Gun For Hire

by Thomas Waugh

  God is smiling on me, Devlin ironically mused as he turned off the television. As he readied himself to go out he glanced at a framed print on the wall, of Anton Mauve’s A Dutch Road. The picture was a replacement for one that Emma had taken with her when she moved out. After surveying the artwork, he glanced in the mirror (if the picture wasn’t already a mirror to his soul). His eyes narrowed, or face winced, as took in his unconditioned figure. His t-shirts used to stretch a little across his body due to his broad chest. But now they did so due to a burgeoning pot belly. Devlin often used to run in the mornings when he was with Emma. He would push himself. Lactic acid would be replaced by endorphins. He would gulp down tap water as if it were liquid ambrosia. On his return, should Emma still be home as opposed to working in the florist, they would make love in the shower. The couple might then go to the park and just sit and read, with Violet curled up in between them. Contented.

  Devlin left the house. He walked with his head down, as though he were a clergyman, deep in prayer. He had no desire to meet anyone’s gaze. Connect. Should Devlin have looked up – and around – he might have spotted two CIA watchers following him. They hovered about at a distance, like a brace of vultures riding the thermals.

  To further shutout the bleating world he inserted his headphones and turned the music up. At first, he switched on Holly’s Playlist, a collection of songs his late wife used to listen to:

  “Love has truly been good to me

  Not even one sad day

  Or minute have I had since you’ve come my way

  I hope you know I’d gladly go

  Anywhere you’d take me

  It’s so amazing to be loved

  I’d follow you to the moon in the sky above.”

  The music conjured up all manner of memories for the widower. Lazy summer afternoons spent in Hyde park, resting her head on his chest like a pillow as they drank ice-cold lemonade and read pot-boiler novels. Illicit sex in women’s changing rooms as she invited him in to see how an outfit looked on her. Sighing quietly yet intimately. She often told him how much she loved him, during or just after climaxing. Tears sometimes in her eyes. Sometimes giggly. Sometimes tingling or shaking. Sometimes desperately wanting to be hugged. On flights home from trips away she would lift the arm rest between them, lean into him and share the music she was listening to by dividing up her headphones. Holly was the only one he could ever talk to about how lonely his childhood was – and what it felt like to be abandoned by his natural parents. She would always remind him of how much he was loved now though, by his foster parents and herself.

  Devlin’s bittersweet reveries grew more painful however, as the wrack continued to turn. He changed the playlist. He pictured Holly again, lying in the hospital bed. Her comely features were swollen - bloody and ashen in different places, like the patina on a slab of marble. He closed his eyes and felt again the slight squeeze of her fingertips as he spoke to her, whist her life ebbed away – swirling down the drain. The doctor said it was a reflex action, but he believed otherwise. She was responding to his voice. There was still hope then. Faith. But that was then. The garrotte of grief continued to choke. But Devlin embraced the pain. It was all he had, or all that seemed real. True. It proved how much he loved her. That love exists in the world. This wicked, vain and plague-ridden world.

  “If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born

  Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”

  Devlin stood in Garratt Lane cemetery, staring at Holly’s gravestone. An asphalt sky augured rain.

  Vincent Cutter sat on a bench, in the distance, watching Devlin. The CIA operative, who had worked under Talbot for over five years, opened-up his laptop and updated his report on the Englishman. His orders were to just observe, unless it looked like Devlin was going to leave the country.

  “Just get to know him. Make sure he isn’t on drugs, or physically and mentally burned out. If he has any other weaknesses though, we can use them to strengthen our hand,” Talbot instructed his agent.

  Cutter was squarely built, but agile. Like a Humvee. His crew cut was severe, as often was his expression. The forty-year-old former marine was professional and precise in his conduct. The ardent patriot was loyal to his country and employer. His wife had come second to his job, which is why she divorced him. Talbot had taken Cutter under his wing, after the agent had failed the psych tests during his application to join the Secret Service. Talbot was his mentor – and even after five years Cutter would avidly listen to the older man’s words of wisdom (he was also grateful for the regular bonus payments his handler gave him, outside his government salary):

  “The rules of engagement should be shoot first, so that you only have to shoot once… Who needs to win hearts and minds when you have them by the balls?... Know your enemy, before he even knows you’re his enemy… It’s when you don’t lie to Congress that they think something is wrong… Plausible deniability. They should always be your ultimate watchwords.”

  Cutter updated Talbot by leaving his report in a draft folder of an email account he shared with his employer - that way no correspondence was actually sent (and potentially intercepted). The CIA operative, or one of his colleagues, had been following their person of interest for a few days now. Cutter reported that the Englishman drank heavily. He spent several afternoons or evenings at his local pub. In terms of his routine he regularly walked his dog, visited his life wife’s grave and attended to his ailing foster parent at a nursing home. He didn’t work but rather lived off a generous income from monies earned as a contract killer. Having read about his service record in Afghanistan and some of the hits attributed to Devlin the agent granted the Englishman some grudging respect. He was a fellow professional. Talbot also read with interest about the events of the previous night. Any reservations the agent might have had about the target losing his edge had been quelled. The English hitman had ice in his veins, to face down the Jamaican gunman as he did. Or Devlin possessed a death wish. He certainly possessed good taste in women, the American thought, as he clicked open the photographs of Emma and Holly. Cutter briefly thought of an ex-girlfriend who had been crippled in a car accident recently, as he read about the death of Devlin’s wife. God only knows what the bastard went through. Any admiration Cutter harboured for Devlin would not colour his judgement however should Talbot order him to take the Englishman out. He had killed better men, during sanctioned and unsanctioned operations. Talbot told him where to point – and Cutter fired. No questions asked.

  Semper fidelis.

  Devlin picked up a few pieces of litter, lying next to Holly’s grave, and replaced the old bouquet of flowers with a new one. He read the inscription on the gravestone once more, a quote from Coleridge:

  “To be beloved is all I need

  And whom I love I love indeed.”

  The words had carved themselves into his soul, as surely as they were carved into the expensive marble. He spoke to her. As much as Devlin knew what his wife would say to him back, he still would have loved to hear her voice again. Just once even.

  If he had drawn another gun last night, I still would have walked towards him. I felt like I was walking towards you. I’m not sure I even confronted them out of a desire to save other people. In the end, we’re all dead.

  Devlin’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Usually he turned it off, whilst talking to his wife, but as he was expecting a call from the care home about his father’s latest blood test he checked the screen. He duly ignored it and placed the device back into his pocket on viewing the missed call – and then text message – from Birch.

  “It’s been a year. Let’s celebrate.”

  John Birch had served with Devlin in Helmand – and had been injured during Rameen’s attack on the village. Birch had also been the one to alert Devlin of the Afghan’s presence in the London last year. He reminded the contract killer of his promise that he would kill Rameen, if ever the opportunity arose. Devlin wasn’t in th
e mood to celebrate the anniversary however. He winced, as if he were in physical torment, as he remembered Tyerman. It was the anniversary of his death too. The sins of the past can cling to you, like leeches. Bleed you dry.

  After visiting Holly’s grave Devlin smoked a couple of cigarettes outside the gates of the cemetery and then flagged down a black cab to take him to the Huntsman & Hound pub. He needed a drink.

  Cutter and his watch team followed in a charcoal grey BMW.

  The Huntsman & Hound pub was located just off the Old Kent Rd. Black, iron horseshoes and yellowing photographs of how the pub looked in the past adorned the walls. The polished brass fittings and rows of glasses, hanging from the bar, gleamed in the improving sunshine. A smell of beer, chicken goujons and furniture polish infused the air.

  A couple of locals sat at the far end of the bar, whilst a few medical students worked their way through a second bottle of wine in the corner. Devlin gave the locals a friendly nod and then caught the eye of Terry Gilby, the pub’s genial landlord. Devlin made a subtle swirling motion of his finger, signalling that he was happy to buy a round of drinks for everyone.

  Shortly afterwards the door to the pub opened and an American ordered a drink. He sat himself at a table, read the newspaper and glanced at his phone and watch – as if he was waiting for someone.

  Devlin downed half his pint in a few desperate and thirst-quenching gulps. Frequenting the pub had become one of his few pleasures in life. He often took Violet along with him. It felt more like home than home.

  “How ‘ave you been?” Terry asked, confident that, unlike some of his other customers, Devlin wouldn’t launch into a Jerimiah. The landlord had almost become the postcode’s sin eater, listening to his patrons’ various problems: marital issues, the ineptitude of the local council, work troubles, Millwall’s loss of form and the rising price of cigarettes.

  “I’m fine,” Devlin casually replied, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, as he also waved his hand in acknowledgement of the locals at the end of the bar thanking him for the drink. “How have you been? Busy?”

  “Busy enough. When it gets quiet I often wish that it’ll liven up. But when it gets busy I long for it to be quiet again,” Terry replied in good humour, clinking his pewter tankard against his friend’s. “L’chaim.”

  “L’chaim,” Devlin enjoined – and finished off the remainder of his pint.

  “So, did you hear about the shooting last night in Bermondsey Square? A yardie gunned down a couple of Albanians. And then the yardie was beaten to within an inch of his life by a mysterious bystander – with an ashtray of all things, according to some reports. There are worse tragedies. At least it wasn’t another poxy terrorist attack. There’s a chance you might have even heard the shots from your flat.”

  “I saw something on the news this morning but I wasn’t really concentrating. I also slept through the whatever happened. I heard enough gunfire in Helmand to last me a lifetime. Hopefully the government might now be encouraged to bring back smoking in pubs, given the security benefits of ashtrays.”

  “Amen to that. You must have seen a lot during your time over there. Did you ever have to shoot at anyone? I won’t be offended if you tell me to mind my own business,” Terry said, as he poured his friend another pint. He subtly shook his head when Devlin motioned to pay, indicating that the drink was on the house.

  “I fear I might bore you to sleep should I start recounting some old war stories. Suffice to say I fired off a few shots in anger, whilst over in Afghanistan. One of the councillors over in Helmand once asked a sniper what he felt, when he fired off a shot and killed an enemy. “Well, depending on if I haven’t had breakfast that morning, I feel hungry,” he replied… After the Iranian Embassy siege in the early eighties the SAS were all asked to submit a report of their actions during the assault. A soldier was quizzed as to why he shot a single terrorist more than thirty times. His answer: “I ran out of bullets.” I knew soldiers in Helmand who discharged their weapons by accident, or out of nervousness. Others did so out of anger or a sense of vengeance for fallen comrades… If you don’t shoot the enemy, the enemy will shoot you… Soldiering is a job. And controlled aggression is part of the job description… Sometimes war can bring out the best in people, sometimes it can bring out the worst…”

  Devlin thought how, more than perhaps any other regiment, the Paras brought out the best and worst in people. The motto of the regiment was Ready for Anything. The Paras went forward when others would take a step back, or retreat. They fought for one another like brothers. Fearless. Often decent. Often noble. Montgomery had called the Paras, “Men apart.” But Devlin had witnessed the darker side of “men apart” – behaving like animals. Few squaddies gained their red beret without a bout or two of milling. Devlin had stepped into the ring himself. He had been both a lion – and punchbag – at the same time. His arms hung off him like two sacks of potatoes afterwards. His expression creased in disgust every time he recalled the “gunge” contests of his fellow squaddies. Shit was eaten, piss was drunk. 1 Para prided itself on being the best, or worst, “gungers”. The other great contest between squaddies, to separate the men from the boys or Paras from the craphats, during his time in the regiment had been the Dance of the Flaming Arseholes. Soldiers would strip naked, roll-up a magazine and shove it into their arse. It was then set on fire. As the rest of the room chanted a song called “The Zulu Warrior” the Para would dance on the table and try to let the magazine burn down as far as possible, until he couldn’t endure the pain anymore. Devlin tried to remain a man apart on such nights. He would retire early and catch up on some reading, or maintain his weapon and kit.

  “Truth as Circe: Error has transformed animals into men: is truth perhaps capable of turning man back into an animal?”

  Devlin recalled the quote from Nietzsche as he remembered the incidents of beastings and punishments beatings throughout his training. Man’s inhumanity to man is the dye that’s impossible to whitewash from history. We’re human, all too human after all. Devlin himself had executed Taliban fighters and turned a blind eye to acts of sadism. He still couldn’t be sure if he lost or found himself during his tours. Most of the horror stories about what the Paras did to captured IRA members in the seventies also contained kernels of truth. But the IRA were also men apart, Devlin judged. Vile, brutal, conceited thugs – adopting a romantic cause to mask a criminal organisation which pedalled drugs and ran one of the largest protection rackets in Europe. When Devlin was offered the contract to take out a former IRA brigade commander he willingly accepted.

  “Where’s Kylie? Is she not working today?” Devlin asked, curious. He also wanted to steer the conversation away from his time in the army. It was another part of his past he wanted to bury. Kylie was a barmaid. Devlin had known her from when she used to work in The Admiral Nelson, a pub close to his flat. He had slept with her then. He had slept with her again, about a month ago. She had recently broken things off with her boyfriend. It had been late. They were both drunk. Both lonely. Devlin visited Holly’s grave the following morning and said that it had meant nothing. A few days later Kylie was back with her fiancé. When Devlin and the barmaid saw each other again they duly acted as if nothing had happened.

  “She asked for the day off. Her idiot and selfish shit of brother has taken what spare cash she has and disappeared again. She came in earlier, crying her eyes out, saying that Paul Simms and Chris Chard were demanding that she pay her brother’s debts. If you didn’t already know Simms and Chard work for Tony Jackson, the local loan shark and drug dealer. The two businesses complement each other. I’m not even sure if Tony knows that they’re hassling Kylie for the money. It’s not his style to go after women. Simms and Chard may be doing it to earn some extra cash, or they’re just getting their kicks from terrorising her. I’d offer to help her out but her brother owes over five grand. She doesn’t want to ask her fiancé either, in case it causes an argument and he break things off again.”
>
  Devlin compressed his jaw and pursed his lips. His stomach tightened into a fist. He pictured Kylie’s heart-shaped face and bright, coquettish eyes. There wasn’t a mean bone in her body. She couldn’t afford five grand. But it didn’t matter. Devlin would make somebody else pay.

  “I think I’ve seen Simms and Chard about before. Do they still drink in The Plough, off Deptford High St?”

  “Aye. Simms is shagging the landlady there. Hopefully she’ll give him a dose of the clap and he’ll be too ill hassle Kylie. Fancy another drink?”

  “No, I best be off. I need to feed Violet and take her for a walk.”

  “Will you be back later?”

  “I’m not sure. I need to take care of some business first.”

  5.

  Devlin paced – or stalked - around his living room and smoked another cigarette. Music played in the background. After returning home Devlin had fed and walked his dog. He also cooked himself a meal of some grilled trout and steamed broccoli. He resisted the temptation of drinking a bottle of wine with dinner and just had water. He wanted to rehydrate and sober up. Be sharp.

  Devlin remembered the brief look of rejection on Kylie’s face when, as they lay in bed, she asked if things would ever get serious between them - and he replied that they couldn’t. He then thought of Holly and turned his back to the barmaid. But the girl’s hurt expression now scorched what was left of his soul. He hoped he would now be able atone for the hurt he caused. Absolve himself. Kylie would never know how he helped her. But that didn’t matter. Devlin would know. God would too.

  The ex-soldier told himself he wasn’t suffering from bloodlust, having gained a taste of violence again from the previous night. It was just an unfortunate coincidence. I’m still retired. He didn’t want to scratch the itch but he was left with no choice. Simms and Chard needed to pay.