by Thomas Waugh
A trio of jaundiced septuagenarians worked their way through a bottle of Dow’s vintage port at the bar, re-living the Falkland’s campaign. Their lips and gums were radish-coloured. They croaked more than spoke. Devlin couldn’t quite tell if their eyes were glinting, or merely rheumy. The past was all they had, he initially thought. But then corrected himself. How did he know? They could still be married – and maybe they had children and grandchildren. They probably had more interests than himself – and a wider circle of friends. They had probably done something with their lives and made the most of their time.
The past is all I have.
Battle scenes and portraits of hoary, monocle-wearing officers dominated the walls. The smell of furniture polish, port and lavender wafted through the air. Tyerman ordered a couple of drinks and the two men sat by the fireplace. A marble mantelpiece, home to some freshly cut flowers and two antique Regency pistols, sat beneath a large reproduction of Benjamin West’s “The Death of General Wolfe.”
“You’re looking well, Michael,” Tyerman said, his voice as clear and hard as ice. He spoke like a House Master from Harrow, one who was efficient as opposed to eccentric.
“So are you, Sir,” Devlin replied. The trim figure in front of him appeared younger than his fifty-five years. As ever his face was clean-shaven, smoother than the surface of the varnished, lion-footed coffee table which sat between them. The tan from Helmand had been replaced by one gleaned from time spent at his villa in Cyprus. His new suit was made to measure, his shoes handmade. Devlin had also observed the electronic key to a Mercedes, when Tyerman had extracted his wallet from his pocket to pay for the drinks. He also knew, from what Birch told him, that Tyerman owned a flat in Chiswick for when he was up in London – but his main home, replete with a swimming pool and tennis court, was just outside Winchester.
“Life is good. I can’t complain… Unfortunately, John wasn’t looking so well, when I saw him last. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. I believe in leaving the past in the past. But that’s easy for me to say. What happened to him was awful. I have encouraged him to see a specialist counsellor and had charities get in touch to provide financial support but he’s getting worse, I fear. Retreating into himself.”
“Rather than charity, I think John needs a job. A sense of purpose and belonging again. I appreciate your offer of a position at your company, Sir, but I will only consider it if you’re able to take John on too. I’d be happy for you to subsidize my pay – to the point where I’d be paying his salary out of mine.”
Tyerman narrowed his gaze a little and surveyed Devlin, as if he were studying a map – assessing the terrain of where an ambush could occur or where he could best counter-attack his opponent. He hadn’t been expecting Devlin to come up with such a proposal – but nor did he reject it out of hand after hearing it. He was certainly keen on employing the former soldier. If Devlin turned out to be half the asset he was in Afghanistan for his company, then Tyerman would be willing to give his more troublesome friend a chance to prove his worth too.
“I’ll consider it. I would need to think about a suitable position for John. Neither of us would want him to feel that he’s a fifth wheel. As you say, he needs a job instead of charity. But before you commit to any role I should explain more about the company and your prospective duties within it.”
Tyerman proceeded to tell Devlin about York Security (named after Edward, Duke of York, an antecedent of Tyerman’s who had been a friend to Henry V and had died at Agincourt). After leaving the army Tyerman raised the requisite capital and founded the company four years ago. He hired various officers and squaddies who had served under him in Afghanistan. They were reliable, proficient and loyal. The army’s loss was York Security’s gain. An old school-friend, who worked as an executive with Coutts & Co, provided the fledgling firm with regular work. Tyerman’s brother-in-law was a partner at a major talent agency and fed him clients for the close protection arm of the operation. The company was continuing to grow and needed more personnel.
“It’s got to the point where I am having to put in the occasional shift… In terms of the job it’s akin to sentry duty. You just need to have eyes in the back of your head – as well as know when to look away when a client is being indiscreet… Some of the business leaders we look after get accosted by anti-capitalism protesters and middle-class students who want to virtue signal on Facebook about the latest trendy cause – but they hit about as hard as the strength of their convictions… We’ve had an increase in business lately from politicians too. They’ve realised they can expense personal security – and it makes them seem grand and important to have close protection. They justify it by saying they’ve had a threatening tweet. They want to play the victim, without having to suffer the unwelcome ordeal of actually dying… It’s more likely you’ll have to fend off a zealous fan – demanding one of those interminable selfies – than fight off a gun-wielding jihadist but we sometimes do worthwhile work. And it’s well remunerated… We have plenty of repeat clients, who may eventually ask for you specifically… As much as you sometimes endeavour to disguise the fact, you’re personable and educated Michael… I can arrange a licence for you to carry a weapon in certain circumstances too.”
Devlin wryly smiled to himself. If he took the job, he would likely be guarding the type of people he was previously hired to kill.
“You will be asked to undergo some training – and there’s some filling out of forms in terms of compliance and insurance – but we would be keen for you to start asap. The question I ask of everyone who’s served before – and spent some time as a civilian – is are you willing to follow orders again?” Tyerman remarked. Again, he narrowed his hard, teak eyes and scrutinized Devlin, as if he were a poker player looking for an opponent’s tells.
“It’ll be good practise, for if I get married again.”
Tyerman forced a half-smile, still more convinced about the ex-soldier’s abilities than attitude. As much as Tyerman felt a responsibility for the soldiers who had been under his command he could not risk trying to rehabilitate a soldier – Devlin or Birch - at the expense of tarnishing the reputation of his company. Devlin had been an asset in Helmand but, even then, Tyerman couldn’t escape the thought that someone who was that proficient at killing surely also enjoyed it. But he never seemed to lose control. Devlin possessed an air of indifference, far more than violence. Or something possessed him. Something different. Something dislocated. Dark. One of the reasons why Tyerman had asked Birch about Devlin was that he had re-read Camus’ The Outsider that week. There was no specific reason but Meursault reminded Tyerman of his former soldier and he wondered what had happened to him.
“I was sorry to hear that your first wife passed away. It must’ve been hard for you. Or it must be hard,” Tyerman said. His voice softened. The ice melted.
An awkward pause ensued, as Devlin’s expression and heart hardened. He never felt compelled to fill such silences by unburdening his grief. Or telling the world how much he loved her. A problem shared was not a problem halved.
Tyerman deftly broke the silence by asking if Devlin wanted another drink. He also excused himself and went to the toilet.
When Tyerman returned, carrying a drink in each hand, he changed tact and asked Devlin about what he had been doing, job wise, since he left the army.
“I worked in the security sector for Major Burleigh’s outfit for a while, but I’ve not worked in earnest for some time. My wife left quite a substantial estate, which I have been able to live comfortably off. But I’m aware that the money I have in the bank won’t last forever – and sooner or later I’ll need a job again.”
Devlin often explained his lack of employment – and apparent wealth – stemming from his wife bequeathing him money. Holly had worked as a model for several years – and then successfully invested her capital in property. In truth Devlin donated the bulk of his wife’s estate to charity when she died. During an idle conversation one evening she remarked that, if
something should happen to her, Devlin should live-off her savings. He joked however, somewhat tragi-comically in light of future events, that he would be fine for money:
“Don’t worry, I’ll make a killing some day.”
“I’m surprised you’ve lived such a life of leisure,” Tyerman replied, suspecting that somehow something was amiss. “I always considered that your real enemy in life was not the Taliban but boredom. Remember Father Arnold, our chaplain? He told me how you once quoted Kierkegaard to him – that “Boredom was the root of all evil.””
“You shouldn’t believe everything a priest tells you,” Devlin countered. He had been fond of Father Arnold. He listened to the men rather than preached. His Irish whiskies were as strong as his faith too.
“Well, believe it or not, I once had a bet with him – about you. You were of course somewhat an enigma to us all. Father Arnold believed that you were a good Catholic. You were just too busy to notice. Or you hid it well, as if you were trying to conceal the fact from God too. I said, however, that you had become a reaction to your boyhood self and were a staunch atheist, not just because I was privy to your files. You were far too well read to subscribe such hokum, I argued. A little knowledge will make a man an atheist, to paraphrase a saying.”
“But a lot will reconcile him to religion,” – Devlin thought to himself, finishing off the quote from Francis Bacon. He also considered that his former CO was fishing for answers – and just playing the evangelical atheist. On a small corner table in his office one could often observe an open Bible, next to where he kept his sidearm.
“If I am a catholic, I fear I’m a lapsed one,” Devlin remarked, the tone of his voice tantamount to a shrug.
The price of knowing Michael Devlin was that one never really got to know him.
“Is there any other kind?”
Devlin remembered re-reading The End of the Affair, a year or so after Holly died. The last line resonated with him: “O God, You’ve done enough, You’ve robbed me of enough, I’m too tired and too old to love, leave me alone forever.”
The two men talked some more. Tyerman asked where Devlin was living. Devlin mentioned Emma. He shrugged when asked if he had plans to get married. They also gossiped about what others from the regiment were up to, before Tyerman glanced at his watch and realised he was running late for another meeting.
“Well, we both have things to consider. I will email you with more information and think about how we can utilise John. I should warn you however that I’ll be flying off to Cyprus early tomorrow morning for a holiday with the family. I’ll be needing close protection should my wife catch me working too much while we’re away. But I am keen for you to join the firm, Michael. I don’t just want to offer you a job either. I would like you to have a career with us. Sooner rather than later my wife will demand that I retire – and I want to be able to leave the business in the hands of talented and committed people… As much as I am a ghost from the past I also want to represent the future. This is a chance for you to turn the page and start afresh.”
Devlin decided he would accept the job offer, providing Tyerman took on Birch too. He could always resign after a few months. By then, he hoped, Birch would have secured his job on his own merits. He could afford to sacrifice three months. It was the least he could do for Birth. Small acts of kindness can add up. But given his sins, Devlin was still mired in debt. How many times must a man post a cheque to a charity, buy a round of drinks or hold the door open for a stranger, to balance the books against killing a man?
Atonement is still a world away.
11.
Muggy. Suffocating. Clouds like cancer growths on x-ray films. The night felt like a nauseous drunk, but the sick would stay in its gullet.
Emma was wearing a white, cotton shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. With jeans. She looked good in jeans. Holly looked better. But she still looked good. Good, but not great. Emma fanned herself with a magazine and blew air out the side of her mouth to cool her cheek, as she sat in the corner of the living room. She craved a cold shower to startle her skin – and mood – into life. She thought how Devlin used to join her in the shower. She loved the way he would kneel before her and kiss the inside of her thighs as rivulets of water coursed over every contour, freckle and goose-bump. He would dab kisses on her stomach, collar bone, breasts and neck – as if her body was a dot-to-dot picture. Sometimes she would shudder or tingle in brilliant pleasure. He taught her how parts of her body were all connected. Complete. His fingertips and mouth were soft, considerate and deliberate. An internal smile twisted itself into an internal sneer however, as Emma torturously thought that she had taught him how to make love. She had been a top model. She had doubtlessly slept her way to the top.
The prickling heat - and thoughts of Holly - irritated her. She hoped a shower would wash away her stresses. Emma half-watched the television whilst covertly glancing across at Devlin. He had the same far-away look in his eye which she had noticed on first seeing him, drinking in the The Admiral Nelson. Aloof or lost.
At least he had agreed to go to Paris the day after tomorrow. Emma suspected he had said yes to keep her silent, as opposed to keep her happy. But they had set a date. He had promised – and she couldn’t remember the last time he had gone back on his word.
He looked past or through the television – showing the latest adaptation of Pride & Prejudice, which Emma had already sat through a dozen times. Devlin was thinking about what he should wear. Not for Paris. But for the job. He would dress smartly, to blend in with the well-heeled hotel guests. A summer jacket would conceal his shoulder holster and gun. A baseball cap would give the impression that he was an American tourist. The cap would also shield his face from any cameras on the street. He memorised the relevant floor plans and the route he would take up to Rameen’s suite.
Anyone possessing a weapon in the Afghan’s room would be a fair target. Guilty by association. Kill or be killed. Should Devlin confront any unarmed innocents in the room he would promptly lock them in the bathroom without their phone. He would also threaten them. If they gave his description to the authorities, then there would be consequences. The policy had worked before.
Should Devlin somehow suffer an injury he would call a number Porter had furnished him with. He would be provided with transport and medical care. Devlin had never had cause to use the service before but he duly programmed the number into his phone. Never say never.
He prayed that any lift he caught up to Rameen’s floor would be timely and empty. Devlin was too proud or angry to ask God for anything else however.
Emma got up from the sofa, when the credits to the film began to roll, and said that she was going to take a shower. Devlin seemingly stirred, woke up from being in a world of his own. Was she just telling him – or was she offering an invitation to join her? Even if he had the will and energy to make love, he would deny himself. Like a boxer, the night before a big fight, Devlin never had sex the evening before a job – as much as it might take his mind off things. Once tomorrow was over and done with though he would make things up to Emma. He would make an effort in Paris. He was still physically attracted to her. But that attraction now came and went, like a flickering bulb. But with Holly his desire had always burned bright. But he had something good going with Emma. Good, but not great. But the more time that passed, the less he wanted to marry her.
Am I getting bored with her? Boredom might indeed be the root of all evil.
Emma’s goodness and innocence had been part of the initial attraction. But Devlin sometimes experienced a sense of shame for coming into her life. The relationship was built on a lie – or at the very least it had been built upon him not telling her the truth.
If she knew me, she would be rightly repulsed.
Ersatz. Devlin had first come across the term when he was a teenager. He had encountered the word in le Carre’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold – and he duly looked-up the definition. The word struck a chord with the disaffected y
outh – depressing and enlightening him at the same time. And it still explained, or represented, everything about the world today. Everything was artificial, or an inferior version of how things could be. Only the squalid and sinful seemed genuine. Nothing was real or solid. Except death. All is vanity under the sun. Devlin couldn’t quite remember if he had been an angry or sad young man, when he had first encountered the term. Perhaps he had been both. The one fuelled the other. His memory could be fuzzy about his teenage years. Before his first kill. The young Michael Devlin was another person. Another role. He was an old school-friend he was fond of but couldn’t wholly esteem. Decent but weak. Not that Devlin admired who – or what – he had become.
He had told Emma it was likely he would take the job with Tyerman. He asked her what she thought however – and if she had any strong objections he would re-consider things.
“It could be good for you, going back to work… It’s not too dangerous though, I hope,” she replied.
More so Devlin brought up the subject of York Security to provide him with a couple of alibis. He mentioned that the company wanted him to go for a medical in the afternoon – and a supervisor had invited him to dinner in the evening to talk about his prospective duties. Devlin intended to visit Holly’s grave during the day. And, come midnight, he would be striding through the lobby of The Ritz.
Devlin went to bed early that night. Tomorrow would be a long day. When Emma came into the bedroom he pretended to be asleep. For her part, she lay with her back to him, awake for most of the evening. Thinking.
12.