by Thomas Waugh
“Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous.”
“One bit of bad news is that we might need to find another manager for The Blue Note. Bobby’s wife wants to have him move to Australia, so she can be with her sister. Bobby does a good job at the club. It’ll be a loss.”
“Australia? It can’t be that fuckin’ great there. All the bloody Aussies want to come over here. Want me to give Bobby, or his wife, a slap and tell them to stay?”
Byron mulled over the option of his brother intervening — as it would prove an inconvenience finding the right new manager and revenues at the club would dip. But he decided against it. They needed to start running their empire like businessmen rather than thugs, he told himself.
“No, Bobby can go. He’s been loyal and hardworking, as much as it seems he’s under the thumb of his wife. Our loss can be Australia’s gain.”
Their driver, Jason, braked suddenly. He spat out a curse at a cyclist and then apologised to his employers.
“Don’t worry. The cyclist cunt jumped the light. He’s probably late for a meeting with some tofu. Prick!” George Parker exclaimed. He planned to open the window and knock the skinny faggot off his overpriced bike should the car catch up with him.
Byron Parker rolled his eyes and pressed his lips together in mild frustration, preventing him from swearing and sounding like his brother, as the sudden jolt made him misspell a word in the email he was composing to his stockbroker. The traffic was beginning to snarl up, as they headed down Charing Cross Road, towards Shaftesbury Avenue and the Century Club where they were due to have a meeting with the actor, Connor Earle. Connor had been described as a “poor man’s Ray Winstone and even poorer man’s Michael Caine”. Earle was an old school friend of the brothers and had set up a meeting with them in order to discuss a business opportunity. He wanted George and Byron to invest in a gangster movie he was intending to produce. He would give them a credit as producers and the investment could be written off against tax. Byron would tell the actor that he would consider the offer (with every intention of not investing a penny). However, it was worth having a short meeting with the scrounging actor. Earle was friends with a number of the cast of EastEnders and other people in the media. He could push more product out to them.
They can kill even more of the few brain cells they have left between their ears.
Byron craved a coffee, the drug of his choice. He noticed how his brother was increasingly fidgety – and sniffed repeatedly. He was craving something other than coffee. Byron failed to mention the plastic envelope of coke beneath the heel of his left shoe. Instead he gazed out of the window and watched the world go by. A stream of shoppers, tourists, workers and others — most with their heads buried in the screens of their smartphones — snaked up and down the streets. Byron noticed a fair few elderly businessmen turn off to head towards Soho. More than one might be heading to a brothel that he owned.
London was a din of iniquity.
Everyone was a sinner or customer.
Business is good.
Chapter 10
Oliver Porter answered Byron Parker’s phone call and told him that he would be happy to take on the additional contract. He also agreed to his fee being paid in cash after the job was completed.
“I’ll be paying even less tax on the money than if it went into my Cayman’s account. My associate may not be keen on joining us when we meet but I’ll speak to him. I just wouldn’t want to make any promises. Also, let me take you out to dinner in January. Come to the Garrick and I can introduce you to some people who will support your membership bid.”
Byron Parker offered up a laugh in response to Porter’s joke about tax and accepted his invitation to dinner — all the time believing that he was talking to a dead man. But for all intents and purposes it was business as usual.
Porter pressed the button and ended the call. Lying came as easily as breathing to the two men. But in truth most people, most of the time, lie to themselves or others. It was the human thing do so.
Never work with children, animals or gangsters.
The fixer exhaled, puffing out his cheeks, and slumped down on the bench where he was sitting. Porter became the most world-weary person in view. For once he hoped that he would be proved wrong in his calculations — in his pessimism — but the Parker brothers intended to betray and murder him. He felt deflated but through an act of habit his body and mind became taut again. The blood returned to his face, as if he were a fresh-faced officer again receiving his first important order. As troubling as the news was that the Parker brothers wished to kill him he was consoled by the argument that they had no idea that he had every intention of killing them.
Porter sat on a bench in St James’ Park and waited for Devlin. A number of shopping bags sat next to him from the likes of Hamleys, Boodles and Hatchards. Peace offerings for his wife and children. Porter had promised them he would be at home for the next three weeks –— and he had broken his word. He pictured again how his wife had pursed her lips in response to hearing the news. “I hope it’s a matter of life and death,” she had said, after taking a breath, with little humour in her voice. Yet she walked out of the room. There were no protests or histrionics. There was no point in trying to question him on his reasons for travelling back to the capital.
The silence had been deafening as his wife drove him to the train station that morning. Most of their silences were comfortable but this one wasn’t. But she had still kissed him goodbye and lovingly said “take care”. Marriages survive by leaving some things unsaid, rather than said, Porter philosophically thought to himself.
The cold wind chilled Porter’s scalp, cutting across it like a razor blade made of ice. The sensation prompted Porter to remember the advert, for hair transplants, he had glanced at in The Spectator the previous week. The procedure had worked wonders for Wayne Rooney, the ad pronounced. For a second or two the balding Porter was tempted to check out the company online. But he smiled to himself rather than tapped the name into the browser on his phone. What would be the point of the act of vanity? Would he be doing it to attract a mistress which he had no intention of procuring? And Victoria would love him in the same way, regardless of the state of his hairline. As Porter thought of his wife though he was gripped by a sense of terror, rather than fondness. A shrapnel of despair lodged itself into his breast as he imagined George and Byron Parker driving through the gates of his house. Porter pictured his wife and children and realised that he had everything to lose. The former soldier didn’t want to admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but he was scared. The even cadence of his heart and breathing became discordant, as if someone had swapped all the white keys with the black on a piano. His expression, for a brief moment, became contorted. A secret life can only remain secret for so long. The truth will always out. The dark, vile, polluted world of his work life cast a shadow over the veritable paradise of his life at home.
Devlin walked towards his associate, his expression seemingly frozen in the gelid air. The two men had often met at the park. The bench was reasonably secluded and one only needed to turn one’s head slightly to catch a view of Buckingham Palace. The two patriotic soldiers had served the crown rather than self-serving politicians. Their hearts swelled in their chests that little bit more at seeing the Union Jack rippling in the breeze on top of the palace.
If Porter wanted him to do another job then Devlin would hear him out, but he would probably turn him down. He didn’t need the money and he felt perpetually tired (but still a good night’s sleep proved elusive). He certainly wouldn’t work on Christmas Day. In a small nod towards some remnants of religion and faith Devlin believed that the twenty-fifth should be given up to God in some way. It would feel too wrong to take someone’s life on Christmas Day.
“You’re looking well, Michael,” Porter remarked, in a spirit of politeness more than honesty, as he shook his old friend’s hand. But Devlin immediately recognised that something was wrong. His palm was moist and the lustre in his ey
e, which could shine in the face of an abhorrent world, was missing.
Devlin was tempted to reply that his liver had been getting plenty of exercise this month. But he decided against it. He remained silent, hoping that it would prove a prompt for Porter to get down to business quickly.
“I have some good news and bad news. The bad news is that the Parker brothers want to kill me. They’re only human, some might say. You may have seen the news. Virginia Pound made a statement, implying that she has evidence to suggest that her husband wasn’t just the victim of street crime. The brothers are worried that they could be exposed. They consider me — and you — to be loose ends they need to tie up. What is the world coming to when you can’t even trust a pair of vicious gangsters?”
Devlin listened on impassively, although he could not help but notice the anxiety which crept into Porter’s voice, ousting out his normal jocose disposition.
“And the good news?” Devlin asked, his voice low and neutral.
“The good news is that the Parker brothers think I’m unaware of their intentions — and that I’m not willing and able to kill them first. I’ll be doing the world a favour by wiping away their blight. George Parker is little more than an animal. He should have been put down, or at least neutered, years ago. And Byron Parker’s sole virtue is that he isn’t his brother. When their lights go out the world will be a brighter place. There are poppy growing warlords in Helmand with more scruples that those cretins. I’m worried for my family more than me. They should not have to pay for my sins. I need you to do the deed. You’re the best man I’ve got. I’ll pay whatever sum you want. You could make enough to retire. The contract will be for both of them — and it won’t be a case of two for the price of one. Seven grams of lead, times two, will solve our problems. The good news is that they spend plenty of time together. Although they will also have bodyguards. I am having an associate hack Scotland Yard for their file. I can provide you with some more intelligence this evening. I am usually the person who fixes things, who is owed a favour. But I now need to ask for one. And I need you to let me know now, either way, whether you can do it. I only have a small window of opportunity. There will be no hard feelings if you want to turn the job down.”
Despite the cold a few beads of sweat had formed on Porter’s temples. Devlin had never seen the former Guards officer scared or vulnerable before. Porter resented himself for having to nigh on beg someone else to solve problems of his own making. But needs must.
Devlin stared out across the park. Bone dry, withered leaves scraped along the asphalt path. A hotdog vender warmed his hands from the steam coming off his cart. Shoppers walked through the park briskly, looking to get home or out of the cold. Lovers walked hand in hand, more slowly. The gentle clip-clop of horses could be heard in the background.
They don’t quite sound like the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse.
Devlin briefly thought how he could disappear. He would be leaving behind next to nothing and he had next to nothing to take with him. The Parker brothers would have more chance of finding Lord Lucan. Porter had dug his own grave. The fixer could fix things himself. He could ask another shooter on his books or, if things became truly desperate, he owned more than one gun himself. But…
I know what I have to do. You wouldn’t think much of me if I abandoned a friend in his hour of need. Even if I fail I’ll succeed. Because I could be seeing you again soon.
“I’ll do it. And you won’t have to pay me. Think of it as my Christmas present to you,” Devlin said, his brain already ruminating on the possible location of the hit. Killing had not quite become as easy as breathing for the assassin, but the list was growing longer in regards to things which seemed more difficult.
Porter breathed out and his expression softened in gratitude and relief. He closed his eyes and clasped his friend’s forearm, offering up a silent prayer of thanks. He Porter made a silent promise — which time might erase the sovereignty of — that he would not be fix any more contracts involving innocent or good men.
I’m saved.
“You’re making me feel somewhat deficient. I’ve only bought you some cufflinks in return. I’d like to invite you over for Christmas though, if you don’t have any other plans. I’m sure that you have spent far too many Christmas Days on your own, over the past five years. If your culinary skills are as good as mine then Christmas dinner will be thoroughly unpleasant. I’ve just ordered a goose that could feed a brigade. I’d welcome a drinking companion, who has no desire to watch Strictly Come Dancing. You could travel down on the twenty fourth and attend midnight mass with us, at our local church, if you want. Or perhaps we should spend time in the confessional — although if the two of us were to confess our sins we might still be there on Boxing Day, or Shrove Tuesday even. You will turn the heads of a few of the young, available women — and ones that are married — in the village too. What do you say?”
The clip-clop of horses grew louder as a brace of attractive horsewomen approached, dressed in riding breeches and scarlet jackets. One looked like Kate Beckinsale and the other resembled a young Julie Christie. Sometimes Devlin’s promise to Holly and God was hard to keep.
Devlin was going to reply that he couldn’t be sure he’d be free on Christmas Day, as he might well be dead or serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure. But he didn’t.
“Let me get back to you soon, when I know my plans,” he said, committed to being non-committal.
“That’s fine. Nice fillies,” Porter exclaimed, as the horsewomen rode by.
Devlin wryly smiled to himself. He knew his friend was complimenting the shiny-coated mares rather than the two comely riders. Devlin had never known Porter to even look at another woman in the time he had known him, let alone have an affair. As much as he sometimes reminded Devlin of a modern day Harry Lime he was a good husband and father.
He’s worth saving. I’m just not sure I am.
Chapter 11
Fields, buildings and skeletal trees passed by in a blur — and not just because Porter had consumed a bottle of Chianti at the Athenaeum after meeting Devlin. He was now on the train home, being gently rocked from side to side as if he were in the cradle again. Yet he sat in his First Class seat uncomfortably. Any man who communes with his conscience or thinks about death shouldn’t feel at peace. For a moment or two the fixer felt dizzy, nauseous, by the fate which hung across his shoulders like a milkmaid’s yoke. Life was a blur. All he wanted to do was get home to his family, curl up on the sofa with his wife and experience the light in his children’s eyes when they opened their presents. Contentment is so much better than happiness.
He pitied Devlin. He would go home to a black hole, where his wife and unborn children were, at best, spectres. Five years ago Porter had invited his operative over for Christmas out of a fear that the recent widower might put try to put a bullet through his skull and, as much as Devlin was an admirer of Joseph Conrad, the assassin wouldn’t miss unlike the melancholy novelist. Five years. So little and so much had changed, for both of them. One could be forgiven for thinking that the soldier’s grief was unnatural or unmanly. Porter once mentioned to Devlin how Holly would have wanted him to get on with his life, find someone else. Devlin vaguely nodded in agreement but Porter’s words fell on deaf ears. Fathoming the soldier’s grief, or love, for his late wife was as difficult as getting blood out of a stone.
Porter had recently woken from a dream, having dozed off shortly after the train left the station. The dream was thoroughly restrained, English and mundane — up to a point. He and his family stood in the passageway by the door, waiting for Devlin to arrive on Christmas day. His wife was wearing her favourite lilac dress. Porter spoke of the soldier’s heroic acts in Afghanistan. He told his children that for every classic novel they had read Devlin had read ten — or twenty — more. “He is Meursault, Sharpe and Homer’s Hector all rolled into one,” Porter remarked in the dream. He also wanted to tell his wife that Devlin had been their guardian — or avenging
— angel who had saved them all. But some things must still be kept secret, even in the realm of dreams. And so they waited for him to arrive. And waited. It began to snow heavily outside. The goose sat on the table, and loomed even larger for the fact that Devlin might not eat his share. His children began to complain that they were hungry. His youngest son shivered. “He’ll turn up,” Porter assured his family more than once. “He’s a good man, the best man I know.” There was, finally, a knock on the door. The snow stopped falling, his son ceased to shiver. All would be well. But instead of the stoical features of his friend Porter was met by a gnashing George Parker when he opened the door. His demonic eyes were ablaze with violence and cocaine. Stalactites of drool hung down from his mouth, like fangs. He was carrying a meat cleaver. Byron Parker stood behind his brother, fastidiously filing his nails. A picture of cold insouciance. All was lost. Porter woke up with a jolt, just as the meat clever buried itself into his sternum.
Devlin.
The name was tantamount to a prayer. He was the best man that he knew, Porter realised, but that might have had something to do with the company he kept. Devlin was worth a thousand members of the Bullingdon Club.
As Porter watched a man in ill-fitting blue overalls fill up a vending machine at Slough train station he vowed that he would change his ways if Devlin succeeded. Porter had told himself over the years that he was making a difference in the world by accepting certain contracts. But he knew that the only difference he was making was to his bank account. Porter shuddered — and loathed himself — thinking of the similarities he shared with the reptilian Byron Parker.
For years Porter had told himself that he needed to make money, through honest means or otherwise, to provide for his family. The ends justified the means. But he had enjoyed his work too much.
The wheels beneath him screeched along the track as the train left the station. His ears were soon assaulted, however, by a far more unwelcome sound — that of conversation. Three young women, with outfits as loud as their voices, had come into his First Class carriage. One of them put her muddy, Nike-emblazoned feet on the seat opposite to them. Another chewed gum and tapped so incessantly on her phone that Porter wondered how her fingers had not been worn down to mere stumps. He prayed for a ticket inspector to deliver him and point them in the direction of their correct carriage. Porter turned his head to take in the increasingly green scenery but still had to suffer the sound of them. He winced every time they laughed or yelped. He wanted the earth to swallow him — or preferably them — up as they each went through who they’d like to see enter “the jungle” for some ghastly TV programme which pitted vulgar celebrities against each other. When one of the trio of slatterns commenced to talk about the new photos they had uploaded onto something called “Instagram” Porter wryly implored God to return him to his dream.