Gun For Hire

by Thomas Waugh

  Cutter’s stentorian voice came over the radio. It was 13.50.

  Devlin pulled the blind and window up to the required height. The rifle’s bipod rested on an oblong table. Devlin was standing, directing the weapon downwards. His features were neither relaxed nor tense. The barrel of the weapon remained inside the room. The butt was nestled comfortably in his shoulder. With his free hand, Devlin adjusted the telescopic sights. The ground-floor window loomed even larger in front of him. He closed the blind and informed Cutter that he would be in position at 13.58.

  Devlin waited, as patient as a priest – waiting for his flock to arrive. Or for someone to enter his confessional. But beneath his calm, focused exterior the gadfly still unsettled him. He remembered the last time he fired the sniper rifle. He had assassinated Dermot Cahill, the IRA brigade commander. It had been a righteous kill. George and Byron Parker, Rameen Jamal and Faisal Ahmadi. The world was better off without them and Devlin hadn’t lost any sleep over their deaths. But would the world be better off without Ewan Slater? Probably. But it was too late now to worry about breaking the sixth commandment. His own voice, or that of a devil, chimed in his ears:

  Thou shalt kill.

  The philosophical assassin could have argued that, had he not taken out some of his targets, then his homicidal and tyrannical victims would have caused more death and suffering than he ever could.

  Devlin briefly wondered that, if he looked in a mirror right now, would he see a vile and atrophied figure? Or, in his latex gloves and hair net, would he resemble a clown more? One to be laughed at, or pitied.

  If only Talbot was the target. The bullet would have been worth its weight in gold.

  It was time. Cutter’s voice crackled on the radio again.

  Porter pulled the blind up and Devlin readied himself. The butt was buried in his shoulder once more. His index finger rested on the trigger guard. Devlin briefly closed his eyes and regulated his breathing and heartrate. He bent his knees slightly – but owned the strength and technique to hold the slightly unnatural pose. The ground floor window loomed large in the telescopic sight again. If the gadfly was still buzzing in his ear then Devlin was besting it, ignoring it. Swotting it.

  The world would continue to spin on its axis should Ewan Slater perish (he should have died hereafter, Devlin thought, misquoting a line from Macbeth). Nature would be indifferent to his death and – as some believed that God was Nature – then God would not condemn the act either. Ewan Slater would trend on social media for twenty-four hours or so but then that would be it. He would be history. Or not even that. Although his wife would doubtless want to sign a book deal and carry on the mantle of his campaigning work. The world would still have its Vision.

  14.00.

  Devlin watched as someone came to the window and picked up the phone.

  Breathe normally. Squeeze, don’t pull. Keep your face close to the stock and do not jolt with the rifle.

  The phone was handed to another figure – silhouette.

  Cutter’s incisive voice came through the radio:

  “Take the shot.”

  The figure loomed large in the telescopic sight. Slater seemed to be facing him, presenting as big a target as possible.

  The sound of the 8.59mm round leaving the weapon was a mix of a thud, a puff and a hiss. It was and it wasn’t like the movies, Porter thought to himself. He watched the bullet ping through the window (which didn’t smash) and the silhouette disappear from view, in the blink of an eye. It was all far less dramatic than one might have imagined, the fixer posited. Life doesn’t end with a bang. But rather with a whisper. Whimper.

  Whilst Porter pulled down the window and blind Devlin commenced to place the rifle back into the rod bag, after having pocketed the shell casing from the floor. They briskly – but not too hastily – descended the stairs. After taking a breath, they removed their hairnets and gloves – and then opened the front door, wiping any prints away as they did so. The police would work out that somebody had used the empty property to take the shot but the trail would end there.

  Umbrellas went up. Car doors were opened. Bags were put inside. They drove away. Job done.

  15.

  A sombre silence hung in the air, as did a pall of cigarette smoke, as Porter drove to their rendezvous point with Danny Tanner. His stomach churned. He didn’t know if he was famished, or if he wanted to be sick. He swallowed a couple of times, his Adam’s apple moving up and down like a boat bobbing upon a choppy ocean. The fixer thought about saying “good job” to Devlin but it somehow felt inappropriate, or even patronising. Instead he gratefully breathed in Devlin’s secondary smoke and imagined the scene back at the house. People would be confused and terrorised, fearing for their own lives. Perhaps they all rushed to the back of the property, or lay on the floor. Even – or especially – the atheists would be praying. The police and ambulance service would be called. The operator would try to urge calm from the hysterical voice on the other end of the phone. Ewan Slater would be pronounced dead. The police would scratch their heads a little, until the specialists arrived. Could they label the assassination as a right-wing terrorist attack? The BBC and press would soon descend upon the scene like vultures. They would need to cordon-off the house – and surrounding streets. Find evidence. Interview neighbours. They would be unable to set-up a security cordon around the city however, to catch the shooter. It was London. The culprits would easily be able to vanish, like Robin Hood and his Merry Men disappearing into the evergreen.

  The car sloshed through another puddle. Porter glanced at Devlin. As ever his expression was inscrutable. He would have made a good poker player, albeit he probably wouldn’t have much cared whether he won or lost. Or maybe Porter could read his friend. Devlin was just sad most of the time. Angry. Grieving. He was a man unwilling and unable to climb out of the hole he had dug for himself. Or he was unwilling and unable to nourish himself, like Kafka’s Hunger Artist:

  ““I have to fast, I can’t help it… I couldn’t find the food I liked. If I had found it, believe me, I should have made no fuss and stuffed myself like you or anyone else.””

  They arrived at the drop-off point, an empty industrial estate on the outskirts of Walthamstow. Danny Tanner was there himself to oversee things. His team were professional. Most of them were ex-army. Tanner offered the two men the use of his own car and driver.

  “Just tell him where you want to go. It’s all part of the service,” he remarked with a wink.

  The impulse to be rid of the murder weapon was, for Devlin, matched by a desire to keep the Sig Sauer pistol. As well as disposing of the rifle, vehicle and their clothes Porter also handed over the tracker and radio to be destroyed, as per Cutter’s instructions. He was now free. It was job done, except for the lingering stain on his conscience. Porter wondered how many stains Talbot had on his conscience. In his mind, he might have worn them like medals – badges of honour.

  Once safely ensconced in the car – and driving towards Paddington St station – Porter checked for news of the shooting on his phone. The blood drained from his tanned face as he scrolled through the various online reports. He passed the phone to Devlin. For a moment, it felt like the world had fallen off its axis. Talbot had not only blackmailed the two men, but lied to them as well – tricked them into murdering a potentially innocent man.

  “Broadcaster and activist Stephen Pinner has been shot dead in Islington… Police are not ruling out a professional hit, or the crime being terror related… Pinner was shot at the home of Hayden Mole, the Director of Communications for Vision… Strictly Come Dancing’s Ewan Slater was attending a meeting with Pinner at the time of the shooting.”

  Porter sifted through the rolodex of his mind and recalled what little he knew about the left-wing academic. He pictured his pinched features, tortoiseshell glasses, tweed suits and long, silver hair. He looked like a cross between A.C. Grayling and Charles Hawtrey. The Observer had called him a “British Bernie Saunders”. Every week Pi
nner hosted a podcast which unpicked the policies and propaganda of Donald Trump’s administration. He had also recently made the news by proposing a day of protest outside the new American Embassy, due to open in Battersea:

  “This day will not be about me saying “no” to America, nor even about London or Britain saying “no”. But the world must say “no” to Trump and his racist, bigoted and populist agenda.”

  Porter kept reading the ongoing reports. Pictures were emerging of journalists door-stepping the home of Pinner’s wife and children. Tributes were coming in from the likes of Tariq Ali, Russell Brand and J.K. Rowling. Even Gary Lineker had sent out a tweet, condemning the heinous crime. Hayden Mole had been quick to give a comment too:

  “It would come as no surprise to me if British or American intelligence agencies were found to be complicit in this murder.”

  For once the former hack was telling the truth, Porter mused. Although previous paranoid and unsubstantiated outbursts from Mole, during his long and un-illustrious career, meant that he had cried wolf too many times before to be listened to now. The Director of Communications was but the warm-up act for the main event, as Porter watched Ewan Slater, dressed in a tie for once, give a press conference.

  “I am shocked and appalled… We must show solidarity… His day of protest should still go on, in his honour… The Labour Party treated my socialist brother as a pariah or extremist. But I was always proud to campaign and share a platform with Stephen… Hope must not give in to hate… Our meeting today was about working together more closely… Stephen was part of our family and vision…”

  Porter judged how the term “political opportunist” could be considered a tautology. He put the phone back in his pocket and pensively stared out the window, engrossed in thought. As tragic as the situation might be – the turn of events provided Porter with a glimmer of hope. He hadn’t been able to find any intelligence connecting Talbot to Slater because there wasn’t any to find. There was every chance of finding some compromising intelligence linking Talbot to Pinner though.

  All was not lost.

  16.

  A week after the shooting Bob Woodward passed away in his sleep. Devlin made the funeral arrangements. He had already organised a joint plot so he could be with his wife, Mary. Oliver and his family came to the service. Along with a few other people the Woodwards had taken on, as foster children over the years, Devlin gave the eulogy. His voice sometimes cracked but he stopped, drank from his glass of water, and carried on:

  “…I’m not sure exactly when I started considering Bob to be my father, instead of a foster parent, but it happened. And it was a long time ago… He embodied a sense of quiet dignity, which encompassed the ability to laugh at himself… As evidenced from today I was not the only beneficiary of the Woodward’s generosity, love and plain-speaking wisdom… Before he passed away Bob said to me that I was “a good boy”. If I am in some way good, then credit must go to Bob and Mary. They may not have been overly concerned with the likes of climate change or the gig economy, but they did believe in courtesy and decency. The young these days are often inclined to blame society’s ills on the old. I remember Bob laughing at a cartoon I showed him in The Spectator, shortly after the Brexit vote. It showed a row of decorated veterans on a Normandy beach, with the caption beneath, “What have old people ever done for Europe?” Young people nowadays are prone to taking pictures of themselves and looking in the mirror, but they seldom see their faults. What they believe are instances of virtue, or victimhood, are usually instances of vanity. Perhaps it’s just not young people who are prone to such folly though. But nobody ever accused Bob of being vain or playing the victim. He was proud to be British and proud to be working-class. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t smart or well-read. One of the first memories I have of Bob is him taking me to the library and showing me the History section… And Mary was of a similar character. Except she swore less and could cook… Together they were greater than the sum of their parts. Together they could teach young people a few things about love and sacrifice – and that marriage isn’t just about booking the right photographer for your wedding day… I like to think Mary was waiting for him, with a bottle of stout and shepherd’s pie on the table. They are having a laugh and chinwag now, no doubt. And they would want us to do the same. Maybe she called to him in a dream, which is why he didn’t want to wake up… We should celebrate his life, as opposed to just mourning and missing him.”

  After the funeral service and laying of the casket Devlin arranged for everyone to come back to the care home – for a party. Staff and residents were invited. A Chas & Dave tribute band played in the garden. Terry furnished the party with a couple of kegs of beer. Manse’s Pie & Mash provided the food. Half-way through the afternoon Devlin unveiled a bench and brass plaque, in memory of Bob and Mary Woodward.

  Whether due to the death of Stephen Pinner, or his father, Devlin began to drink more heavily. He ignored most of Porter’s messages and turned down an invite to spend time at his house.

  Terry and the regulars saw plenty of Devlin however, to the point where the landlord advised his friend that he might be drinking too much, as he helped prop him up most evenings to get him into his cab home. Mick saw Devlin’s decline as no laughing matter. The old soldier knew a case of burn out when he saw it. Even Alan and James were in agreement – for once - that something was troubling their drinking companion.

  Devlin desperately wanted to see Emma. Be with her. But he realised it would have been wrong and inappropriate to contact her on her honeymoon. He wanted her to be happy, more than he wanted to free himself from his own unhappiness. He thought about tracking down Helena. But what was the point?

  Sleep seemed to be the only balm for his despair and depression, provided that the same ghosts who haunted his waking hours didn’t occupy his dreams. Devlin began to consider sleep as the moreish bouquet, before tasting the wine of death.

  He read the end chapters of Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter, twice.

  He stopped reading the news. The world was an awful place. He also wished to avoid seeing pictures of Pinner’s wife and children on the television. Whether Pinner was wholly innocent of sin it was difficult to tell, but his family were.

  The soldier often lay curled up on his sofa – or unable to get out of bed, save for walking Violet or picking up a few groceries. He’d lost his appetite for many of his favourite foods however. Devlin felt hollowed out. When he walked he felt like his body was pulling his heavy, ragged soul behind it, like a knight with his foot in the stirrups being dragged behind his horse. When he forced a smiled occasionally, out of politeness, his grin resembled a rictus. He realised that, years ago, he had given his everything to Holly. And you can’t give your everything more than once. Since her death he had been playing a part in a dumb show.

  For a time, just after Pinner’s death, he had thought about taking out Talbot and Cutter. They deserved to die, more than most. But the switch inside of Devlin could no longer be turned on or off. He was too tired, too morose, to plan and execute another hit. The bullets could stay in the gun, for now. Although he pictured meeting Cutter in an empty, secluded car park at night. He would challenge the American to a fight. He had read-up on how the CIA agent had boxed at college and studied Krav Maga. As the two men stood in position however Devlin would remark how his opponent had brought his fists to a gunfight – and slot two into his chest in the blink of an eye.

  Out of a sense of desperation, or to fuel a sense of finality, Devlin finally scratched an itch and visited the small, local Catholic church which Emma used to attend. St Jude’s. The spire still vaunted upwards, like a spindly forearm reaching for a star, but the cross and masonry had lost its majesty. The church was a great, but doddering, thespian - who could no longer bring in the audiences. The voice may have still been soulful and sweet, but the lungs were no longer strong enough to reach even the middle aisles. Yet Devlin went in, with an age-old sense of fear and shame. The smell
of damp was more prevalent than incense. He couldn’t help but note how the marble font was chipped - when he dipped his fingers into the tepid holy water. Devlin felt like a child again as he devoutly closed his eyes, crossed himself and genuflected. He slowly took a turn around the church – reverently surveying his surroundings as if he were attending a museum or art exhibition. He brushed his hands along the wooden pews and marvelled at the spectacle of the stained-glass window and artistry of the stations of the cross. Although the lapsed Christian had never been to the church before the air was potent with nostalgia. The memories were so thick he needed to brush them away from his face, like flies. No matter how quietly he tried to walk his footsteps still sounded on the smooth flagstones, reminding him that God hears everything. Could the Almighty see the sinner more clearly too, now he was present in his house? Churches always brought out such conceits in him, Devlin judged.

  He patiently waited in the background for someone to finish their prayer, but then approached the row of votive candles. Gleaming. Golden. Welcoming. His hand trembled and Devlin accidentally – comically - lit two candles. He found he couldn’t commit to one prayer, let alone two. He placed a £50 note in the box, to compensate for his error - and walked away feeling embarrassed. And anguished, that he had forgotten how to pray and talk with God. Faith was a self-lighting candle, that Devlin had lost or thrown away some years ago. When Holly died. Or when he fulfilled his first contract for Porter.