by Thomas Waugh
In between rehearsing the hit in his mind Devlin felt like a condemned man, due to climb the scaffold. He wryly smiled to himself as Chopin’s funeral march played in his inner ear, as a soundtrack to his thoughts.
The readiness is all.
*
Byron Parker rolled his eyes. He had just finished talking to Connor Earle on the phone. Although Byron had been careful not to promise the actor anything Earle was behaving like the money was already in the bank. He talked enthusiastically about approaching Craig Fairbrass’ agent. Maybe they could even convince Vinny Jones and Tamer Hassan to be in the movie. “They’ll add class and bums on seats. I swear on my son’s life, we’re going to make a million each on this,” Earle declared, high on hope — or a more chemical-based drug.
Byron also rolled his eyes on noticing the new tattoo on the back of Jason’s neck, as the stolidly built bodyguard drove them home. As well as a strange Celtic symbol brandishing his large bicep — which various football players and popstars had a tattoo of too, believing the mark to be a source of virility or power — Jason had the word “Respect”, in a Cyrillic font, written across the back of his neck.
Byron looked across and askance at his elder brother, sitting to the left of him in the metallic blue Porsche Cayenne. George Parker was asleep, although his mouth was still half open. The enforcer had had a long day — taking drugs, eating a long lunch and breaking the jaw of a gay Bulgarian pimp. Gentleman George boasted how he’d had a long night too, having taken one of his daughter’s friends out to a club.
“I showed her a good time. I showed her an even better time afterwards, eh? I promised her a part in Connor’s movie. Perhaps we should invest in the film after all.”
Byron Parker did his best to tune out his brother’s conversation and snoring. Despite not liking his elder sibling he was bound to love him. Together they were greater than the sum of their parts — an alloy, forged in the fires of brutality and efficiency. Each administered to the parts of their empire they were proficient at.
Byron continued to work his way through a few emails on his smartphone. He was keen to take care of all urgent business before Christmas. One piece of business was his desire to buy a number of flats in Elephant & Castle. Although the area was depressed at the moment he believed that, given its proximity to both the City and West End, any property he bought couldn’t fail to appreciate in value. We need to think long-term, Byron Parker posited — as though he were Goebbels, believing in his own propaganda of building a thousand year Reich.
Byron took off his glasses and, extracting a small, pristine white cloth, cleaned the lenses. For a few seconds everything was a blur and he squinted like a child but then the world came sharply back into focus.
The car travelled over the first speed bump, at the top of the road leading to his brother’s mock Tudor mansion. George Parker stirred, a bear waking up from sleeping through the winter. He rubbed his nose and sniffed, hoping to shake lose any vestiges of coke from his nostrils.
*
Devlin calmly stood up and slid the paperback book into his coat pocket. He had now nearly finished the novel, having read up to the part where George Wilson was about to shoot the eponymous hero. As he left the entrance to the park the assassin quickly retrieved his weapon and attached the suppressor. All the time the Porsche continued to draw closer, occasionally slowing to negotiate a speed bump. Devlin could make out that there were four people in the car.
Four targets. Thirteen rounds.
The road was deserted. Devlin was a gunfighter entering a one horse town. His gait was smooth but as he grew closer to the gates his footsteps grew heavier as if he were traveling to a funeral.
The Porsche braked before the large, black steel gates (which resembled two Rolls Royce Silver Shadow grills next to each other). Leighton — the Parker brothers’ other bodyguard — retrieved the remote control from the glove compartment. Devlin timed his walk perfectly and stopped by the driver’s side of the vehicle. George Parker briefly scrutinized the pedestrian but judged him to be a nobody. Byron Parker’s gaze fixated on the small scar above Devlin’s eye.
Devlin raised his arm, mechanically and purposefully. His features were relaxed, free from enmity. His moral switch was off — or on, given his targets. The assassin took out the driver first. Two shots zipped through the window, entered the side of Jason’s right breast and scythed through his heart and lungs. He was dead before he knew it. Although the sounds of the suppressed shot and thud as the bullets hit their mark were not music to Devlin’s ears there was still something familiar, natural and pleasing about the noise. It meant that someone had been killed and he was still alive.
Byron Parker’s hand reached out and clasped his brother’s knee, but the rest of his body froze in terror. His last thoughts were for his wife and children. It looked like he might die of fright. But instead Byron Parker died from two nine millimetre parabellum piercing his chest. Blood began to stain his white shirt immediately, as if someone had already placed two red roses on the dead body.
The bodyguard in the passenger seat pulled out a Glock 18. Leighton fired off a curse rather than a round however as he forgot to switch the safety off. The sight of his dead friend in the driver’s seat also gave him pause. But Devlin paused not. The first bullet entered the bodyguard’s sternum, the second blew away half his neck. Gore splashed against the window behind him. The tintinnabulation of awful dance music could still be heard pouring out from his headphones but Leighton was no longer listening.
A faint smell of blood and cordite filled the air.
One target. Seven rounds.
In order to gain a workable line of sight for his final victim the assassin moved a couple of steps towards the passenger end of the Porsche. But it was Devlin’s turn to pause as he found himself staring down the barrel of a chrome-finished Browning pistol. George Parker was just in the process of turning the safety off. As enraged as the gangster was he was also, largely, keeping his head. This wasn’t his first gunfight and he didn’t want it to be his last. A ringed finger curled around the Browning Hi-Power’s trigger.
Devlin refrained from firing his own weapon. Time moved quickly and slowly. Death will compel a man to commune with God. Devlin was resigned to his fate. He would allow George Parker to shoot first. If he died, he died. But should his opponent fire and miss then Devlin believed it would be a sign from God — and Holly — that they wanted him to live. He would be allowed to turn the page. He needed a new covenant to live by. It was absurd but true.
Devlin lowered his gun slightly as George Parker raised his. The gangster couldn’t miss. His snarl morphed into a triumphant smirk. Blood from the black bodyguard’s neck freckled his face. George licked his lips, enjoying the taste as much as cocaine. But just as he was about to fire his weapon his brother’s body slumped forward, onto his arm, and ruined his aim. Perhaps it was an act of God. Perhaps, in his dying moments, Byron Parker deliberately leaned forward. He and his brother had been inseparable for so long, Byron didn’t want to go to heaven — or hell — alone. Byron wouldn’t want to see his brother survive him and inherit their criminal empire.
“Holly,” the widower said softly – but yearningly.
Devlin uttered the word like a prayer. If his final thought in this world was for his wife then she would be the first thing he would see in the next. Have faith. Devlin heard the sound of the gun. His eyes were closed. He was expectant more than fearful. He prepared himself to be consumed by darkness or light. But damnation or deliverance failed to arrive. The gangster’s bullet struck the inside of the car door.
Whether God had spoken to him or not a survival or killer instinct kicked in again, fitting like a key to a lock. Just as George Parker was about to take his second shot Devlin swiftly moved his own gun into position and emptied the magazine into his target. The Sig Sauer became an extension of his arm, the dark part of his soul. The semi-automatic was a marriage of precision and power — a marriage immune from div
orce. Sometimes a gun will fire a man, given its weight and the force of its recoil. But Devlin was in full control of his actions when he shot George Parker. Parker deserved to die.
The contract killer removed the suppressor, holstered his gun, breathed out and surveyed the scene. The street was still deserted. As much as adrenalin coursed through his body he felt a sense of peace wash over his heart.
Devlin pulled out a small Turkish flag from his pocket and tossed it into the back of the vehicle. The flag was a calling card for an increasingly ambitious Turkish crime syndicate who were looking to expand their powerbase in the capital. It wouldn’t do any harm for the remnants of the Parker family and the police to focus their response to the shooting on the Turks.
The temperature dropped but the soldier didn’t feel cold. The stars seemed dull, as if the angels had failed to polish them for a while, but they still shone in the velvety firmament. Michal Devlin lit a cigarette, walked back through the park and hailed down a black cab to take him back to Rotherhithe.
Job done.
Chapter 14
Oliver Porter looked positively Churchill-like. He puffed on his cigar with one hand and nursed a brandy in the other as he sat, slumped, in his gazebo, having recently finished his Christmas dinner. It had been a long, calorific day. His family had exhausted him, but in a good way. A heater hummed in the background, glowing like the embers of dusk. A gust of wind blew through two silver birch trees, which flanked the elegant, oak gazebo.
Michael Devlin sat next to him, his Christmas party hat still comically askew on his head. He sipped upon a Bushmills and breathed in the cigar smoke in compensation for only now smoking one cigarette an hour. Devlin had travelled down to visit Porter and his family on Christmas Eve. A few drinks on arrival had emboldened him to attend midnight mass. He felt slightly nervous entering the church. Perhaps he had too many memories of dull, overlong sermons in the cold on uncomfortable pews. Sometimes things can get too Catholic. Or he was scared that God and Holly would be present - and grief and despair would take hold of him, trap his heart in a vice. But his fears were unfounded. There was mulled wine, a warm atmosphere and plenty of hymns and carols. Porter introduced his friend to more than one young woman, a slightly older divorcee. Devlin even found himself singing at one point.
Christmas Day had been enjoyable. Porter and his family were welcoming and fun. He occasionally held court as he told some (sanitised) war stories. Occasionally the widower experienced shooting pains, as if he were suffering pangs of angina or gout, as Devlin thought of how in another world he could be have been spending Christmas with Holly and their family in a similarly beautiful house in the country. But that was another world…
“I understand your decision to take a break from things for a while although I hope you don’t disappear for too long,” Porter remarked, as he swirled the remainder of his brandy around in his glass. The fixer was worried about his friend’s state of mind - as well as his own business. There were plenty more politicians who needed a bullet in the head, he darkly or amusedly thought to himself. “Call it what you will – a bonus or sabbatical pay – but I’ve taken the liberty of depositing some money into your account. Treat yourself. Meet someone. Marriage might compel you to come back to work sooner, as you’ll want to get out of the house. Even more so, though divorce will compel you to come back to work, as you’ll need the money.”
“I’m not sure what my plans are for tomorrow yet, let alone the next six months or so. Man plans, God laughs,” Devlin replied, not committing himself to returning to work either way. Death had stalked him enough - or he had stalked death - for more than one lifetime. “You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve met someone though.”
Devlin smiled as he thought of Emma. His expression softened – and not just because of the drink.
“Really? I’m intrigued. Tell me more, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“She’s a good Catholic girl, for my sins …”
Devlin planned to ask Emma out on a real date. He wanted to be back in London with her. Back in the land of the living.
Darkness Visible
Thomas Waugh
“The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past .”
William Faulkner.
“If you have a soul you can’t be satisfied .”
Graham Greene.
1
Helmand. 2006.
The sweltering, saffron sun threw beams of light along the narrow streets of the ramshackle Afghan village. Michael Devlin moved forward, his gun raised, flanked by two other members of his squad from 3 Para: John Birch and Christopher Connelly.
The two-dozen strong patrol, riding in a convoy of Snatch Land Rovers, had been heading back to their forward base when a voice came over the radio. There had been reports of shots fired from a nearby settlement. The squad needed to check the area. As the radio went silent again an air of trepidation and frustration inserted itself, like a noxious gas, into the vehicles. The soldiers knew that routine patrols could prove anything but routine.
“Fuck,” John Birch, a flame-haired squaddie from Ashford in Kent exclaimed, banging the butt of his rifle on the floor. “God knows what we’ll be heading into now. Military intelligence. What a fucking oxymoron. We could be driving into an ambush, with half the Taliban in the region waiting to greet us. Or it could just be some dippy teen has got his hands on a Kalashnikov for the first time - and he’s fired off a few rounds. And there I was looking forward to “steak night” back at the base. Those greedy bastards already there will probably wolf all the good cuts down before we get back. I’ll be left with a piece of meat tougher than an old shoe. It’ll still taste better than my girlfriend’s cooking though, I expect,” the squaddie joked, grinning at anyone who was listening. Devlin noticed that when his friend smiled his face became rounder, almost cherubim-like.
Christopher Connelly forced a smile in reply. The gangly nineteen-year-old was only six months into his first tour. He had partly joined the army to learn a trade. Jobs and training were in short supply in his hometown of Northampton. His plan was to keep his head down, follow orders and become an apprentice mechanic. Once he was trained up he would leave the army and go into partnership with his uncle to buy a small garage. They’d even picked out a potential site for the business, underneath the arches near his parents’ house. Connelly took a sip and then several gulps of water from his canteen. He was looking forward to getting back to the base too, having arranged with his fiancé to chat over the internet. He also wanted to write another letter to his parents, assuring them that all was well.
Whilst a number of soldiers rolled their eyes or cursed in response to their new orders Michael Devlin’s expression remained unchanged, save for a slight narrowing of his already pillbox-like eyes. Devlin’s countenance, varnished by the sun, was lean and hard. Some might have viewed the paratrooper and considered that life had worn him down. Others would have judged that everything was just water off a duck’s back for the philosophical, or fatalistic, soldier. Whilst other squaddies played video games or chatted on Facebook, Devlin could often be found with his head in a book. He enjoyed a drink as much as the next man (or perhaps even more so), but during periods of sobriety he often kept himself to himself. But although few would claim to have known Devlin, or to have warmed to him, everyone welcomed his presence on a patrol. He had more verified kills than any other soldier in the battalion. On more than one occasion he had taken the fight to the enemy and pulled the squad out of a hole. Devlin was good at his job. Killing.
Yet it had been more than a fortnight since the soldier had engaged the enemy in a firefight. Devlin was beginning to feel a dull ache in his stomach, or yearning to kill – as if he were a drunk who had gone too long without a drink.
The purring engines now growled into life, as the Land Rover gunned towards the target. Birch sensed the tension in the roasting vehicle and told a joke. More than one para closed his eyes and put on earphones, like a boxer closing himself off to
the world before a fight.
The village shimmered in the distance, like a mirage. The commanding officer was Major James Hyde and the men duly congregated around him as they climbed out the vehicles on the outskirts of the settlement. The soldiers had visited the village a few months back, providing security for a bunch of DFID workers. All Oxbridge educated - entitled, frightened, nowhere near as clever as they thought they were and zealously good intentioned. But the road to hell, or Kabul, was paved with good intentions.
The village had seemed like a ghost town during their last visit. Most of the Afghans retreated into their houses when the soldiers arrived. The wiser heads among the villagers knew all too well that the British and Americans in Helmand would be but fleeting visitors to their country. Merely passing through. Once the war ended the Taliban would crawl out from under their rocks like cockroaches, or scorpions, and carry out reprisals against any collaborators.
Hyde issued his orders calmly and clearly. Four generations of military command ran through him, like writing through a stick of rock. His men were to watch for IEDS and sniper positions. They would sweep through the village in groups of three. Normal rules of engagement applied. The soldiers nodded, checked their weapons once more and spat out any gum. Safeties were off. Helmets were re-positioned and tightened. They were ready. A sense of professionalism began to oust a sense of trepidation. As people in the army often said and thought, we are where we are.
A thick, familiar film of sand and dust covered everything: buildings, windows, clothes and skin. Birch had recently found himself having a drink with a foreign correspondent, who called the phenomenon “the patina of Afghanistan.” The para scrunched up his face, in confusion and contempt, and called it “sand and dust.” After several bouts of virtue signalling, claiming that the “ordinary people of Afghanistan were some of the nicest and most peaceful souls on earth,” the correspondent finally invited the soldier to speak, rather than just listen. Birch shrugged his shoulders, gulped down the remainder of his beer, and remarked that “the only thing more hostile than the environment here are the people, ordinary or otherwise.”