by Thomas Waugh
Devlin thought he would feel better once he made it across the river. But he didn’t. Sensing that he might be sick he asked the driver to drop him off at Elephant & Castle. He walked the rest of the way home, via the backstreets, avoiding as many people as possible.
Emma was thankfully asleep when he returned. Oblivious. Innocent. The widower loved her, in his own way. But just not enough. He checked his phone, which had been on silent. He had seventeen missed calls from Birch. He sent a text: “It’s done”. There was nothing else left to say. The alcoholic downed a large whisky and took Violet out for a walk. He still needed some air. Devlin thought that if he somehow encountered Sean Grady and his crew he would kill them. Or allow them kill him.
16.
The Thames was as black as the Styx. The pleasure boats were back at their moorings for the night. The lights were off across the water - candles pinched out by a niggarding churchwarden. Darkness visible. The temperature dropped. But Devlin barely noticed. He had not even complained during the bitterly cold nights in the desert, in Helmand.
Violet lay at his feet. The dog peered up at him with a degree of confusion – as well as devotion – in her expression. She whimpered a little, every now and then, either in sympathy for her master – or she wanted a biscuit.
Devlin took another long drag on his cigarette. He had found a late night off licence and bought two packs of twenty Rothmans. The smoke settled his stomach and helped him breathe normally again. He knew smoking was bad for him. But it felt good. Right.
The killer sat on his bench. Thick, fungal clouds covered the sky. Not a soul stirred. He had just tossed the Sig Sauer in the undulating river. Porter had recommended him to do so, during their lunch, as without a weapon (and CCTV coverage) the police would never be able to bring a case against him - even if they were able to track him down and arrest their suspect. But Devlin disposed of the weapon, as he never intended to fire it again. The gun felt even heavier in his hand, at the end.
He let the smoke flood his lungs again - warm them, feed them – and took another swig of vodka from the hip flask he had brought out with him. He listened to the rhythmic lap of water against the mossy timbers of the riverbank and thought of Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach. Devlin remembered how, during his honeymoon, he had recited the last verse of the poem to Holly, as they lay in bed together. He gently closed his eyes and tried to feel again the kiss she had given him, in reply.
The phone, vibrating in his trouser pocket, was ignored. He didn’t know, or care, if it was Birch, Porter or Emma.
Emma. Devlin made a promise – to himself and God – that he would end things with her in the morning. It would bring unhappiness to them both. But it was the right thing to do. He dearly hoped she would let him keep Violet. But whether he deserved to or not was another matter, he conceded.
The temperature dropped even more. What stars, which could be glimpsed between the clouds, shone dimly. Police sirens sounded in the distance. But they were coming towards him. Getting louder and louder. Harsher. He wouldn’t resist arrest.
God knows I already feel like a condemned man.
We are where we are.
Ready for Anything
Thomas Waugh
“I simply love you more than I love life itself.”
Elton John, I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues.
“No human being can really understand another, and no one can arrange another’s happiness.”
Graham Greene, The Heart of the Matter.
1.
London. Bermondsey Square. Pistol shots cut through the balmy, evening air and shattered the party atmosphere. The muzzle flashes and sounds were all but simultaneous, as when thunderclaps follow lightning. The flats, hotel and bars, which formed two sides of the square, trapped and amplified the terrifying noise.
Run. Hide. Tell.
Those were the three words of advice, issued by the authorities, should the public become embroiled in a terrorist attack.
Pint and highball glasses crashed to the ground. Chairs and tables were knocked over. Screams spiralled upwards like tendrils of smoke from chimney stacks. Flip-flops slapped against paving stones. Fearing further gunshots, or a nail bomb, or a savage knife crime, the late-night revellers ran for their lives – scattering like a colony of insects under attack.
It was every man for himself. A stampede. More than one woman was pushed over and trampled upon. One twenty-something, wearing a beany hat and ripped jeans, was more concerned with holding his phone aloft and filming the scene, than helping the girl he floored get back on her feet. He would spend the rest of the evening tweeting about the attack, desperately trying to play the victim (or even hero) in a campaign to glean more likes and followers on his social media accounts. Maybe his ex-girlfriend would get in touch, to see if his was okay, he reasoned. He emailed The Guardian to say he was available for comment, enclosing two profile pictures from his Facebook account. In one he was duly solemn, but in the other he was smiling and holding his thumbs up. It had been taken in Australia during his gap year, just before he was about to bungee jump. For half an hour or so his hashtag, #iwillsurvive, even started trending. It was the most exciting moment of the software developer’s life.
The stream of people continued to flow out of the square and into Tower Bridge Rd. Traffic screeched to a halt. Hands trembled – and voices broke – as all manner of young professionals called the police. Panic was pandemic. Tears cut through make-up, like scars.
Run. Hide. Tell.
It was a terrorist attack, they fervently believed. A few witnesses reported that they had heard the perpetrators exclaim, “Allahu Akbar.”
But one man swam against the stream. The forty-something had been standing, alone, in a corner of the square, keeping himself to himself. Michael Devlin looked anonymous. A no one. He was dressed in unbranded jeans, a polo shirt and sports jacket. Few had given him a second look but some might have thought the man was waiting around for someone. Others might have imagined that someone had just left him. He was drinking. Brooding. Contempt smouldered off him like brimstone, albeit one couldn’t quite tell if the contempt was directed towards himself or the surrounding snowflakes. Most likely it was both. The more Devlin thought about humanity, the more he loved his dog.
Devlin still cradled his tumbler of Bushmills as he walked towards Shortwave – a cinema and bar – where the shots emanated from. The former paratrooper, having served in Afghanistan, was no stranger to muzzle flashes. As a former contract killer Devlin could also tell the difference between a gangland hit and Islamist terrorist attack. He sucked in the scene as he walked, making a risk assessment and noting the entrances, exits and CCTV cameras.
His red-rimmed eyes narrowed, as he peered over the sea of bobbing heads to take in the gunman and his confederate, standing by their two victims. A cold moon shone down, indifferent to the crime.
The two corpses looked similar. Brothers, perhaps. Eastern European. Probably Albanian. Devlin had heard a rumour they were aggressively moving into the area, peddling drugs and trafficking and young girls. Both victims had shaved heads. Both wore designer tracksuits and diamond-studded earrings. Tattoos decorated their necks – a spider’s web and crucifix. The bullets had thudded into their broad chests. They were slumped in their chairs, heads lolling to the sides, as if sleeping. Even when they appeared at peace however in death the two men were unpleasant looking and their thuggish faces betrayed their brutal hearts. Scallop-sized pieces of flesh were strewn on the ground behind them, from the bullets having entered and exited their bodies.
A whiff of cordite stained the air. Devlin breathed in the smell, like the familiar and moreish aroma of cigarette smoke. His hand yearned to grip his Sig Sauer pistol. His trigger finger even made a couple of subtle, reflex pulling motions. But the weapon was now at the bottom of the Thames. Devlin had tossed the pistol after his last hit, when he had accidentally gunned down a friend.
The wiry Jamaican gunman, Isaac “Shanks
” Ridley, wore an expression of confoundment more than anger as he noticed Devlin standing a dozen paces or so away from him. His face was thin, greasy, cadaverous. A grin, or grimace, revealed a crooked gold tooth and receding plum-coloured gums. A dusting of grey around his temples coloured his otherwise black hair. The rest of the square was now deserted. The wind whistled eerily through it, like a small town in the old west. His bloodshot eyes were stapled wide-open, with cocaine and sadism. The money was good – his boss would pay him well for the hit, after the Albanians had put one of their crew in the hospital – but money wasn’t everything. Ridley enjoyed violence, like some people enjoy wine, computer games or mountaineering. Back in Jamaica he had used a cutthroat razor, whilst making his name as a young enforcer. Violence was visceral, thrilling. He still carried a blade but times had changed. He could have fun with guns too, and there was no need to wash your hands or buy a new shirt after each job. Ridley savoured the sense of power, just before and after pulling the trigger. He relished the look of unadulterated fear in his victim’s eyes. His expression would contort in pleasure in direct contrast to the contortions of terror and misery he witnessed – or rather inspired.
Devlin drained the rest of his drink. The whisky warmed his throat and stirred his heart. As well as there being a sense of defiance in his features, he also seemed to be wryly half-smiling at his fellow hitman. Because he knew something his counterpart didn’t.
Ridley made a sucking noise through his teeth and the smile turned into a vicious sneer. He shook his head at Devlin, to convey how he thought the drunk was either transgressing or acting dumbly. The white boy should have run. He should have hidden. There are no more heroes left in the world. Innocents had been injured – or killed – in the crossfire during previous jobs. Ridley would still sleep easy at night if he murdered the foolhardy stranger. And he would do it quickly. The police would be on their way and he wanted to get back to his boss’ cellar bar in New Cross. Rum, spliffs and girls would be waiting for him there, as well as a plane ticket to a non-extradition island, just in case the hit generated too much heat.
The yardie raised his gun but Devlin didn’t flinch, either from fearlessness or fatalism. The stoical contract killer had stared down the barrel of a gun before – one that was loaded too. Instead of hearing the report of a Browning handgun being fired Ridley just registered a click. He even pulled the trigger again, in hope or desperation.
It was now Devlin’s turn to shake his head. The gunman was transgressing and acting stupidly at the same time.
Amateur.
Devlin proceeded to walk towards the Jamaican, as if he were a new recruit again, purposefully marching across the parade ground at Aldershot. Ridley let out a curse and reached into his pocket for a spare magazine but as he did so Devlin’s empty tumbler glass struck him square in the chest. Ridley was forced backwards and he dropped the gun and magazine. In the meantime, Devlin picked up a glass ashtray from a nearby table, where gobbets of Albanian blood marked various tapas dishes and a jug of sangria. Just as Ridley gazed up and regained his focus he felt the white boy grab him by his shirt and gold chain - and glimpsed the ashtray being thrust towards him. The first blow smashed into his front teeth and knocked him unconscious. Ridley fell to the floor, like a ragdoll. Devlin’s expression remained calmly determined, or impassive, as he bent over his opponent and drove the ashtray into his face two more times, as if his arm were a jackhammer. Bone glinted beneath the gashes in the yardie’s nose, cheek and chin. The brutal attack lasted just a few moments. Devlin neither knew – nor cared – if the figure at his feet was dead. Adrenaline began to course through Devlin’s body but he still had the presence of mind to place the ashtray in his pocket. He’d retrieve the tumbler too. He didn’t want to leave any trace evidence.
Ridley’s young confederate, Justin Gardner, took in the sudden change of events, his mouth agape. It was the first time the teenager had taken part in a hit. Tonight was supposed to be another test. He still needed to prove himself. Earn the respect of his fellow gang members. Ridley instructed that there was no need for the youth to carry a gun.
“Just watch and learn, young cub,” the older man said, with a mischievous and menacing gleam infusing his doped-up expression.
Drugs had yet to ravage Justin’s features, or dull the teenager’s aspect. But he believed his path was set. He could make more money in a month than his father had made in a year, before he left. After tonight he could put a down payment on the car he wanted – and get his girlfriend the lingerie she (or rather he) picked out on the Victoria’s Secret website. He would order the latest iphone and only wear designer labels. But the money wasn’t just for himself, he vowed. He wanted to buy his mum a new flat, in a better neighbourhood, and send his younger brother to a better school. But first he would get the keys to the Mitsubishi Evo. Justin had dreamed about the car, ever since he first played Grand Theft Auto when he was eight.
Devlin quickly, professionally, loaded the gun and levelled the weapon at the petrified teenager. The hit wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, for Justin. It felt like a dream. Or nightmare. His bottom lip trembled and his soul eked out an inelegant prayer. Whilst Ridley was being savagely, or clinically, assaulted by the stranger the young gangster had pulled out a blade from his inside coat pocket. He had threatened to cut someone before, but had never actually bloodied the weapon. Gardner stood at the crossroads, caught between fight or flight. Beads of sweat wended their way along his down-filled cheeks.
“You’ve brought a knife to a gunfight,” Devlin drily remarked. “Go. Or if you’re going to come at me, come at me now.”
Police sirens sounded in the background. At any one time forty vehicles, containing armed officers, patrolled the streets of London – ready to respond to violent crimes and terrorist attacks. The aim was for the authorities to reach any possible scene within eight minutes.
Part of Devlin wanted the youth to attack him, stab him. He was ready to die. Nothing is good or bad but thinking makes it so. He deserved to die. Life weighed upon his chest like a tombstone. He wanted to die, as much as a bridegroom desired his bride on their wedding night. Devlin had sinned, more than he had been sinned against. Guilt scythed through him like a bolt of lightning, every day… And the widower would only be able to see his wife, Holly, in the next life. Not in this one.
The teenager’s heart skipped a beat but then galloped. His breathing became irregular – and there was a moment when he nearly lost control of his bowels - but somehow Justin began to shuffle backwards. Self-preservation was sovereign over any loyalty he felt towards his confederate. His eyes flitted between the coal-black pistol and the stranger’s flinty aspect. Justin resisted the temptation to turn around, out of fear of being shot in the back, but retreated into the bar. Spilled kettle chips and cashew nuts crunched beneath his feet. The speakers still piped out acid jazz. Once he made it to the kitchen door Justin ran – and didn’t look back. Cutlery and crockery crashed to the floor. He dreaded breathlessly explaining events to the getaway driver, parked close-by on Long Lane. He further dreaded having to explain events to Onslow, his unforgiving boss, waiting for him back at the bar – The Rum Punch - in New Cross.
Devlin slipped the Browning into his jacket pocket. He would dispose of the weapon in the Thames.
The police sirens grew louder. Wailing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a few curtains, in apartment and hotel windows, peel back a little. But no one secured a good look at the man who hadn’t run or hid.
Devlin calmly, unassumingly, left the square. Head bowed down. His hands buried in his pockets. Most people were too glued to their smart phones to notice him. Devlin already had his route home planned-out, one which avoided any CCTV cameras.
The moon disappeared behind some thick grey clouds, congealing across the sky like a scab. Police cars began to light up the scene, like a disco, in the background. But Devlin didn’t look back as he tabbed down a poorly lit side street and the night swall
owed him up.
2.
Devlin threw the gun in the river. The Thames gratefully gulped it down. He now lay curled up, in a foetal position, on his sofa. A large brandy sat on the coffee table in front of him, as did a full ashtray and well-thumbed copy of Bernard Malamud’s The Assistant. He closed his eyes and exhaled. His conscience smarted not from having injured, or killed, the recidivist in the square. He was pleased however for having spared the trembling adolescent. He was young, but not innocent. There are no innocents left in the world. If nothing else, the lapsed Catholic believed in original sin. Devlin believed in God too. He just couldn’t serve Him.
The curtain rhythmically billowed out, as if someone were standing on the balcony with a set of bellows. Warm air – and the abrasive sound of police cars gunning down Tower Bridge Rd – entered the room. Devlin reached over for the remote control and turned down the volume on the stereo. The Bob Dylan Playlist was on, again: