by Thomas Waugh
And Devlin would be able to forgive himself for what he was about to do. Holly would forgive him too. If God was unable to forgive him, so be it. Devlin had still not been able to forgive Him for taking his wife away.
Devlin finished off his cigarette, retrieved the claw hammer from his tool box and headed out.
Years of soldiering had taught Devlin how to be patient. After having walked past the pub and confirmed that Simms and Chard were present he crossed the road and sat by the window in a late night Turkish kebab house. He ordered a coffee, mixed grill and read the newspaper, whilst keeping one eye on the doorway to The Plough.
A few cheers and jeers filled the restaurant as a group of young men sat and watched a Galatasaray match in the corner. But Devlin tuned them out. His eyes were as keen as a croupier’s, keeping track of all the bets, as he focused on the job at hand and played out various scenarios. What if there was a lock-in at the pub and the two men stayed there for the night? What if they didn’t leave together and went their separate ways immediately after leaving? What if they turned left together? What if they turned right? What was their likely route and destination?
The waitress, Helena, approached him again to re-fill his coffee. They had spoken earlier. She was a mature student, studying European Literature, and worked in the restaurant at night to help pay her tuition fees. “I’m giving myself a second chance in life, trying to better myself,” Helena remarked. They briefly chatted about Balzac and Flaubert. She was impressed. He was courteous, attractive and, from the looks of his watch, wealthy. Helena was a blend of Asiatic and Arabic good looks. Long, glossy black hair hung down her back like silk drapes. She was alluring, even in dark jeans and a cheap t-shirt (with the name of the kebab house, Kebabylon, emblazoned across it).
“Anything interesting in the newspaper?”
“It’s all bad news I’m afraid, aside from the fact that one of the stars from a programme called Made in Chelsea has died of a drug overdose,” Devlin drily joked. He figured that anyone who liked Balzac would have a healthily dark sense of humour. “It’s the only bit of news they’re not blaming on Brexit. Although I’m sure someone will write into the letters page and correct that mistake.”
Helena laughed and her lips curled-up into a cat-like smile.
“You have nice, kind eyes,” she suddenly and flirtatiously expressed, surprising herself a little by how forward she was. Usually the customers hit on her. But here she was chatting a customer up.
“I’m sure it’s just a trick of the light,” Devlin replied.
“You’re modest too.”
“I have a lot to be modest about, unfortunately”
Helena laughed again - and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“I’ll be taking my break soon. Would it be okay to sit with you for a while?”
Devlin was tempted. Perhaps it was time he started dating again. Enjoying himself. He was attracted to her. It had been a year since he had shared a nourishing conversation over a nice meal. He would enjoy making love to her, going on holiday together. Visiting art museums and seeing plays. Spending the night on the sofa, watching a film. Laughing.
But Devlin had a job to do tonight. As well as Helena, standing in front of him, an image of Kylie came into his mind. Duty called.
“I’m afraid that I might have to suddenly leave soon, I’m due to meet someone,” Devlin politely replied, placing his hand on the table so that his wedding ring came into view.
The waitress said she understood – and forced a smile – before retreating to the counter.
Devlin left Helena a tip which was equal to the price of his meal and drinks – and headed out into the street, having spotted Simms and Chard leaving The Plough. He decided to keep his distance to begin with. As he crossed the street he noticed a brace of rats scuttling along the curb and was reminded of something one of the regulars, a pest control officer, said in the Huntsman & Hound a week ago:
“You can’t kill every rat. You need to accept them, like the air you breathe. To even get close to wiping them all out you’d have to use so much poison that you’d probably kill off half the good burghers of London too.”
The street lighting was poor as they walked towards the Pankhurst housing estate but Devlin was still able to take in his prey. Simms possessed a pasty complexion, even in summer. He was gaunt, rake thin and swaggered rather than walked, imitating the gait of some of his favourite rap artists. Although approaching forty Simms was still dressed in a tracksuit, baseball cap and a pair of garish Puma trainers. Simms had been dealing – and consuming – drugs since his mid-teens. He was far from the best advert for taking weed and coke – given his unpleasant character and appearance – but Simms knew his business and customer base. Most of the sentences that came out of Simms’ mouth contained two – or three – swear words. The small man liked to play the big man. He was relentless and ruthless when it came to collecting debts for his boss, Tony Jackson. The first warning was merely verbal. But should a customer not pay the required sum on the second time of asking Simms would pull out his knife and slice the webbing on his victim’s fingers. On the third time of asking Simms unleashed Chard. Thumbs or arms were broken. Goods were also removed from the debtor’s home. Simms was also proficient at carrying out his boss’ orders of occasionally giving his product away for free.
“Concentrate on getting them hooked first. Sooner or later we’ll make them pay double. And if they can’t quite afford to do so, we can happily lend them the money of course,” the rapacious Jackson instructed, providing a business plan for his small army of dealers and enforcers.
The brawny Chard dwarfed his friend, almost comically so. He wore a Paul Shark jacket over a chequered Ben Sherman shirt, elasticated jeans to cater for his large waist and a Dunn & Co flat cap, which had once belonged to his costermonger father. Ten years of boxing gave the enforcer a flat, crooked nose and cauliflower ears. His neck was thick, his hands were as large as bear paws and his knuckles scarred. When the big man hit someone, he stayed hit. Either sinus trouble, or an addiction to cocaine, caused the enforcer to constantly sniff.
Devlin made an educated guess that the pair were ultimately cutting through the housing estate to reach a late-night bar on Deptford High St. He made the decision to break off following the two men – and took a different path through the estate – having settled on a narrow alleyway where he could ambush his prey. There would be no room for the two men to manoeuvre or escape. The passage was situated between the estate’s generator and one of the walls of the children’s playground. No one could look out their window and witness the attack, should they hear any screams.
He reached his destination, hiding just behind the generator at the mouth of the passageway, and waited. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. Devlin, like a number of other soldiers or criminals he had encountered over the years, possessed an internal switch - a kill switch – which he could turn on at will to get the job down. Violence and immorality became a necessity. Doubt, decency, cowardice and conscience were all switched off. They would be fine to be switched on again, after the job was finished.
Devlin heard their voices and footsteps approaching. He took a breath and gripped the pimpled handle of the claw hammer. Holly had bought him the hammer, as part of a toolbox, many years ago. He had used it to hammer in the nails to hang-up various works of art.
He was wearing black jeans, a black shirt and dark blue summer blazer, with a spacious inside pocket. Devlin had retrieved the balaclava from his pocket and placed it over his head. The soles of his shoes were rubber, having had them changed from the original leather, lest he slipped and lost his footing. The devil is in the detail.
It was dark. The attacker owned the element of surprise. And the victims’ reflexes were dulled from drink and drugs. Devlin paused not to let his opponents take him in as he appeared before them.
Chard was first hit with a powerful kick to the groin. He was winded, disorientated – in too much pain to retaliate
. Before Simms had a chance to react Devlin grabbed the spindly drug dealer and smashed his head against a brick wall – just forcefully enough to knock him down rather than out.
As Chard began to straighten-up and absorb things he received another agonising blow to the groin. This time the big man fell. Devlin quickly snatched the flat cap from his head and placed it over his mouth as he pounded the hammer on his kneecaps. Once. Twice. His large body jolted, from head to toe, with each savage blow.
Devlin muffled the screams but then removed the cap and loomed over the stricken enforcer. Tears moistened his eyes. He seethed and puffed out his cheeks. His knees – legs – felt like they were on fire.
“Keep quiet. If you make a sound or move I’ll crush your windpipe. Nod if you understand.”
Chard grimaced and nodded.
Devlin swiftly transferred his attention back to Simms. Blood seeped out of the back of his throbbing head and stained his baseball cap. He was just coming out of his daze when he felt his attacker remove his trainers. Devlin removed a sock too and forced Simms to insert it into his mouth, threatening to smash his teeth in if he failed to comply. The eyes looking out from the balaclava were far from kind.
There are over twenty-five bones in a human foot. Devlin broke most of them as he ferociously struck both of Simms’ feet, like a blacksmith pounding on his anvil. Bone and cartilage snapped like bracken. The drug dealer’s remaining cream sock quickly turned red. Simms moaned, twisted and turned – but to no avail.
“You tell Jackson that Deptford now belongs to Spinks,” Devlin remarked, speaking loudly and forcefully through the balaclava. Spinks was a rival operator to Jackson, whose territory encompassed Woolwich and Thamesmead. Devlin calculated that Jackson might retaliate and start a war. Hopefully the two men would go to war. It was a dog eat dog world. But either way he was confident Kylie would be free from suspicion, as to the being the origin of the attack.
Devlin relieved the two men of their mobile phones and a large roll of cash. He walked away, wiping away any spots of blood from the hammer and his hands. The assault had taken no more than two minutes – but it’s legacy would endure. Simms would now hobble, rather than swagger. Chard would also be out of action for some time. Jackson might even write his two employees off – and demand payment for the money Devlin took from them.
As he reached the high street and flagged down a cab his phone vibrated with a message, from Porter.
“We need to talk.”
Devlin messaged back that he would call his friend in the morning. He renewed the promise he made to himself however:
I’m still retired.
It had been like old times. Before his retirement. Porter had returned from London and lied to his wife about his day. He had met with Talbot but said to Victoria that he had visited Farlows in Piccadilly and ordered new fishing rods and tackle (he had bought various pieces of equipment online to give credence to his story). Porter wasn’t a proud liar, he was just a proficient one, he thought. He came through the door early evening and forced a smile, pretending that all was well. For her part Victoria pretended not to notice that there was something that her husband wasn’t telling her. Just like old times.
Victoria rested on her bed. A book lay open in front of her but she couldn’t concentrate. The words seemed dead on the page. She bit her nails and felt like clasping the cross around her neck. And praying. She imagined how her pragmatic husband would have argued that praying wouldn’t do any good. But she would have countered that it couldn’t do any harm either.
Porter sat at the dining room table downstairs. He wanted some time alone, to brood, think, frown and hold his head in his hands. The fixer only forced a smile when his dog, Marlborough, nuzzled his leg and whimpered – either in sympathy with his master or the hound heard the fox padding across the lawn outside.
His phone buzzed. Porter read the text message from Devlin, to say that he would call in the morning. He wished he could have kept his friend out of Talbot’s plans – but he was central to them. Both men would meet with the American tomorrow. He was too tired, or despondent, to think of another deception tonight to tell Victoria, to explain away another trip to London.
Porter downed another mouthful of brandy and took another drag on his cigar. But he took little pleasure in his familiar vices. They delivered little consolation. He felt like his head was in a noose – and Talbot’s hand was on the lever which worked the trapdoor. His could lose everything. For once the fixer was at another man’s mercy. Porter was used to manipulating events, not being manipulated himself. Suffice to say he preferred the former. Only Devlin could save him. He needed to say yes to Talbot’s proposal. Do the job. Porter knew that he had to help save Devlin in return however. He was his brother’s keeper.
6.
Devlin called Porter first thing in the morning. On the surface of things the conversation was a normal one. Porter mentioned a time and location to meet – to discuss a possible business opportunity. At the beginning of the exchange however Porter asked about the health of his foster parent, which was a pre-arranged code between the two associates to signal that one of their phones or emails might be being monitored.
Devlin hung up, briefly closed his eyes and sighed.
We are where we are.
He walked and fed Violet, whilst idly speculating on his forthcoming meeting with Porter. No amount of money could tempt him to come out of retirement, he determined. He no longer owned a weapon. He could no longer be a gun for hire. Out of a courtesy to his friend he would meet with Porter though. He owed him that. The tone of his voice suggested that it might be something different to the fixer offering him a contract as well, especially since he still thought Porter was enjoying his retirement. It was not completely out of the ordinary for his former employer to enact the simple security protocol. But it was rare. Better to be safe than sorry, Porter would argue.
Midday. The address Porter gave Devlin was for a house on Boston Place, close to Baker St tube station. The property was large but anonymous looking. He rang the bell. His heart beat a little faster than normal but Devlin’s expression remained impassive. He was briefly tempted, earlier in the morning, to bring a weapon to the meeting but he trusted his friend. There were other protocols Porter could have enacted in a coded way. He could have warned Devlin that he was in danger, or to get out the country immediately, through various pre-arranged phrases.
Cutter opened the heavy black door and invited Devlin in with a nod of his head.
“Raise your arms please,” the American instructed, neither politely nor rudely, before padding the visitor down for any concealed firearms. “If you could also remove your phone and any other electronic devices from your pockets.”
Devlin left his phone in the allotted plastic container on a table by the door. Cutter pulled out a paddle-shaped scanner and ran it over the Englishman’s person, checking for cameras or bugs. As the agent did so Devlin caught a glimpse of the man’s Glock 43 beneath his suit jacket. Or perhaps Cutter allowed him to catch a glimpse of the weapon, as a threat or warning. Devlin remained unfazed by the rigmarole and security procedures. He’d experienced them plenty of times before.
Cutter scrutinised Devlin, looking for signs of shock, surprise or fear. But the hitman remained unreadable - unhackable.
The agent led Devlin upstairs to a clean, spacious living room, where Porter and Talbot were waiting.
“Good afternoon Mr. Devlin. I hope I can call you Michael. My name is Mason Talbot. I work for the CIA, for my sins. Oliver will be able to vouch for my credentials and character. Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice. Firstly, would you like something to eat or drink? Vincent here can get you something,” Talbot amiably remarked, smiling on more than once occasion. Hopefully everything could be civil. Or as civil as humanly possible - in light of the blackmail and other crimes which were about to take place.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Devlin glanced around the smartly fur
nished room. A big, flat screen tv next to a cabinet full of DVDs dominated one corner. A blood-red Dyson air purifier hummed in another corner. A row of bestselling paperbacks sat over an ornamental fireplace. Porter was sitting on one of two expensive, comfortable leather sofas which faced one another. The blinds had been pulled down over the windows and the room was illuminated by a pair of tall, brass floor lamps. Inoffensive works of art hung on the walls. Family photographs and personal effects were absent. Devlin figured that the property was usually used as a safehouse.
As well as quickly surveying the room Devlin took in his host. White. Anglo-Saxon. Protestant. The American was well-groomed and well-conditioned. He was dressed in a navy-blue Brooks Brothers suit, pristine white shirt and red silk tie (held in place with a gold, but not garish, tie pin). His shoes were as polished as the wooden floor he was standing on. Devlin caught a whiff of both cologne and moisturiser on the senior CIA agent. He looked good, even great, for his age. His voice was clear and authoritative. He could have been an American news anchor for Fox News (as opposed to CNN). Devlin suspected that his forehead had been botoxed on more than one occasion – and that the agent bleached his teeth. Talbot was not so much a car salesman, as someone who owned an entire dealership, Devlin later considered.
Porter stood-up and greeted his friend. He appeared a little sheepish. Outfoxed. His expression was creased in worry – or contrition – as he shook Devlin’s hand. Porter somehow seemed diminished, deferent, in the American’s presence.
“It’s good to see you again, Michael,” Porter said. It remained obvious, but unsaid, that he wished it was under different circumstances.
Devlin nodded, in a non-committal way, in reply.
“Please, gentlemen, take a seat. My apologies, Oliver, if I repeat some of what we discussed during our previous meeting. You seem like a straight talking – as well as straight shooting – kind of man, Mr. Devlin. As such I will come straight to the point. I want you to carry out a job for me.”