by Thomas Waugh
11.
Morning. The city was shrouded in a dirty grey mist, as if everyone had been chain smoking since dawn. A watery, jaundiced light eventually seeped through, like puss secreting from a wound.
Devlin pretended to be a friend of Kylie’s brother. He composed a short note, enclosed with ten thousand pounds (which he retrieved from his bug-out bag at the bottom of his wardrobe), explaining how Kylie could use the money to pay back her brother’s debt. She should then use any money left over to help pay for the wedding.
He checked for a tail - and ran a few counter-surveillance moves for good measure – before heading over to the barmaid’s flat and posting the letter and money through her door.
As Devlin walked home he sketched out a schedule for the day ahead. After taking Violet for a walk he would vacate the flat, before Emma was due to turn up, and visit Bob at the care home. After a couple of drinks in the pub he would then visit Holly’s grave. Once back home he would check-in with Oliver and run-through the plan for tomorrow.
Devlin’s schedule – and innards – span out of kilter however as he opened the door to find Emma already in his apartment, wrestling Violet for possession of a plastic bone.
He briefly stood dumbstruck, or enamoured. His mouth fell open, forming a perfect O – as if he were a goldfish. He was a little shocked – as opposed to angry – that Emma had turned up so early and let herself in. Indeed, he quickly realised how pleased he was to see her. There was a surprising lack of awkwardness. Maybe it was her calm and heartfelt smile, putting him at ease.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m early. I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. I was lucky with the traffic,” she warmly remarked, crimsoning a little. Emma hoped Devlin would believe that she had arrived early by accident, rather than design.
“No, it’s fine. I’m not the only one who’s pleased to see you it seems,” Devlin suggested, nodding towards to an ebullient Violet. The stupidly happy mongrel wagged her tail and excitedly paced up and down. Her claws made tap dancing sounds upon the wooden floor. The animal constantly alternated her gaze between Devlin and Emma – perhaps hoping that Emma had come back to live with them again. Devlin was reminded of the enormity of Emma’s selfless act, to let Violet stay with him after they separated. It was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.
The first thing he noticed about Emma was how she had grown her hair long. Her fire-red tresses seemed to burn brighter, and cascaded down to her breasts. Her freckles were in bloom too, as they had been last summer. What little make-up she wore complimented her prettiness. Her lips were the colour of strawberry ice-cream, as opposed to strawberries. Her eyes were neither alluring nor demure. But her eyes were attractive and striking because they were kind.
Emma had given herself an extra spray of her favourite perfume that morning. She was wearing a cream, A-line thigh-high summer dress, belted at the waist to accentuate her figure. She had only bought the outfit, in House of Fraser, two days ago, along with the dark blue strappy heels she had on. Devlin thought how she was probably due to have a meeting, or attend an event later. He was too tired, modest or innocent to think how Emma had dressed-up to impress him. Whether consciously or unconsciously she still wanted him to find her attractive still - or show Devlin how she was flourishing without him. But not from a motivation of spite.
“I was about to take Violet for a walk. Would you like to join us?”
“I’d love to.”
The heavy cloud cover lifted like a curtain in a theatre, to a musical – and the sun came out. Small waves slapped against the bank of the Thames, as the pleasure boats began to cruise along the moss-green river.
Anyone might have mistaken Devlin and Emma for a newly married couple as they walked their dog, chatted and laughed together.
At first, upon seeing Devlin, Emma thought he had changed. And not for the better. He appeared tired, defeated, like a man twice his age. He was, for him, out of shape and a little overweight. His t-shirt needed tucking in and his hair was slightly unkempt. His eyes were dark, almost bruised, from sleeplessness or drink. His voice seemed rougher. Yet essentially Devlin was still the same, she realised. Melancholy. Dry-witted. His face – being – was still a swirling, cracked mosaic of strength and vulnerability. He still needed saving.
“And how’s your mum?” Devlin asked, as they caught-up with various things.
“Oh, she’s still her usual, unbearable self. She might even have a nervous breakdown one day, instead of just always being on the cusp of one. My dad should be given a medal for putting up with her. Although I’m sure he’d prefer just to lower his golf handicap.”
Emma failed to mention how her mum disapproved of her fiancé, Jason. During their first lunch together she had asked her daughter’s new suitor if he was Catholic. He wasn’t. God was a “cultural construct” for the tax lawyer.
“I can accept that someone called Jesus Christ existed. I just think he was a carpenter rather than the son of God,” Jason asserted.
“He’s an atheist,” she had said, with some alarm, after the boyfriend left. “It could be worse though, I suppose. He could be C of E,” she added, without a hint of humour – which was what made it funnier for Emma and her long-suffering father.
“Daddy misses you, of course,” Emma remarked to Devlin, just after throwing another biscuit up in the air and having Violet catch it in her mouth. “He talks about you as if you were a fish. The one that got away. He’s got no one in his life now to chat about military history with… How’s Bob?”
“Unfortunately, he’s gone downhill since Mary passed away. He can’t really hold a conversation anymore. He gets confused. He barely eats… And he cries when he remembers Mary. He just lays in bed most of the time with the TV on, although he can’t really take things in. The easiest way to describe it is that he seldom laughs or smiles anymore.”
Devlin mumbled rather than spoke – and for the first time since Emma had known him the ex-soldier looked like he was going to break down and cry. He felt buffeted and burdened, plagued by the harpies of grief, guilt and Mason Talbot. Everything invisibly attacked him at once and the combatant couldn’t fight back. His features crumbled in on themselves like a crushed polystyrene cup. Her heart went out to him, as did her fingertips as she gently placed her hand upon his arm. Devlin realised just how much he needed the touch, once he felt it.
“You must be glad you’ve found someone else, given the state I’m in?” Devlin joked, doing his best to raise a smile.
Emma nearly answered “no”.
“I’m sorry,” he then said, simply and sincerely.
“That’s okay, don’t be silly. You have been through a lot recently, what with Bob’s dementia and Mary passing away.”
“No, I mean I’m sorry – for everything. For hurting you. I wanted to be the man you wanted me to be. But couldn’t. I regret how I treated you – and how things ended – but I don’t regret getting to know you. Being with you, Emma.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say to Devlin, if she encountered such a scene, so many times. But silence seemed apt. If he would have asked her to keep him company all day – and all night – she probably would have said yes. They both leaned towards each other, as they sat on the bench. Propping each other up. Emma squeezed his hand. Devlin was responsive and squeezed hers in return. Their heartbeats and breathing synchronised.
“I hope you’re happy now,” Devlin said, his voice still a little broken.
“I am,” Emma replied, lying. She increasingly preferred to spend time by herself, rather than be in Jason’s company. She told herself that this didn’t matter. But it did. He was a junior partner at a law firm in Holborn. He still had a lot to prove, to himself, his successful father and the partnership. Every discussion – or argument – between them was akin to a small court case. And he needed to win it, either through semantics or plea bargaining. He felt lucky to have her – and Jason loved the woman he a
sked to marry – but Emma sometimes felt she was little more than an adornment, a piece of eye candy who could hold an intelligent conversation around a dinner table with clients and associates. But he was decent and stable. And Emma wanted to marry him, she told herself – although her decision was slightly coloured by a desire to have children. At least he had never been married before. All the time, when Emma had lived with Devlin, she felt like she had been competing with the ghost of his first wife – and she could never live up to Holly. She was sacred. Perfect. Yet Emma missed how Devlin would put her first when they were making love. Jason couldn’t compete with her first love in that respect, either from a lack of technique or selflessness.
“I know that other people say how they’d like to remain friends, but I would. I’ve enjoyed this morning, despite me just making a fool of myself and doubtless depressing you. But not many people I know can hold their drink like you, or have read Graham Greene. It’d be a shame to lose you altogether.”
Emma smiled and the tears began to glisten in her eyes for a different reason.
“I’d like to see you again too. Not many people can put up with me complaining about by mum. And I’ve got no one to discuss Graham Greene – and, of course, Jane Austen - with as well. And I’ve missed Violet,” she remarked. At the sound of her name the dog jumped up and Emma let her lick her face.
She was tempted to mention, either casually or more seriously, how much she missed Devlin. But she didn’t. Yet.
“What’s the form on an old boyfriend buying a present for his ex for her wedding day?”
“How about you just take care of yourself? That can be your gift to me.” “I’d much prefer to buy you a microwave or fridge freezer. It’ll be a lot easier for me, than taking care of myself,” Devlin said, with a piratical grin.
Emma laughed, albeit underneath she still worried about the lapsed Catholic – and wanted to save him.
12.
Devlin and Emma decided to have lunch together in one of their favourite restaurants, overlooking the river. As they parted, after their meal, Emma kissed him on the cheek and embraced Devlin, in more than just a casual fashion, before finally saying goodbye. Both Devlin and Violet gazed longingly at Emma, as her heels sounded across the wooden decking and the breeze played with lose strands of her silken red hair. Devlin sighed and then breathed in her perfume, as if he was doing so one last time.
The next notable smell to prickle Devlin’s nostrils was that of the mix of bleach, lavender and cauliflower cheese – when he entered the foyer of the care home. Despite the bright décor of the home a sense of joy could only be a fleeting visitor, rather than permanent resident, in the building. Even the plastic flowers, located on the desk at the main reception, seemed to be withering, Devlin fancied.
He headed upstairs to Bob’s room, passing other residents along the way. Most sat calmly and quietly in God’s waiting room, gently rocking or talking to themselves. Yet a few still had a glint in their eye – a divine spark - and smiled and said hello to the familiar face.
Devlin forced a smile onto his careworn countenance and greeted his foster parent. Bob Woodward appeared both decrepit and child-like at the same time. His rheumy eyes peered out at the world with a blend of innocence, vacancy, disorientation and sorrow. The aged, dementia sufferer reminded Devlin of photographs of WW2 prisoners of war, which he had seen as a teenager. Bob was wearing chocolate brown trousers, a flannel shirt and corduroy slippers. Most of his clothes were now too big for him, due to his recent weight loss. What little hair he had left was cobweb-grey. His liver-spotted hands loosely held a remote control and banana skin. White, wiry hairs hung down from his chin, similar to a Billy goat. Certainly, he could be as gruff as a Billy goat on occasion, Devlin thought to himself. Bob was sitting in a wheelchair, as the nurse advised that the frail patient was too weak to walk unaided and unaccompanied now.
“Would you like to come out to the garden and have a cigarette?” Devlin asked, akin to a father encouraging his son to do something.
“Okay,” Bob replied, croakily, whilst nodding his head. Devlin took consolation from the flicker of recognition and desire in the old man’s expression.
The air was awash with buttery sunshine. Ferns, yuccas and rosebushes bordered the tennis court-sized garden. Devlin politely – even cheerfully – greeted the staff and other residents enjoying the clement weather. He wheeled Bob next to a beechwood table on the lawn, with a parasol over it providing some shade. His pale face it up in conjunction with Devlin lighting his cigarette for him. As well as retrieving his cigarettes from the top of the wardrobe in Bob’s room he had also picked up a steel hipflask, containing a measure or two of navy rum. Devlin poured out the elixir into a glass for the former merchant seaman.
“You’re a good boy,” his father said, lovingly.
Devlin’s face creased-up and for a moment he was caught, betwixt and between, smiling and sobbing. He couldn’t quite decide if life was a comedy or a tragedy. If it was a comedy, that was sad. If a tragedy, you had to laugh. Devlin was grateful for the kind words – and happy at witnessing Bob’s contented expression. But tears welled in Devlin’s eye because he knew just how much he hadn’t been “a good boy”.
After a few drags on his cigarette – and a couple of sips of rum – something seemed to click into place inside of Bob’s brain and he spoke with purpose and feeling:
“I know I’m turning into a silly sod. I keep falling asleep and talk all sorts of bollocks. I keep forgetting things too. But I don’t want you to forget how proud your mother and I are of you.”
The lump in Devlin’s throat prevented him from replying.
“And how’s that nice girlfriend of yours, Gemma?” Bob added.
“She’s fine. We had lunch together today.”
“Good, good,” the old man said, whilst nodding and gazing off into the distance, the cigarette burning itself down to the butt.
Devlin thought how his foster-dad still, just about, resembled Michael Caine. He had looked and sounded like the cockney actor most of his life – and even wore similar glasses. It had been just after watching Zulu when Devlin had mentioned his intention of joining the army. Bob neither encouraged nor discouraged his son in his decision.
“You’re a man now. It’s your choice. Just don’t go getting shot, otherwise you mother will kill you. And me too.”
Devlin looked back fondly on the afternoons they had spent together, fishing, drinking down the pub or watching football (because the “poxy commentators” often got on his nerves Bob would watch the matches with the sound off – and listen to Neil Diamond, The Drifters or Frank Sinatra instead). Devlin also remembered how Bob had introduced him to John Buchan, having given the teenager a copy of The Thirty-Nine Steps one summer. Perhaps the book led him down his path. In which case, Devlin didn’t know whether to blame or thank Bob. He missed Mary. And he missed Bob, even though he was still alive and saw him every week. But dementia had eaten away at his humour and dignity. The postman had been honest and hard-working, two traits which Devlin found scarce, outside of the army. He also loved his wife with an old-fashioned affection and devotion which this age was probably incapable of understanding, let alone duplicating.
Devlin was pleased that, for part of an afternoon, he had his father back with him. But ultimately a mournfulness gripped his heart as he stared at the pitiful figure. Death in life. Dementia had borrowed itself deep into his bones, like a cancer. There would be no Lazarus-like, miracle recovery. It was just about managing decline, fighting a losing battle. But it was one that had to be fought. The reward for a long life is not altogether so much of a reward, Devlin gloomily thought.
The two men largely sat in silence for the next hour. Bob issued the occasional confused utterance, or gave monosyllabic answers to Devlin when he tried to start a conversation. The weather continued to be fine though and the old man enjoyed a cold glass of milk, as well as his navy rum.
When Bob started to nod off Devli
n wheeled him back upstairs and positioned him in front of the television. The son then bent down and kissed his father on his waxy forehead, before taking his leave – with tears brimming in his eyes once more.
It was getting too late now to visit the cemetery, Devlin told himself. Or perhaps he didn’t want to discuss his day with Holly, given the amount of time he had spent with Emma.
During the can ride to the Huntsman Devlin dozed off a couple of times. He first dreamed about Bob. Devlin had come into his room at the nursing home and found him on the floor, having fallen out of his chair. Despite his emaciated figure Devlin found it a burden to pick him up. He shoulders burned, like he was back in the regiment again, carrying a backpack of bricks during basic training. Also, when he tried to place Bob back in his wheelchair the contraption kept toppling over. It was like trying to balance a bullet on its head.
The second dream was about Emma. The couple were having dinner by the hexagonal shaped swimming pool in the resort in Gambia they had holidayed at for a week. Not another soul was around, as though Devlin had booked out the entire restaurant for the night. She was wearing the two-toned Karen Millen dress which Devlin had bought for Emma before the trip. The outfit clung limpet-like to her lithe figure, yet could fall from her body like silk. He wanted to tell her how much he wanted her but his mouth was sown shut. His feet were nailed to the floor, preventing him from going to her. Or kneeling before her, either in the act of proposing or pleasuring her. Or supplicating her, to ask for forgiveness. Her lips were moist with champagne. Emma was equally desirous and desirable.
“I want to tell you something,” she part teased, part prepared to confess.
Devlin wondered if she was going to ask if he would marry her, or tell him how much she wanted him - or reveal she was pregnant.
But before Emma could say anything else the taxi braked sharply, as it pulled up outside the pub.