Darkness Visible

by Thomas Waugh

  “Tomorrow night.”

  The words cut through the air and came to a dead stop like a guillotine. Although there was a finality to his tone Porter still wanted to give Devlin – and himself – a way out.

  “You still have time to change your mind. Nature will take care of the snake sooner or later. He’ll either kill himself through an overdose, or upset the wrong person. I am sure that your friend, Birch, wouldn’t think less of you if you didn’t keep your promise. A promise you made, in extraordinary circumstances, over a decade ago.”

  “He would. And so would I.”

  Maria interrupted the sterile silence. Porter ordered a couple more drinks. By mutual, unspoken, agreement the two men chose not to talk about the job. Instead the pair discussed the recent Test Match at Lords and asked about the latest history books they had read. Porter had just worked his way through Robert Tombs’ The English and Their History. “He makes a salient point on nigh on every page… The book should be put on every syllabus in the country. Which is why it won’t be.” In reply Devlin mentioned how he had re-read Ronald Syme’s The Roman Revolution. Porter remembered studying the text during his time at Magdalen. Augustus Caesar had brought peace and stability to Rome not because of his willingness to compromise and forgive – but rather because he defeated all his enemies. There were no pieces left on the board to justify playing the game anymore. When asked about deciding the fate of Julius Caesar’s murderers the young Octavius had answered, flatly, “They must die”. No doubt that chapter resonated with Devlin, Porter mused.

  The sun throbbed, as if it were in pain, as the two friends stood upon the steps of the club, on Brook St.

  “Just get in touch if you need anything. Let’s have another drink when it’s all over. I’ve got a bottle of Dalmore I’ve been saving for a special occasion. We need to celebrate our retirement. Again.”

  “I’m grateful for your help, Oliver. I owe you,” Devlin remarked, with a splinter of emotion in his throat.

  “Nonsense. You don’t owe me, or anyone else. They’ll be no need for you to say “give a cock to Alcibiades,” Devlin warmly replied, making reference to Socrates’ last words – to indicate that all his debts, real and metaphysical, had been paid.

  Devlin nodded and offered up a fleeting, wry half-smile. The quote prompted him to remember his favourite line from Plato:

  “Be kind, because everyone out there is facing a hard battle.”

  Devlin still valued Plato’s words and the idea of kindness. But he didn’t want to dwell too much on them at present. He had murder on his mind.

  There was little left to say. Porter squeezed Devlin’s forearm in a fraternal, or even paternal, gesture. His muscles tensed up at first, but then relaxed – like someone surrendering to a needful embrace.

  Porter squinted in the light but his expression remained pinched – pained – for a different reason. He lingered on the steps as Devlin walked away, his head lowered – fishing through his pockets for his headphones, to listen to music. The cynical fixer was not usually prone to sentiment or superstition but he was momentarily gripped by a dreadful presentiment. That something would go awry with the job. A few atoms in Porter’s heart wanted to chase after Devlin. Grab him by the lapels of his jacket. Shake some sense into him. Tell him he was insane or being more conceited than a poet. He wanted to come out with a poignant, or hackneyed phrase, to cause him to think twice: “Love is not a disease but a cure.” Emma could save Devlin, in the same way Victoria saved him. But it wasn’t Porter’s way to raise his voice, make a scene or lose his composure. Sangfroid. Englishness needed to be preserved. Porter didn’t want to raise any eyebrows, although he realised that he didn’t give a damn about the good and the great of the Savile Club compared to Devlin. Besides, Porter was ninety-nine percent sure that there wasn’t anything he could have said or done to alter Devlin’s course. He may as well try and change the past.

  We are where we are.

  10.

  Devlin walked briskly down New Bond St, weaving his way through the throng of shoppers, his forehead pleated in thought. He kept his head bowered down, not wishing to look anyone in the eye. He purposely didn’t listen to any songs on “Holly’s Playlist.” He always felt uncomfortable thinking about her when planning a job.

  A statuesque blonde, with the hint of a Russian accent, asked him for a light, as she tucked a ringlet of hair behind her ear. She smiled invitingly. A cream, lace-hemmed summer dress swayed above sun-burnished thighs and Christian Louboutin heels. Maybe she was an escort. Maybe she liked the way he looked. Maybe she could see into his soul and shared his love of Chekhov. Or maybe she just wanted a light. She was attractive. But not beautiful. Holly was beautiful. Devlin politely let the woman down, albeit he was tempted to ask for a cigarette in return.

  He walked on.

  “When you think that you’ve lost everything

  You find out you can always lose a little more

  I’m just goin’ down the road feeling bad

  Tryin’ to get to heaven before they close the door.”

  His phone vibrated with a message from Birch, asking for an update. It wasn’t the first message of its kind he had received in the past few days – and it wouldn’t be the last. Devlin felt like he had a Jiminy Cricket-type figure on his shoulder, although Birch couldn’t have exactly been considered the voice of his conscience.

  *

  Devlin met Tyerman in the bar of the Cavalry & Guard’s Club, on Piccadilly. Tyerman got up from his Chesterfield chair and strode across the room to greet his former squaddie. He shook his hand – vigorously – and looked him squarely in the eye as he told Devlin how good it was to see him again. Despite having left the army five years ago, Charles Tyerman still retained his military gait and bearing. His back was ramrod straight. His chin jutted out like the white cliffs of Dover. His hair was now mostly iron grey, streaked with black. Tyerman’s default expression was still as serious – or severe even – as Devlin remembered. Although from the outset he knew that the Colonel’s heart was in the right place. He genuinely cared for the welfare of his men, which was more than could be said for his counterparts in Whitehall. As much as he valued discipline his decency shone through as brightly as the brass buttons on his dress uniform. Tyerman gave a lecture to each batch of new recruits who arrived in Helmand. He revealed how, if he hadn’t signed-up, he would have been a History teacher. During his monthly newsletter to the regiment he would include quotes from Horace, Gibbon and Ralph Waldo Emerson, among others. As a result, Tyerman was a far more well-rounded and cerebral officer than many of his martinet colleagues. And Devlin respected him for it. He respected him for the conviction in his voice and fervour in his eyes when he said that, should Jamal come into his own sights too, he would kill the man who had taken the life of one of his young soldiers. More than most, Tyerman was a good and honourable man, Devlin conceded.

  A trio of jaundiced septuagenarians worked their way through a bottle of Dow’s vintage port at the bar, re-living the Falkland’s campaign. Their lips and gums were radish-coloured. They croaked more than spoke. Devlin couldn’t quite tell if their eyes were glinting, or merely rheumy. The past was all they had, he initially thought. But then corrected himself. How did he know? They could still be married – and maybe they had children and grandchildren. They probably had more interests than himself – and a wider circle of friends. They had probably done something with their lives and made the most of their time.

  The past is all I have.

  Battle scenes and portraits of hoary, monocle-wearing officers dominated the walls. The smell of furniture polish, port and lavender wafted through the air. Tyerman ordered a couple of drinks and the two men sat by the fireplace. A marble mantelpiece, home to some freshly cut flowers and two antique Regency pistols, sat beneath a large reproduction of Benjamin West’s “The Death of General Wolfe.”

  “You’re looking well, Michael,” Tyerman said, his voice as clear and hard as ice. He spoke
like a House Master from Harrow, one who was efficient as opposed to eccentric.

  “So are you, Sir,” Devlin replied. The trim figure in front of him appeared younger than his fifty-five years. As ever his face was clean-shaven, smoother than the surface of the varnished, lion-footed coffee table which sat between them. The tan from Helmand had been replaced by one gleaned from time spent at his villa in Cyprus. His new suit was made to measure, his shoes handmade. Devlin had also observed the electronic key to a Mercedes, when Tyerman had extracted his wallet from his pocket to pay for the drinks. He also knew, from what Birch told him, that Tyerman owned a flat in Chiswick for when he was up in London – but his main home, replete with a swimming pool and tennis court, was just outside Winchester.

  “Life is good. I can’t complain… Unfortunately, John wasn’t looking so well, when I saw him last. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. I believe in leaving the past in the past. But that’s easy for me to say. What happened to him was awful. I have encouraged him to see a specialist counsellor and had charities get in touch to provide financial support but he’s getting worse, I fear. Retreating into himself.”

  “Rather than charity, I think John needs a job. A sense of purpose and belonging again. I appreciate your offer of a position at your company, Sir, but I will only consider it if you’re able to take John on too. I’d be happy for you to subsidize my pay – to the point where I’d be paying his salary out of mine.”

  Tyerman narrowed his gaze a little and surveyed Devlin, as if he were studying a map – assessing the terrain of where an ambush could occur or where he could best counter-attack his opponent. He hadn’t been expecting Devlin to come up with such a proposal – but nor did he reject it out of hand after hearing it. He was certainly keen on employing the former soldier. If Devlin turned out to be half the asset he was in Afghanistan for his company, then Tyerman would be willing to give his more troublesome friend a chance to prove his worth too.

  “I’ll consider it. I would need to think about a suitable position for John. Neither of us would want him to feel that he’s a fifth wheel. As you say, he needs a job instead of charity. But before you commit to any role I should explain more about the company and your prospective duties within it.”

  Tyerman proceeded to tell Devlin about York Security (named after Edward, Duke of York, an antecedent of Tyerman’s who had been a friend to Henry V and had died at Agincourt). After leaving the army Tyerman raised the requisite capital and founded the company four years ago. He hired various officers and squaddies who had served under him in Afghanistan. They were reliable, proficient and loyal. The army’s loss was York Security’s gain. An old school-friend, who worked as an executive with Coutts & Co, provided the fledgling firm with regular work. Tyerman’s brother-in-law was a partner at a major talent agency and fed him clients for the close protection arm of the operation. The company was continuing to grow and needed more personnel.

  “It’s got to the point where I am having to put in the occasional shift… In terms of the job it’s akin to sentry duty. You just need to have eyes in the back of your head – as well as know when to look away when a client is being indiscreet… Some of the business leaders we look after get accosted by anti-capitalism protesters and middle-class students who want to virtue signal on Facebook about the latest trendy cause – but they hit about as hard as the strength of their convictions… We’ve had an increase in business lately from politicians too. They’ve realised they can expense personal security – and it makes them seem grand and important to have close protection. They justify it by saying they’ve had a threatening tweet. They want to play the victim, without having to suffer the unwelcome ordeal of actually dying… It’s more likely you’ll have to fend off a zealous fan – demanding one of those interminable selfies – than fight off a gun-wielding jihadist but we sometimes do worthwhile work. And it’s well remunerated… We have plenty of repeat clients, who may eventually ask for you specifically… As much as you sometimes endeavour to disguise the fact, you’re personable and educated Michael… I can arrange a licence for you to carry a weapon in certain circumstances too.”

  Devlin wryly smiled to himself. If he took the job, he would likely be guarding the type of people he was previously hired to kill.

  “You will be asked to undergo some training – and there’s some filling out of forms in terms of compliance and insurance – but we would be keen for you to start asap. The question I ask of everyone who’s served before – and spent some time as a civilian – is are you willing to follow orders again?” Tyerman remarked. Again, he narrowed his hard, teak eyes and scrutinized Devlin, as if he were a poker player looking for an opponent’s tells.

  “It’ll be good practise, for if I get married again.”

  Tyerman forced a half-smile, still more convinced about the ex-soldier’s abilities than attitude. As much as Tyerman felt a responsibility for the soldiers who had been under his command he could not risk trying to rehabilitate a soldier – Devlin or Birch - at the expense of tarnishing the reputation of his company. Devlin had been an asset in Helmand but, even then, Tyerman couldn’t escape the thought that someone who was that proficient at killing surely also enjoyed it. But he never seemed to lose control. Devlin possessed an air of indifference, far more than violence. Or something possessed him. Something different. Something dislocated. Dark. One of the reasons why Tyerman had asked Birch about Devlin was that he had re-read Camus’ The Outsider that week. There was no specific reason but Meursault reminded Tyerman of his former soldier and he wondered what had happened to him.

  “I was sorry to hear that your first wife passed away. It must’ve been hard for you. Or it must be hard,” Tyerman said. His voice softened. The ice melted.

  An awkward pause ensued, as Devlin’s expression and heart hardened. He never felt compelled to fill such silences by unburdening his grief. Or telling the world how much he loved her. A problem shared was not a problem halved.

  Tyerman deftly broke the silence by asking if Devlin wanted another drink. He also excused himself and went to the toilet.

  When Tyerman returned, carrying a drink in each hand, he changed tact and asked Devlin about what he had been doing, job wise, since he left the army.

  “I worked in the security sector for Major Burleigh’s outfit for a while, but I’ve not worked in earnest for some time. My wife left quite a substantial estate, which I have been able to live comfortably off. But I’m aware that the money I have in the bank won’t last forever – and sooner or later I’ll need a job again.”

  Devlin often explained his lack of employment – and apparent wealth – stemming from his wife bequeathing him money. Holly had worked as a model for several years – and then successfully invested her capital in property. In truth Devlin donated the bulk of his wife’s estate to charity when she died. During an idle conversation one evening she remarked that, if something should happen to her, Devlin should live-off her savings. He joked however, somewhat tragi-comically in light of future events, that he would be fine for money:

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make a killing some day.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve lived such a life of leisure,” Tyerman replied, suspecting that somehow something was amiss. “I always considered that your real enemy in life was not the Taliban but boredom. Remember Father Arnold, our chaplain? He told me how you once quoted Kierkegaard to him – that “Boredom was the root of all evil.””

  “You shouldn’t believe everything a priest tells you,” Devlin countered. He had been fond of Father Arnold. He listened to the men rather than preached. His Irish whiskies were as strong as his faith too.

  “Well, believe it or not, I once had a bet with him – about you. You were of course somewhat an enigma to us all. Father Arnold believed that you were a good Catholic. You were just too busy to notice. Or you hid it well, as if you were trying to conceal the fact from God too. I said, however, that you had become a reaction to your boyhood self and were a staunch ath
eist, not just because I was privy to your files. You were far too well read to subscribe such hokum, I argued. A little knowledge will make a man an atheist, to paraphrase a saying.”

  “But a lot will reconcile him to religion,” – Devlin thought to himself, finishing off the quote from Francis Bacon. He also considered that his former CO was fishing for answers – and just playing the evangelical atheist. On a small corner table in his office one could often observe an open Bible, next to where he kept his sidearm.

  “If I am a catholic, I fear I’m a lapsed one,” Devlin remarked, the tone of his voice tantamount to a shrug.

  The price of knowing Michael Devlin was that one never really got to know him.

  “Is there any other kind?”

  Devlin remembered re-reading The End of the Affair, a year or so after Holly died. The last line resonated with him: “O God, You’ve done enough, You’ve robbed me of enough, I’m too tired and too old to love, leave me alone forever.”

  The two men talked some more. Tyerman asked where Devlin was living. Devlin mentioned Emma. He shrugged when asked if he had plans to get married. They also gossiped about what others from the regiment were up to, before Tyerman glanced at his watch and realised he was running late for another meeting.

  “Well, we both have things to consider. I will email you with more information and think about how we can utilise John. I should warn you however that I’ll be flying off to Cyprus early tomorrow morning for a holiday with the family. I’ll be needing close protection should my wife catch me working too much while we’re away. But I am keen for you to join the firm, Michael. I don’t just want to offer you a job either. I would like you to have a career with us. Sooner rather than later my wife will demand that I retire – and I want to be able to leave the business in the hands of talented and committed people… As much as I am a ghost from the past I also want to represent the future. This is a chance for you to turn the page and start afresh.”