Gun For Hire: A Michael Devlin Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  The wheels beneath him screeched along the track as the train left the station. His ears were soon assaulted, however, by a far more unwelcome sound — that of conversation. Three young women, with outfits as loud as their voices, had come into his First Class carriage. One of them put her muddy, Nike-emblazoned feet on the seat opposite to them. Another chewed gum and tapped so incessantly on her phone that Porter wondered how her fingers had not been worn down to mere stumps. He prayed for a ticket inspector to deliver him and point them in the direction of their correct carriage. Porter turned his head to take in the increasingly green scenery but still had to suffer the sound of them. He winced every time they laughed or yelped. He wanted the earth to swallow him — or preferably them — up as they each went through who they’d like to see enter “the jungle” for some ghastly TV programme which pitted vulgar celebrities against each other. When one of the trio of slatterns commenced to talk about the new photos they had uploaded onto something called “Instagram” Porter wryly implored God to return him to his dream.

  *

  “He sees you when you’re sleeping

  He knows when you’re awake

  He knows if you’ve been bad or good

  So be good for goodness sake.”

  Devlin listened to Bruce Springsteen and a number of other artists with Christmas songs. Cigarette smoke filled the room. Devin was tempted to try and root out Holly’s old iPod. She had a couple of playlists devoted to carols, hymns and Christmas hits, which she had played throughout the year. “It’s good to feel Christmassy on other days of the year. Although I’m not sure how many people feel Christmassy on any day of the year,” his wife had once remarked, her voice tinged with ruefulness rather than anger.

  Devlin finished off writing an email to his accountant, listing some instructions for if anything should happen to him. He had also emailed his lawyer. His foster parents would receive the bulk of his estate when he died. He regretted not seeing them. But there wasn’t time. He wanted to say goodbye to them, thank them, but without them getting an inkling that he might be seeing them for the last time. He felt guilty — and his money would not wholly compensate for the time he should have spent with them over the years. But there were lots of things — too many things — Devlin had cause to feel guilty about. They were strewn out along his life like beads upon a rosary.

  As soon as he got home Porter forwarded on all intelligence he had on the Parker brothers. Scotland Yard were, ironically, an accomplice to murder — such was the wealth of information in the files that the hacker had stolen. The brothers had been subject to police surveillance on more than once occasion, and thankfully their routine seldom changed. Devlin had lots to plan in just one night. The location and timing of the hit would be key. Most of their day was spent travelling around central London. The amount of cameras — and people — littering the streets ruled out a hit in the likes of Shoreditch or Soho. Devlin had enough weighing on his conscience without shooting innocent bystanders. If nothing else it would be unprofessional and inefficient to injure someone in a crossfire. He was also wary of entering their houses to carry out the job. Not only did both men have families but he couldn’t be sure who else could be armed and frequenting the sites. Porter was right in that he needed to find a moment to hit both men together. Given that the brothers would be accompanied by their two bodyguards that would mean four hits at one time. Normally Devlin would avoid such a scenario. There were too many variables. The odds were greater on getting away clean. All would be armed, except for perhaps Byron Parker (so plan things as if he would be armed). Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, the soldier in him stolidly remarked.

  Aware that he might have to carry out the job the following day, Devlin sipped his whisky. What with not knowing if he would see Christmas in the flat he had opened the bottle of McClelland’s. His ashtray was full by the time he decided on his plan of attack.

  At the end of each day, at approximately 6pm, Byron Parker was dropped off at his house in Chislehurst, before the car then took his elder brother to his nearby home. The property was gated and there would be a small but significant window of opportunity. The police report was sufficiently detailed enough to note the type of gate and security system and, after some research over the internet, Devlin worked out the timings. Fortunately there was a small park at the location where Devlin could wait and view the car from afar as it came down the street the house was situated on. The report also noted that their vehicle was not bullet-proofed – and that there was an absence of CCTV cameras at the entrance to the drive.

  Devlin spent the next hour committing a map of the surrounding area, where the hit would take place, to memory. He needed an element of good fortune for the street to be empty when he approached the car but otherwise the plan was sound.

  The wind howled outside. A few revellers could be heard, singing and wending their way through the square below. The soldier cleaned and oiled his gun, a SIG-Sauer P226, before picking out a book for some late night reading. Devlin thought to himself it may well be the last book he would ever read. He wanted it to be special — and needed it to be relatively short in order to finish it in time. He thought about reading some Chekhov or Camus but he picked out a well-thumbed copy of The Great Gatsby to take to bed with him. The novel had been the first book he and Holly had read together as a couple.

  Chapter 12

  Although he could not find the time to travel to his foster parent’s care home Devlin ordered a cab the following morning to take him to Garrett Lane cemetery. Before the taxi arrived he popped into the florists. Out of habit and superstition Devlin wanted to pick up another fresh bouquet of lilies. And he also wanted to see Emma. There was a small hole inside him that only she could fill. Her loveliness was a balm. He owed Emma an explanation, a thank you or a goodbye. Devlin rehearsed a few sentences beforehand as he was putting on his grey suit. But some sentences — or sentiments — which seem fine when voiced by the soul are too naïve or brittle to live in the outside world. It’s sometimes best that they remain stuck in the throat. When he entered the shop to discover Emma was absent (her part-time assistant, Molly, was looking after things) Devlin felt the butterflies in his stomach expire. He felt the chill December wind on his face and a presentiment that he would never see his good Catholic girl once more. God had somehow cheated him out of saying goodbye to another loved one. Because today might be his last day on earth.

  But what of heaven? And hell? As he stood before his wife’s grave Devlin believed that he could endure the latter, knowing that Holly was experiencing the former. But he had faith he would see her again, otherwise his life would have been for nothing. During his youth and time as a soldier Devlin considered God to be a cruel or indifferent deity, an abusive or absent father. Most of the time Devlin could laugh along at the joke of life, but in his heart of hearts Devlin knew that God embodied love and forgiveness.

  Devlin raised a corner of his mouth, in a gesture towards the tiniest of grins, when he remembered his favourite Churchill quote: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

  The widower again pulled up any weeds around the grave and also removed a few stray cigarette butts. He bowed his head in remembrance whilst turning his wedding ring, as if screwing something in or out. With each turn his soul seemed to stretch out even more, like he was being tortured upon the rack by the Inquisition.

  Devlin turned his stony face up towards the sky. Anyone observing the solitary figure before the grave might have thought he was imploring God. But Devlin had communed enough with God for three lifetimes. In truth he was merely assessing the weather. The forecast was, thankfully, for clear skies later. The temperature would be mild for the time of the year. His heart could afford to be numb but his hands and fingers couldn’t be. It would be another fine night for killing.

  Many men, from killers to martyrs, often dream of fame after death — as if fame could be equated to eternal life. They imagine the news reports, church services, tweets or o
bituary pages. But when Devlin thought of his death he didn’t want to be mourned, celebrated or even remembered.

  I just want to see you again.

  *

  Oliver Porter’s office was one of the most secure and attractively furnished “sheds” in the country. A back massager was seated on top of a black leather Eames lounge chair. Other pieces of furniture were made from the finest mahogany and English oak, including a bookcase containing a complete set of Loeb classics. The “home from home”, as Porter sometimes described the out building, was also filled with items from foreign countries he had visited: rugs from Iraq and Afghanistan covered the floor; his coasters were from the famous Armenian pottery shop in Jerusalem; a Browning pistol, which had once belonged to Eisenhower, was mounted in a glass case; and an antique Russian icon of the Holy Mother hung next to the door. Occasionally, after imbibing a few drinks, Porter imagined that the figure in the artwork was staring at him disapprovingly. She was a mother scolding her naughty child. But at other times she appeared to be full of grace rather than condemnation. The office also contained a fridge, safe, Bausch and Lomb stereo and other essentials and luxuries. Accomplished copies of Grimshaw’s Reflections on the Thames and Goya’s portrait of the Duke of Wellington adorned one of the windows. The fixer promised himself that, one day, he would purchase a genuine Grimshaw landscape.

  Wagner played in the background — but at a barely audible level. The television was on — but on mute. A steady stream of emails began to pile up on the laptop screen. Many involved invitations to lunch or Christmas drinks. But, unless he was summoned by the Queen or Palmerston, he would politely decline them all.

  Porter sat at his desk with his fully charged mobile phone in front of him. Devlin had sent him a message saying that he was intending to carry out the job today. More than anyone else he knew Porter believed that Devlin would try and make good on his word. Yet, as much faith as he had in the former paratrooper, Porter also believed in having a plan B. Money and passports sat on the desk, next to his laptop and bronze busts of David Hume and Talleyrand. Should Devlin fail to carry out the hit properly Porter was ready to whisk his family away on a surprise holiday. He would also pay for a brace of other operatives to carry out hits on the Parker brothers. Money was no object. George and Byron Parker had to die.

  But the hit would be difficult, even for a seasoned professional such as Devlin. He had little preparation time. The intelligence was good but still deficient. Four targets quadrupled the risk. When Porter briefed Devlin however he instructed the assassin to prioritise taking out the brothers: “Cut off the head and the snake will die.”

  Porter briefly ruminated on the scenario of Devlin succeeding in killing his enemies but being apprehended by the police. He knew the soldier could be trusted not to betray him. The police couldn’t threaten or bribe him. How can you condemn someone who has already condemned himself? No man is an island but the soldier came close. Michael Devlin would be able to endure a prison sentence, so long as he had enough books to read, Porter half-jokingly mused. He was a man who could be bound in a nutshell and consider himself a king of infinite space.

  The fixer poured himself another small measure of Laphroaig and thought once more about how thoroughly unpleasant the world was. The single malt shone like honey in the midday sun. He recalled a line from Graham Greene, which Devlin had once quoted to him whilst raising his glass in a toast:

  “Whisky – the medicine of despair.”

  *

  Devlin felt a small twinge of guilt as he came down into the foyer of his apartment building. It was time to go to work. The smart reception area to the building was an amalgamation of polished oak and marble. He nodded to Derek, the friendly and efficient Pakistani concierge, and realised that he should have got him a Christmas present or end of year tip.

  It might now be too late.

  The thought was soon swotted away. As Devlin was leaving Emma came into the building, carrying various bags of shopping. Her cheeks were a little flushed. She was wearing a woollen jumper with a colourful Christmas design on it that one of her customers had knitted for her. Devlin noticed Emma was wearing a touch more lipstick than usual. It made her smile wider and more luscious, although perhaps she was also smiling more for seeing him.

  Devlin was wearing a padded blue Barbour coat over his grey suit. He was also now wearing his black Sig Sauer P226 beneath his suit jacket, in a shoulder holster. The suppressor sat in his right coat pocket. A copy of The Great Gatsby hung out of the left. The pistol was powerful, compact and reliable. People had let him down over the years but the Sig Sauer never did. Devlin had been given the weapon as a present by a US special forces operative in Helmand, after the two men had spent a long, boozy night talking about guns, Hemingway and Ulysses S. Grant. The pistol was the chief tool of his trade and had never let him down. Devlin fancied that, should he ever be stranded on a desert island, it would be the third item he would take with him, alongside a copy of the Bible and the complete works of Shakespeare.

  When Emma had first seen Devlin there was a flintiness to his expression. But when he saw her the scowl immediately fell from his face. Wistfulness now shaped his countenance. Emma simultaneously thought how much she liked him and also how much she didn’t know him. So much of Michael was below the surface.

  “Molly mentioned that you came into the shop this morning. Sorry I missed you. I’m glad I caught you now though. I wanted to say goodbye and happy Christmas. My plans have changed and I’m heading back to Somerset today,” Emma said, wishing that she was wearing something more flattering than her festive jumper.

  For a moment or two Devlin stood silently before her, entranced. The last time he had felt so nervous had been when he had asked Holly to marry him. He had faith she would say yes but dreaded she would say no. He had clutched the engagement ring’s small box so hard that it dug into his hand. But he barely felt any pain. When she said yes his heart had leapt up to the heavens.

  The gun weighed heavy on Devlin’s shoulder. He wanted a drink. He forced a smile and fingered his wedding ring.

  “I’m glad I’ve caught you too. There’s something I wanted to speak to you about.”

  After missing Emma that morning Devlin had promised himself that, if he saw the florist again, he would offer up his last confession to her. If she knew about his vow to God and Holly then she might understand why he couldn’t give himself to her. If she knew what he did for a living then she might be repulsed by him and go to the police — punish him for his crimes. He admired her. He maybe even loved her, as a friend. But love cannot endure the real world for too long. The air that we breathe seems to poison it. Love may even be a complete myth. The existence of love can only be taken on faith.

  Devlin shuffled his feet slightly as if he wanted to set himself — or prepare to run away. Emma was one of the kindest souls he had ever known. He suddenly thought how she reminded him of Tolstoy’s Natasha Rostova. But was he Andrei or Pierre? He thought, for a splinter of a second, how she could forgive and understand him. Love him. If she consoled him then he might not want to ever leave. But work — duty — called.

  “What is it?” Emma said, her voice imbued with more concern than curiosity. She lightly placed her fingertips on his forearm.

  “It’s nothing. It can wait until January. Sorry, I’ve got to go. Have a nice Christmas too, Emma.”

  Devlin quickly kissed her on the cheek and briskly walked out the door. Although he had brushed his lips against her cheek Emma still felt the tingle of when he had kissed her on the lips, all those months ago. She had noticed the copy of The Great Gatsby in Devlin’s pocket. She wanted to quote from the novel, to let him know that he was special and meant something to her.

  “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

  But the moment was gone. Some things are not meant to be.

  Chapter 13

  As Devlin wended his way through London in the back of the taxi some of the sights prompted
memories (of childhood, drinking holes and courting Holly). Some were good and some were bad. He was unsure whether he would miss the capital or not.

  Devlin got out of the cab around a mile from his intended destination. He walked with his head hung down as if he were playing a game of avoiding the cracks on the pavement. Finally he came to the small park, which overlooked the entrance to George Parker’s house in Chislehurst. The property was valued at eight million pounds, but anyone buying the house, with any semblance of taste, would have wanted to substantially redecorate it.

  Thankfully the park bench that offered the best view of the road leading up to Parker’s home was free. Devlin pulled his scarf up to partially cover his face and sat down and read. Night had fallen like a veil, but there was ample street lighting. The shortest day of the year was fast approaching though, for Devlin, time dragged on. A few dog walkers and locals ghosted past yet no one seemed to take notice of him. There was nothing to notice. Devlin calculated the time it would take him to get up and un-assumedly walk towards the house. He believed he could do it in the time it would take the car to reach the gates (given the number of speed humps strewn across the street that the vehicle would have go over, slowly). The only potential variable which could ruin his plan would be the appearance of a passer-by. But so far the road and park were proving to be deathly quiet.

  Usually, before a job, Devlin was too focused on the task to suffer any anxiety. But something out of kilter churned in his stomach. He had no qualms about ending the lives of the Parker brothers. Yet still the killer felt uneasy, like the time when he took his first confession. The priest didn’t frighten him but the thought of God seeing all did. The boys Devlin knew who were older briefed him on what he should confess to — or rather make-up. He didn’t confess anything of importance to the priest that day but that night Devlin confessed to God. Guilt eclipsed any notion of absolution or redemption. Sin was real. No matter how much Nietzsche he read, God wasn’t dead.