widow as the only loose end though, he thought to himself. Although Porter had an outstanding reputation for discretion he did not have a long-standing history and business relationship with the brothers. They may consider me expendable. Similarly Devlin may become a target. Without a shooter or fixer any case against the brothers would prove circumstantial, regardless of any evidence Virginia Pound might possess.
Porter sighed again. His phone felt heavy in his hands, like a gun, as he sent a message to Devlin, instructing him that they needed to meet up. He would have to travel back to London.
No rest for the wicked.
The season of peace and goodwill to all men couldn’t start quite yet.
*
Devlin bowed his head before his wife’s grave.
You must see everything — or nothing. Like God. If you would have made me promise that I would never kill again I would have kept my word. But that was a promise for another lifetime… Don’t think less of me, although I think less of myself, for what I do. I wish I could talk about other, good things in my life. You kept my secrets and forgave me when you were alive. You’re still doing it now. Please tell me you forgive me… Killing has become a job, as it was in the army. A doctor saves lives — it’s his job. I get paid for taking lives. It’s the same but different. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. We all tell ourselves lots of things.
None of my victims are innocent. The world is a better place without an IRA brigade commander and corrupt Labour peer and pederast. Although what right do I have to be judge and executioner?
I’m not sure whether the job makes me feel numb or alive. But it makes me forget about you. I’m good at what I do. Porter says I’ve found my calling. We both know he’s flattering me. But I have a moral switch, which I can turn on and off at will. The moral switch was always on when I was with you. But now I’m killer one minute, half decent human being the next.
Work gives me some respite. But then I feel guilty for forgetting about you. And the grief sets in again even more... You probably saw me with Emma today. She’s just a friend, if that. I’ll keep my promise. It’s the only thing meaningful, honourable, I have left in my life.
The promise Devlin made to Holly on the evening of her funeral went bone deep. He swore that he would never marry or love again. He made it late at night, fuelled by love and alcohol. He made it to God as well as his wife, even though he cursed God’s name for having taken her. It was a sacred pact, bigger and truer than life itself or his wedding vows. It was more important that any order he had been given as a soldier or any contract he had been offered by Porter, no matter how lucrative. All Devlin had was his grief and promise. If he didn’t have those he would have nothing.
Chapter 7
The décor in The Admiral Nelson had barely changed over the past thirty years. Traditional pint glasses hung down from the horseshoe bar and a forlorn dartboard hung in the corner. The heavily veneered oak tables and beams were gnarled and cracking and the worn russet-coloured carpet was infused with the smell of tobacco from hundreds of lock-ins. A jukebox, which was seldom switched on, contained music by Fleetwood Mac, The Drifters, The Rolling Stones and Showaddywaddy. There was also a solitary album by Bon Jovi, for the ‘younger’ crowd. The floor was sticky and a number of planks creaked. But the regulars wouldn’t have changed a thing, partly to put off other locals in the area from intruding upon their place of respite – a sanctuary from the modern world. Most of the young professionals in the area put their head in the door, cringed and walked away.
The landlord of the pub was a retired Scottish merchant seaman, Michael Robertson. He had bought the pub ten years ago, after he and his wife had been regulars for five years. The atmosphere was warm (as was the beer most of the time) due to the landlord’s affable character. The Admiral Nelson had about a twenty-strong crowd of regular patrons. Thankfully they could drink for fifty. Everybody knew everybody else and, so long as you could take a joke and stand a round, it didn’t matter who you were or where you came from – you were welcome.
Devlin entered the pub at around nine o-clock. Without a word the barmaid, Kylie, started to pour him a drink. The pint of the new Christmas guest ale was ready for Devlin before he even reached his regular stool at the bar.
“Thanks. Could I also have…”
Before Devlin had finished his sentence Kylie had proceeded to pour him a Jameson’s and water. He finished off the round by buying the barmaid and landlord a drink. The latter sat down next to Devlin, one of his favourite regulars. Both men had spent many an evening drinking into the small hours. Michael Robertson was approaching sixty-five but a love of life, and alcohol, kept him young. His nose was as red as his eyes and his pot-belly now protruded out further than his once barrelled chest. His waxy skin sometimes looked as if it might fall off his face, but his smile routinely propped it up. His wife, Maureen, was Scottish Presbyterian. She could curdle her husband’s blood with just a look, but still the old sailor had a roving eye for the ladies (fortunately or not for him they rarely gave him a second look). “I had a girl in every port when I was at sea. Luckily I knew where all the venereal clinics were in every port as well,” he had joked to Devlin on more than one occasion.
Christmas songs played on a loop in the background, but not too intrusively.
“I could’ve been someone.
But so could anyone.”
A couple of patrons swayed a little and mouthed the words. But the pub was quiet. It was the time of year for Christmas parties and work drinks – and Michael Robertson was not keen on hosting either.
“How are you, fella?” the landlord said, genuinely pleased to see the former soldier. Robertson appreciated Devlin’s company and the amount of money the paratrooper spent in his pub.
“Fine, thanks. Where’s Maureen tonight?”
“She’s upstairs, watching one of her blasted soaps. But it could be worse, she could be down here watching me!” Robertson cheerfully explained. The sanguine landlord tipped his head back, laughed and downed his drink in one fluid, well-practised, motion.
After he had Kylie serve him another drink – and line another one up for Devlin – Robertson asked her to retrieve the small Christmas present he had bought his regular. Devlin picked up the wrapped hardback book. He thanked his friend awkwardly. He couldn’t remember the last time that someone had bought him a gift. For the first time in a long time Devlin was touched.
“Just a little something, laddie. It’s a thank you for all your support and for lending me half your military history library. I’m not sure if you’ll like it. The lass Emma gave me some advice on what you might enjoy reading. She’s a good sort, that girl. You could do a lot worse. She can hold her liquor too. Although in my past I liked women who could be under the table, or under me, after just half a bottle of wine. It saved time and money.”
The landlord tilted his neck back again and let out another burst of laughter. But Devlin barely registered his drinking companion. Emma had walked through the door. She had changed into a black pencil skirt and had put on a new top, made of fine cashmere. She also wore a pair of silver droplet earrings, which had once belonged to her grandmother. Devlin had commented on how pretty they looked, many mo
nths ago. Her copy of Graham Greene’s A Burnt-Out Case could be seen peeking out of her stylish leather handbag. Emma turned more than one head as she stood, slender and elegant, in the middle of the pub. Tinges of shyness highlighted rather than diminished her attractiveness. Devlin thought that she might be going out to a party and was just popping into the Nelson for one or two beforehand, or maybe she was going off on a date? Devlin didn’t know quite how to feel about the prospect of Emma dating someone. He knew that he couldn’t be with her, but he didn’t necessarily want someone else to be with her either. At the very least any prospective date should treat her right, Devlin thought. She deserves someone special… She deserves to be happy. Devlin hoped that she could stay – and not just because of the way she was looking tonight.
The two figures smiled across the room as if they were the only ones present. Their eyes locked onto one another, neither quite sure which was most like a deer caught in the headlights. Something fell into place, like tumbler wheels in a vault door. Emma did and didn’t want him to look at her in an amorous way. He never behaved in an inappropriate manner with her but there had been times when she wished that he wouldn’t always play the gentleman. Sometimes a woman needs a good kiss, as a well as a kind word.
Emma was pleased to see that Devlin had changed his clothes. The suit would have reminded her of his late wife. He had changed into a dark blue polo shirt, jeans and – what with it being Bermondsey – a pair of white Reebok’s. A black sports jacket sat on a stool next to him. Some may have judged the ex-soldier’s face to be weathered (or even pained), but Emma thought he looked ruggedly handsome. He had a face that told a story – and one which concealed a story, too. It was also a face which reminded Emma of a painting she had received on her confirmation, when she was thirteen. Her aunt had bought her a series of illustrations depicting the story of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection. Devlin resembled the figure of the soldier who pierced the side of Jesus.
*
Devlin and Emma sat at their usual table in the corner, beneath a faded print of Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire. Light shone from a teardrop-shaped bulb beneath a nineteen-seventies style lampshade. Devlin took sips from his drink even quicker than normal. His heart was beating a tiny bit faster than usual. He craved the taste of a cigarette in his mouth but he didn’t want to rudely get up and abandon his friend.
Devlin was just about to compliment Emma on how nice she looked, but as he opened his mouth Kylie came over, bringing with her a couple of drinks courtesy of their landlord. Robertson raised a glass to his regulars from the bar and (unsubtly) winked at Devlin and nodded his head towards Emma.
The buxom barmaid, who was wearing a tight-fitting silk blouse and tighter-fitting short denim skirt, smiled at the former soldier far more than at the finely dressed florist. Devlin smiled back at the barmaid – but he did so a little cautiously. He hoped that Emma hadn’t found out that he had slept with the fun-loving Bermondsey girl six months ago. They had just had sex, after a late night. Devlin knew that Kylie wasn’t looking for anything more. And he had nothing else to give. Although Devlin had made a solemn promise to Holly and God that he would neither love nor marry again, he was a widower – not a priest or eunuch. He didn’t want Emma to think he had rejected her in favour of the blonde barmaid. But if he had slept with Emma all those months ago he knew that it would’ve meant something to her. In the world Devlin had created for himself, killing and meaningless sex were no longer sins. But love was.
Devlin was even more embarrassed Kylie stroked him on the back and asked, with a flirtatious gleam in her eye, if she could do anything else for him.
“So do you have any exciting plans for Christmas?” Emma asked, once the barmaid had departed.
“I’m due to meet up with some old friends from the regiment,” Devlin replied, lying. He was planning to stay at home on Christmas Day and work his way through a Bernard Cornwell novel and bottle of McClelland’s. He didn’t particularly care if people thought him lonely, but he felt awkward receiving any feigned sympathy. On the whole most people only really cared about themselves, Devlin believed. Nobody had seemed to genuinely care when Holly died. Everybody moved on easily enough, except Devlin. The cynical explanation for things was all too often the right one. Human beings are mainly selfish animals. “How about you? Where will you be spending Christmas?” he continued.
“I’ll be heading back home for a couple of days and suffering my family. My mother will be especially keen to tell me how best to live my life. ‘New year, new you,’ she’ll say. My father should be fine though, after his second glass of port. I’m looking forward to attending midnight mass in my old church. I’ll take plenty of money so as to light plenty of penny candles and pray my mum loses her voice over Christmas. Have you ever attended midnight mass?”
“I have, but many years ago now. Even God doesn’t have a good enough memory to recall the prayers I offered up back then, I imagine.”
The chaplain attached to Devlin’s regiment in Helmand had always been encouraging him to attend service. Occasionally they would talk about the Bible – but mostly they chatted about Camus and Chekhov. The chaplain never gave up on me, even when I gave up on him. Devlin wryly smiled to himself, recalling how the chaplain had once asked him what he felt when he shot an enemy. “Recoil,” Devlin had matter-of-factly answered.
Emma tucked her hair behind her ears, perhaps to show off her silver earrings, and fingered the stem of her wine glass.
“Do you mind if I ask you something? I don’t want to offend you though.”
“I’m not easily offended.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“I believe in God. I’m just not sure if he believes in me.”
“He believes in everyone.”
“He must be exhausted, believing in everyone for so long a time. It’s made him the world’s oldest – and greatest – holy fool. But ignore anything I say. I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to offend you, Emma. As a soldier I’m just used to having a black sense of humour about things. Especially God.”
Devlin’s foot tapped the floor in anxiety. He craved a cigarette even more. He couldn’t quite meet Emma’s probing expression and averted his gaze to look out of the window. Flakes of snow shimmered under the glow of amber streetlamps. The cold called to him, like a siren song.
“I sometimes think God must have a black sense of humour too, given the state of humanity, so you’re in good company,” Emma said, trying to ease any awkwardness.
“You have a strong enough sense of faith for both of us. The world could use some more good Catholic girls like you.”
“Well I’m not so sure about that. What does it mean to be a good Catholic girl nowadays? You need to feel melancholy, guilty and superstitious.”
“Catholic girls have got plenty in common with soldiers, it seems,” Devlin wryly remarked.
“Do you get to see your old friends from the regiment often?”
“When I can,” Devlin answered, lying. Every month or so he received an invitation to a reunion or charity event. He would send his apologies and decline – and also send a cheque if the event was linked to a worthwhile cause. He had attended a few gatherings after Holly’s death. One time he was asked to apply for SAS selection, by a former commanding officer. One time he was offered counselling. It was understandable that some blamed Devlin’s retreat from the world on the war. But it was grief rather than PTSD which shaped his psyche. Devlin had no desire to trade combat stories with his former comrades. He already looked backwards enough in his life, in regards to Holly. But he couldn’t move on either. He was in limbo. Devlin wanted to tell Emma that once you’ve been to one reunion you’ve been to them all. They usually ended in a drunken brawls – and that was just the wives and girlfriends.
Devlin wanted to talk to Emma about other things too. But he didn’t.
Chapter 8
Midnight approached. The music in the pub was turned off. The snow had failed to
settle outside but a frosty wind still howled through the narrow Dickensian alley which ran along one side of the pub. Emma had gone home. She didn’t like to leave Violet alone for more than a few hours. There were times when she thought the mood music might be right between her and Devlin. They had laughed enough, drunk enough. But ultimately he only offered up a kind word, rather than a kiss, as they parted at the end of the evening.
Everyone else had called it a night too, bar Devlin and the landlord. Robertson proposed one last drink. He was in the process of locking the doors, so that his friend could smoke whilst they drank, when three late night revellers came into the pub.
They were city boys, derivative traders, who had strayed south of the river after a night celebrating their bonuses. They had wandered over Tower Bridge after cocktails, a curry and an hour or so at a lap dancing club. Cocaine as well as alcohol fuelled their mood. All were former public school boys, the nation’s brightest and best. Wealth creators.
“I’m sorry lads but I’m closing up,” Michael Robertson said, apologetically.
“We just want one last drink,” the self-appointed spokesman for the group said. He spoke in the form of an order rather than request. The former rower stood over six feet tall. His jaw was chiselled and even Hugh Grant would have envied his head of floppy brown hair.
“I’m sorry, we have to close,” the landlord reiterated, this time with as much firmness as politeness in his voice.
“C’mon Rupert, let’s just go. The place is a fucking dive, fit for plebs, anyway,” his compactly-built companion remarked. Justin Dalton lightly clasped his friend on the elbow as he spoke but he was shrugged off. Rupert Spence did not understand, or appreciate, the concept of “no”. The gilded youth, whose parents had never refused him anything, was used to getting his own way, especially in the case of procuring women. He had once been accused of raping a woman after a night out in Boujis. The case didn’t even go to court though, as it was his word against a hairdresser’s from Balham. His father had provided the best legal team money could buy. The Spence family were even tempted to sue the girl for vexatious litigation.