by Thomas Waugh
“I ain’t gonna cry no
And I won’t beg you to stay
If you’re determined to leave boy
I will not stand in your way
But inevitably
You’ll be back again
‘Cause you know in your heart babe
Our love will never end…”
Devlin closed his eyes and let the cool breeze fan his face. He placed his hand by the side of him and imagined Holly taking hold of it. He remembered how she used to squeeze his hands at parties when she rightly felt that he was getting stressed. Any anger or anxiety would then dissipate, scatter life blossom from a tree. She would grin – humorously and beautifully - and Devlin would be reminded to laugh at himself – as well as any vexing guests standing in front of him.
Just say the word and I’ll stay retired. Just say anything. Please. Let me know you’re there…
Devlin couldn’t really tell how long he sat on the wooden bench but eventually he got to his feet, with a slight sigh, and continued to make his way home. He turned in from the riverbank and walked down a narrow cobblestoned alleyway which led him towards his apartment block. As he switched off his music and put his headphones into his jacket pocket he heard a voice in front of him.
“Excuse me mate, but have you got the time?”
The man, in his mid-thirties, was wearing a Burberry jacket, jeans and loafers. He was lean-faced and red-eyed.
Devlin glanced at his Breitling watch and replied that it was coming up to eleven o’clock.
“Thanks, mate,” the fellow Londoner remarked and walked on. As soon as he was behind Devlin however the man, Sean Grady, turned and nodded to his two confederates, who had appeared at the end of the alley, just ahead of Devlin.
The first figure, Dougie Cochrane, was heavy-set with a shaven head. When he puffed out his barrel chest – and pot belly – his Ben Sherman shirt rose-up and exposed his hairy navel area. His nose was flat and round, like a snout. Devlin casually noticed the tattoo of a bird on his right hand, signifying that the man had spent time in prison. A tattoo of a couple of tears on his cheek signified that he had murdered two people, at least. The wiry, fidgety figure next to him was Steve Farrell. His face was marked with a stud in his nose, a bar in his cheek and a gold chain hung between two piercings in his left ear. The pale-faced Farrell, who was spending most of the summertime laid out in bed monged-out on skunk or high on heroin, bit his nails and tapped his right foot. His beady eyes flitted between Devlin and Grady, as if awaiting instruction. Devlin couldn’t quite decide if the adolescent, even higher on coke than his two friends, was anxious from fear or champing at the bit to commit an act of violence.
“We’ll take your watch, wallet and phone. We’ll take that wedding ring too. And if you say you can’t take it off we’ll cut it off,” Grady remarked, pulling out a slim flick-knife. There was a glint of sadistic pleasure in his voice and sinister aspect. The drug dealer, who called himself a “Bermondsey Boy” but was born and bred in Eltham, had stabbed and assaulted people ever since his teens. He enjoyed it. And violence worked. He profited from it. Although Grady had no need for extra funds, the take from the mugging would pay for their night out. It had almost become a ritual as well for the trio to turn over a well-heeled innocent stranger whilst high, before or after an evening out at a strip club over the river.
“Big Dougie” had heard his friend say similar things during their sport before but he still sniggered as if it was the first time he’d heard it. He cupped his large left hand in his right one and cracked a couple of knuckles, hoping to intimidate Devlin. His victim was dressed smartly. He no doubt was well spoken and had a good job, Cochrane judged - just like the lawyers and detectives who conspired together to send him down for manslaughter.
The likes of him owe the likes of me. This is just payback.
Devlin slowly and subtly moved so his back was towards the wall. He was happy for them to think that they had cornered him – but his intention was to position his assailants so that no one could attack him from behind.
“You can make it easy for us or hard for you. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this, as you can probably guess. Do you know how much trouble you’re in right now?” Grady remarked, baring his teeth in a cruel grin and holding up the blade of the knife. Twisting it, at his victim’s eye-level.
Devlin’s features tightened, congealing like cement. His body became taut, yet his heartbeat only quickened a little and his tone was measured. Sincere.
“I do. But do you? I’m going to count to five. If you’re still here after that then you can hold yourselves responsible for my actions. It’ll be easy for me to be hard on you. Walk away now, or lose the ability to walk. One.”
Cochrane furrowed his bovine brow in confoundment or indignation. Grady shook his head, in disbelief. His victims had tried to run before, cry for mercy, womanishly scream for help, or even vainly attempted to fight their way out of trouble on one or two occasions. But no one had ever threatened the robber band before. Grady considered the man was just posturing however. His words were bluster – a bluff.
He needs to be taught a lesson.
Grady figured that the well-dressed man before him probably ran his own business and wasn’t used to anyone challenging him. Bermondsey had been gentrified by whole swathes of middle-class tossers. People who preferred lattes to beer. Easy prey.
Farrell grinned, nervously or otherwise, revealing a couple of banana-coloured crooked front teeth.
“And what do you think you’re going to do after you get to five?” the vicious drug addict remarked, thrusting his chin forward – and then spitting a gobbet of pea-green phlegm on the floor, close to Devlin’s foot. A sociologist might try and make excuses for the goblin-like Farrell. They could have blamed his background – an absent father and alcoholic mother. Or they could explain how the Tories were responsible for selling off the playing fields in his area, when he was a boy. But Devlin wasn’t a sociologist. He had merely concluded a long time ago that some people were just unpleasant.
“I’m first going to rip that chain out of your ear. Depending on whether your friend here falls on his front or back I’m going to sheath his toy knife in his thigh or arse. And as for this tattooed ape here, I’m going to gouge out his eyes. Two.”
Cochrane’s entire face was now screwed up in malice. He seethed rather than breathed. Grady ceased shaking his head. Farrell’s bemusement morphed into wariness. All three men offered each other astonished glances. Perhaps they were waiting for someone to take the lead and say something. But they never got the chance. There was no “three”.
Devlin felt he was justified in lying about counting to five. He swung his leg and buried his foot into Cochrane’s groin. The big man’s thuggish countenance was now creased in agony. A shocked Grady was the next to fall as Devlin moved forward and whipped his elbow around. The blow cracked the drug dealer’s right cheekbone. A disorientated Grady stumbled, lost his footing on the cobblestones and fell on his front. Devlin thought of how easily Emma could have been attacked, instead of him – just before he picked up the knife and plunged the blade through his jeans and into his left buttock. There needed to be more retribution in the world, divine or otherwise. There was something amiss with Devlin’s moral compass, which he was aware of, compared to most other people. The discrepancy was no greater than the difference between true north and grid north. But it was significant. Grady squealed and then whimpered, prostrate on the ground, grasping the air in an attempt to pull out the knife. The drug-addled Farrell seemed paralysed, unable even to make the decision of fight or flight, as he stared wide-eyed at what was occurring. Devlin hesitated not. He moved swiftly and with purpose, as if playing speed chess. He grabbed his attacker – or victim – by his scrawny neck and slammed him against the wall. Devlin then put a hand over Farrell’s mouth as he yanked the gold chain out of his ear. Farrell’s face contorted in terror and pain. Blood splattered against the ground. Devlin moved h
is mouth closer towards the adolescent’s good ear.
“If you scream, when I remove my hand, I’m going to cut off your other ear. Do you understand?”
Farrell nodded in reply. His pallid features grew even paler. When Devlin stepped away the mugger duly sobbed, rather than screamed, as he put a trembling hand up to his wounded ear.
Cochrane dry-heaved. Drool fell from his twisted lips. Just as he began to regain his breath, from being winded by Devlin’s initial attack, he raised his head – only to be struck by a left-right-left combination. Devlin - who had taught himself to box and been conditioned through milling when first joining the paras – hit his opponent hard enough to draw blood and knock him to the ground. But not so hard as to injure his own hands in the process.
Once floored Devlin pressed his knee on the large thug’s chest, put one hand over his mouth and gouged out his left eye. Out of a sop to mercy Devlin desisted from blinding the animal in the other eye. He did however jump up and bring his foot down on Cochrane’s right ankle, shattering it against the cobblestones. Blood-curdling screams blew through the alley like the mistral. Throughout the attack the contract killer’s movements had been fluid, clinical. Devlin didn’t enjoy violence. But he had to admit that he was quite good at it. He had seen worse. Done worse.
“If I see any of you again, or hear a report that you have attacked anyone else, I’ll kill you.”
They had no reason to think he wouldn’t keep his word. Cochrane groaned – blood trickling like tears from his gruesome looking eye socket. Grady murmured a curse – and whimpered. He winced too, upon finally summoning up the courage and coordination to remove the flick-knife from his buttock. Farrell remained limpet-like against the wall. His ear still smarted, to say the least. He closed his eyes and prayed that Devlin wouldn’t come back to him, as he had assaulted Cochrane twice.
The trio resisted not when their attacker rifled through their pockets and retrieved their phones and wallets. Devlin would note their names, in case he saw their faces in the area and needed to track them down. He would then toss the wallets and phones in the Thames. What money he recovered he would place in Emma’s Christian Aid box, which sat on her shop counter near the till. He would do so when she wasn’t looking. At the end of the month, when she emptied it, she would get a pleasant surprise. He wanted her to still believe in charitable acts and that people were fundamentally good.
The robber band would have to somehow reach a hospital. But they would not report the incident to the police. The police were still the enemy and – ironically or not – they still had their pride. As much as they would demand vengeance too they also had no real desire to cross paths with the well-trained psychopath again.
As Devlin was exiting the alley he caught the sight of a curtain move. A boy peered out his bedroom window – and Devlin was reminded of the young Afghan who had stared at him in the village, just before the fateful attack. He felt a twinge – of regret, duty, conscience or bloodlust.
*
Like an actor waiting in the wings, about to go on stage, Devlin took a deep breath before turning the door handle and entering the apartment. The adrenalin he recently felt had subsided. He had taken his jacket off beforehand, having noticed a cutlass-shaped crimson stain on the lapel. He would take it to be dry-cleaned near the Huntsman & Hounds, lest their local drycleaner mention the stain to Emma, when she popped in there. Devlin didn’t enjoy leading a double-life. But he had to admit he was quite good at it.
He walked into the living room and poured out a large whisky. Emma had opened the balcony door and the breeze fanned his face. A framed print of Holbein’s The Ambassadors dominated the main wall. Holly had bought it for him. They had discussed the painting on their first date together. To put her own stamp on their home Emma had furnished the walls with several pictures from her previous flat: Brueghel’s ‘Winter Landscape Bird Trap’ and Beuckelaer’s ‘Christ Carrying the Cross’. She had also gifted him a large print of Jacob van Ruisdael’s ‘Wheat Fields’. His and her bookcases flanked a leather sofa. His included various works of military history, philosophy, novels by Greene, Dostoyevsky, Camus, Conrad, Balzac and others. Hers were filled with a collection of Jane Austen hardbacks, historical romance novels and literary biographies. They often read from each other’s shelves however. She wanted to understand him more and he thought she had good taste. A large Persian rug – a gift from Porter – lay next to a rustic oak coffee table. When it arrived at the apartment he was tempted to check the item for listening devices.
Emma came in from the kitchen. Devlin liked the way her heels clicked on the wooden floor. A film of sweat glistened on her brow, neck and shins. There seemed little difference between the smoothness of her skin and the silk dress. He wanted her more than the whisky – or a cigarette. He always made sure he never thought of Holly when he was making love to Emma, albeit he sometimes pictured her before or afterwards.
“How was your Mum?”
“Well, she was complaining that my father was spending too much time at the golf course – and then getting under her feet when home. She mentioned that her neighbour has just bought a “loud and unsightly” foreign sports car. She advised me to grow my hair longer and that I should have “underlings” work at the shop so that I can spend more time networking and courting corporate clients. Whatever that means. As for the rest of the country it’s apparently going to rack and ruin. In short, my mother is fine and feeling herself,” Emma said, smiling demurely as she sided up to Devlin and took a sip of his whisky. She failed to report however that her mother had asked her, again, when Devlin was going to propose.
Violet soon followed Emma into the room, having finished a late-night marrowbone treat. The friendly, adorable mongrel wagged her tail and leapt up at Devlin when she saw him. He could never be unhappy in her company.
7.
The air was awash with citrus sunshine. A few wisps of cloud were scattered, rose petal-like, across a burning blue sky. London was either on the cusp of a heatwave or already experiencing one. Devlin appeared uncomfortable in a jacket and tie and pulled at the neck of his shirt as he walked out onto the first-floor terrace of the Savile Club. Devlin had pressed his shirt with extra vigour that morning, as if he were back in the regiment. He had also polished his shoes as if he were due to step out onto parade in them. He didn’t usually mind if his shirts were a little crumpled, or if his shoes went unpolished. It was a reminder that he was now free of the army and could breathe out in terms of the unpleasantness of Northern Ireland, Iraq and Afghanistan. And he was free from following orders.
Oliver Porter was already sitting at a table to the rear of the terrace. Whether as a host or guest he liked to be punctual. There is a rule at various London clubs, whether officially stated or not, that members should refrain from shaking hands. It implied that one was doing business at the club, instead of spending one’s time recreationally. The bonds of friendship were far stronger than any ties to a club for Porter however, and he wilfully ignored the rules to shake Devlin’s hand when greeting him. He duly noticed how irritated his guest seemed in his tightly buttoned-up shirt.
“You’re welcome to loosen a button, Michael. I won’t tell anyone. I get paid for keeping secrets – but I’m happy to keep this one for gratis,” Porter amiably exclaimed. Devlin glanced at the table and noted that his friend had already worked his way through half a bottle of burgundy. He half-smiled, nodded in reply and unfastened his top button.
With no more than a wink, a pencil-skirted waitress briskly attended to their table so Devlin could order a drink. Maria had served Porter on more than one occasion. She now knew when to approach the charming (but never forward) club member and, more importantly, when he didn’t want to be disturbed. She also knew that, whether he was having a three-course meal or just a coffee, she would receive a crisp fifty pound note as a tip - (which Porter made sure went to the sweet-natured waitress, instead of going to the establishment).
“You’re look
ing well,” Devlin remarked, after ordering a large vodka and tonic. And he meant it. Porter always looked well, like a well-preserved piece of waxed, oak furniture. He couldn’t help but notice how much weight his friend had lost since he had last seen him a few months back. Where once Porter had been jowly his countenance was now lean. His skin, stretched across his face, made him look slightly reptilian. But perhaps he was being unkind in thinking such a thought, Devlin considered. So much and so little can change in a few months. Devlin internally winced, thinking how much it must have cost Porter to buy an entire new wardrobe.
“It’s the new and improved me,” Porter replied, briefly looking down at his stomach – or lack of one. “Retirement suits me better than I thought. Victoria has been Stasi-like in keeping watch over me, in terms of what I eat and drink. But I’ve also been good myself. It felt somewhat strange at first – and I’m still not wholly enamoured with my new regime – but the aim is to continue to be good.”
Devlin couldn’t quite tell if Porter was referring to his diet, or moral health, after he finished speaking. Perhaps he meant both.
“Retirement suits us both, it seems,” the former contract killer asserted, with less enthusiasm than his friend.
“And how’s Emma? I hope you’ve been smart enough not to let her slip through your fingers. I liked her – and not just because she kindly laughed at all my bad jokes. Ill-dressed feminists will of course shrilly despise me for saying so and accuse me of being patronising – but women are our better halves. What was it Kingsley Amis once wrote? “Women are really much nicer than men: No wonder we like them.””
“She’s fine. We’re good,” Devlin replied, slightly uneasily, as he recalled how, after making love to her the previous night, he thought of Holly. He had also drunk a large measure of brandy, in attempt to wash away the craving his mouth had for a cigarette. Devlin sat up in bed in the middle of the night and stared fixedly at the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room, wanting to scratch the itch of holding his gun in his hand and cleaning it – and experiencing the kick of the recoil again. But Emma lay asleep next to him, her head resting on his chest.