by Thomas Waugh
The comely waitress placed Devlin’s entrée of scallops on the table but his eyes still feasted on Emma. His nose also drunk in the perfume she was wearing. Not just because he too recalled their previous visit to the restaurant, or rather it’s restroom. There was no one else on the planet he wanted to be with right now. But Devlin feared that, should he tell Emma how he felt, she would immediately question if there was someone else, in Heaven as opposed to on Earth, he would rather be with.
“So how was your friend today?” Emma asked, as she took another sip of wine.
“He’s in a bad way, unfortunately. It’s hard to adjust to civilian life, let alone being injured. He’s still reliving the conflict, or wants to re-fight the same enemy. You can either leave a piece of yourself back in Afghanistan or bring a piece of the war back with you,” Devlin replied, hoping that his candour about Birch would in some way compensate for his own guardedness.
“You so seldom speak about your time in the army,” Emma countered, her voice tip-toeing but deliberate.
Did he speak about it with her?
“There’s not much to tell. I spent most of my days getting sunburnt and reading Flashman novels,” Devlin replied, feeling that he was being, at least, half-truthful. “My duties mainly involved babysitting aid workers and civil servants. I remember one senior wonk from DFID. He lasted all of three days in Helmand. He claimed he was suffering from diarrhoea and needed to go back home. But when he heard any gun go off we suspected that he started shitting himself for a different reason.”
Emma laughed. It was one of the nicest sounds in the world. She didn’t, however, want to let him off the hook in terms of deploying humour to deflect attention away from how army life – and then civilian life – changed him.
“How much do you think Helmand changed you?”
“I’m not sure,” Devlin remarked, truthfully. Reading Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche had, perhaps, a greater effect on his thinking than any time spent in the army. The great changes in his life had come from when he first met Holly – and then when she died. He recalled a quotation from Nietzsche: “That which does not kill us, makes you stronger.” But Devlin wasn’t now so sure. Had meeting Emma changed him? Time would tell, he sometimes thought. At other times, he believed she had – and changed him for the better. But she wasn’t Holly.
“You should try and talk about your time in the army more,” Emma said, concerned. “It doesn’t need to be with me. Are you due to see any other old friends soon from the regiment?”
Devlin was going to argue that he didn’t need counselling, like Birch – and that his time in Helmand didn’t define him. He was also going to posit, testily, that he didn’t need to go to confession. But he refrained from saying anything. Devlin didn’t want to fight.
“No. But John mentioned that my former CO is keen on getting in touch – to offer me a job. He runs a company which organises personal security. I’m enjoying my retirement too much however. Which reminds me, I’ll be having lunch with Oliver tomorrow. We’re having a catch-up and he’s got some investment opportunities he wants to discuss.”
Devlin didn’t enjoy lying. But he had to admit that he was quite good at it.
“You should meet up with this CO still. You might be able to persuade him to give John some work.”
“That’s a good thought.”
It was – and he would duly contact Tyerman. But as Devlin worked his way through a carafe of wine and waited for his main course his thoughts turned to Rameen and The Ritz. The streets would be busy around the hotel and he could easily disappear into the crowd. But he would not be able to conceal himself from the numerous security cameras in the lobby and each individual floor, even if he could disguise himself as an employee.
6.
Emma mentioned that she needed to get home to call her Mum, but she didn’t want Devlin to rush in finishing his coffee.
“You may want to take your time. I’m sure you’d rather not overhear a conversation about how much I’m not disappointing my mother, but how I could do so much better if only I listened to her advice.”
“I’ll catch you up. Say hello to your Mum for me. And that of course I agree with her, in that her daughter can do better than me.”
“Don’t tempt me. Besides, she thinks you’re the one thing in my life that doesn’t need changing. Mum called you a “gentleman.” And Daddy called you “a real man” when he first met you. I think he envied the fact the you carried a gun. Sometimes he wants to carry one too. Especially when he’s home alone with Mum.”
“Can’t I be both? Probably not,” Devlin drily replied.
When he got up to kiss her goodbye he pulled her close, gave her more than just a peck on the cheek and ran his fingers down her spine, along the zip at the back of the dress, which he would pull down when he got back to the apartment.
When Devlin left the restaurant, he decided to take the more scenic route home and walked along the riverbank. The route also didn’t pass any shops which sold cigarettes. He wanted to be good. Devlin sat down on a bench, which he often stopped at when taking Violet out for a walk each morning. He liked the openness and serenity of the river. Warm lights – red, white and amber – glowed from the buildings on the opposite bank. He put his earphones on and listened to a few songs on his smart phone. Holly’s Playlist. He had found the playlist whilst going through her iPod, a few days after her death. She had mentioned, long before that, how she had a special collection of songs which she listened to – that reminded her of Devlin and how she felt about him.
“You’ll always be a part of me
I’m part of you indefinitely
Boy don’t you know you can’t escape me
Oh daring ‘cause you’ll always be my baby.”
A sleek party boat, blaring out Abba, motored past and a gaggle of women, from a hen party in full swing, waved at Devlin and blew him kisses. He half-smiled but wasn’t tempted to reply in kind.
“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 ma
n 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 his 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 t
hem 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.