by Thomas Waugh
In truth, there was plenty more that the ex-soldier could have spoken about, in relation to the war and his former profession. He could have mentioned the waiting – for the enemy mortars to start and mortars to stop. How the army had the stomach for the fight, but their politicians didn’t. Special advisers and focus groups acted as their commander-in-chief. Helicopters were promised, but Santa and his reindeer had more chance of arriving at the base. Lions led by donkeys. Or asses. Part of Marshal’s duties involved babysitting government officials. More often than not they would shit themselves, and not from having eaten the local cuisine, when they heard shots fired in anger. He remembered one oleaginous minister proclaiming, at a press conference, that the people of Afghanistan were the “friendliest people in the world”. If true, Marshal would have hated to meet the unfriendliest people in the world. Or they were “good people”. Good people, who grew poppies, harboured the Taliban, gave intelligence to their enemies, planted IEDs, subjugated women and executed homosexuals.
Marshal imagined how Alison wanted to ask the same question which remained on the tips of the tongues of others. Had he killed anyone? But she wouldn’t like the answer. And she wouldn’t like to hear how Marshal hadn’t lost any sleep about shooting his fellow human beings. Fellow human beings, who wanted to shoot him too. Killing became second nature to the Para. Or perhaps it was something even more primal than second nature. Soldiering was in his blood. Both his father and grandfather had served in the army. Killing might have been in his blood too. Whilst in Helmand, Marshal wanted to murder a hundred Taliban to avenge any death on his side. And he considered that a charitable rate of exchange.
Alison asked, when they were in bed before, if the wound, from where he was shot in the shoulder, still hurt. It did. But Marshal said it didn’t. He didn’t want her pity. He just wanted her body, to temporarily take the pain away.
4.
The temperature dropped as Marshal left the restaurant. The firmament was cloudless yet also seemingly starless. A blanket of pollution, or folly, smothered the sky. But even if it was fretted with majesty and glimmering constellations, he fancied that most people would still have their heads buried in their phones. It was sometimes worth venturing out into the countryside, just to see the stars.
Alison was slightly taken back when Marshal mentioned he was tired and couldn’t come back to her place. Her features suddenly became delicate, downturned – as if she were a child who had displeased her parents, but she didn’t quite know why. They parted company after he kissed her on the cheek. Alison’s rueful expression turned to one of rage, however, after he sent his text. London used to lubricate itself on gin, nourished by a sense of humour. Now anger and grievance were written into most souls, like lettering running through a stick of rock. People rush to take offence, as if receiving some form of benediction for doing so. Marshal thought he had been reasonable in his message. He argued that he was not ready for a serious relationship, that he couldn’t give Alison what she wanted. It’s me, not you.
“You’re a bastard,” Alison included in one of her messages. Tears would dampen her pillow later in the night.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Marshal typed back. Any awkwardness he felt was tempered by the feeling that he was glad it was all over. He tried to be honest, but he knew from experience that most women preferred dishonesty. He put in his earphones and walked on, drowning out the sounds of blaring sirens and bleating conversations.
“Freedom just around the corner for you
But with truth so far off what good will it do?
…Oh, Jokerman.”
As Marshal wended his way through the throng of people littering the streets, from boozy nights out or otherwise, he recalled other breakups. Snatches of criticism tumbled out of his memory, like rubbish sacks falling off a dustcart. Tanya said he was too serious. Petra complained he was too glib. They had both been right. “You’re dead inside,” Rebecca concluded. He was going to counter that it had made him a more efficient killer in Helmand, but he thought it prudent to remain silent. Caroline pointed out that he was the most sarcastic person she had ever met. Marshal took it as a compliment. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself,” she added, as a parting shot. “That’s not fair. I don’t particularly care about myself either.” He was being sincere rather than sarcastic in his response for once, he thought. “You’re forever quoting other people, from all the books you read. Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?” another old flame remarked, wanting to hurt him. Or rather hurt him back. “No, not really.”
There’s nothing new under the sun.
So many of his girlfriends believed that they could change him – or save him. And then they resented him when he proved them wrong.
Marshal imagined his mother looking down and disapproving of his behaviour. He should be more gentlemanly. But then again, “The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.” Marshal was more of a bastard than a good Catholic, by a comfortable margin. He wondered, however, if he had earned some credit with God through his actions earlier. Even if so, it was unlikely he could have expunged the mountain of venial sin accumulated over the past six months.
Marshal shunted the attractive, wounded image of Alison from his mind’s eye by pivoting his thoughts towards the Albanians. He debated whether he had put a fire out, or started one? His mind turned like a rolodex as he mulled over what he knew about Albanian criminal gang culture, from material he had read on the internet and in newspaper articles.
Albanian gangs were rife throughout every major town in Britain (their tentacles also reached into America, Europe, Asia and the Middle East). They controlled over 50% of the cocaine trade in the country. In London alone, the Albanian mafia was responsible for distributing over half a million kilos of drugs. Their other main focusses of attention were prostitution (they ran the majority of brothels in the capital), people trafficking, money laundering, blackmail and car theft. Their numbers were relatively small, but their impact was significant. The government claimed it was tackling the problem, citing that Albanians formed the third largest group of foreign nationals in its prisons, but there are lies, damn lies and statistics. Each clan was called a Fis. The Fis was controlled by an executive committee, a Barjak – headed up by a boss, a Krye. The krye would pick one or more underbosses, a Kryetar, to ensure his orders were carried out. Family ties strengthened the bonds of loyalty in each clan – and made it difficult for the security services to infiltrate the gangs. Members needed to take an oath on joining each gang. A medieval Muslim honour code dictated that blood should be spilled for blood. One gang’s motto was, “We are the Gods of the street.” Another gang’s members were nicknamed “the stabbers”. A YouTube video boasted that they were ready for war with the police. Marshal read one article which mentioned how Albanian foot-soldiers were heavily into rap culture, which was reason enough to deport or exterminate them. They were also fond of flaunting their wealth and untouchable status on Facebook, posting pictures of rolls of cash or bags of cocaine, carrying guns and knives, wearing designer clothes – the vulgar kind with the names of the brands emblazoned across the garments.
Marshal could research the subject more, but he needed intel outside the public domain, to gain a tactical advantage over his opponents. He needed information specific to the gang he was dealing with, rather than the Albanian mafia in general. He had poked the hornet’s nest. Marshal recalled a speech by Churchill, “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” He resolved to clean his Glock 21 in the morning.
It was not an unwinnable war, Marshal considered as he returned home and poured himself a large Talisker. His shoulder was stiff. Sometimes he thought that a fragment of the bullet was still buried in his flesh. As to sourcing more intelligence, he had a potential solution.
Oliver Porter.
5.
Morning.
Sunlight proliferated through the canopy of birch trees, like water
pouring through a colander. Oliver Porter – dressed in a dark blue Barbour jacket, mustard cords, a striped Jermyn Street shirt and chocolate brown fedora from Locks & Co – made his way through the wood close to his home, in a village just outside of Windsor. The ex-Guards officer couldn’t quite completely shake the military gait out of his stride. It was ingrained, like the catechism. He took in a lungful of the crisp, bracing air. Yellow and green leaves crunched beneath his feet. Porter quoted Keats, To Autumn, beneath his breath.
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run.”
He had more of his life behind him than in front of him, Porter wistfully concluded on his birthday earlier in the year – and decided to re-visit the poets of his youth, including Milton, Chaucer, Tennyson and Virgil. He was particularly fond of Alexander Pope. He grinned, recalling how he had quoted the satirist during an interminable Brexit discussion the other evening, at an equally interminable drinks party. The wine was screw-top, and the host was a human rights lawyer. Unfortunately, the fascists outnumbered the democrats. When someone mentioned that Gina Miller might be attending the party, he physically cringed. Porter was willing to leave the event should she turn-up, even though he was famished, and the canapes were on the way. He could offer his wife their clandestine signal, of him taking off his cufflink and refastening it, and they could be out the house and in the car within three minutes. They were well drilled in the manoeuvre. Porter was asked which side he voted for in the referendum. Surely, he was now wise enough to vote “Remain?” “Have you not seen the light?” the host’s wife, an insipid vegan who self-identified with victimised trans people and Polly Toynbee, evangelically exclaimed. He thought he would let Pope answer for him, and quoted his short poem, The Balance of Europe.
“Now Europe balanc’d, neither side prevails:
For nothing’s left in either of the scales.”
Violet, a black and white knee-high mongrel, playfully scampered around him, searching for a suitable stick to gnaw on. Her tail wagged, in a windmill motion, and her ears stood pricked to attention when she occasionally glanced back at him. She was a picture of health and happiness. But it wasn’t always so. Every now and then her ears would droop, and Violet would emit a whimper, or pining noise, as she remembered her previous owner. Michael Devlin – a former associate. Devlin had shot himself, with his Sig Sauer P226, shortly after his final hit, around a year ago. Porter had rushed to his apartment that day, suspecting that something was amiss. But it was too late. The ex-soldier was one of the most honourable people Porter had ever known, but the widower was also one of the saddest. At worst he was finally at peace. At best he was with his wife, Holly, in the next life. The two friends had been through a lot together. Devlin had saved Porter’s life, after a contract with a couple of London gangsters had gone awry. Before the Parker brothers could get to Porter, Devlin got to them. Yet the officer couldn’t save his soldier. Or the soldier had no desire to save himself. Devlin was keen to find a good home for his dog. In some ways, Violet reminded Porter of his burden – and sometimes the mongrel eased it. Perhaps that was his friend’s intention. Victoria, Oliver’s wife, took the dog in without question or complaint, and she loved Violet upon meeting her for the first time, as if she had loved the creature all her life.
Walking Violet was a staple part of his retirement. The exercise did him good. His face and figure were trim. He still had some of his hair, and not all of it was grey. A recent family holiday in Belize gave his complexion an attractive glow, like a walnut veneer on a piece of antique furniture. He was a picture of health, wealth and happiness. He now just drank two large glasses of wine with dinner, rather than a bottle and a half. His level of smoking – and similarly his blood pressure – had gone down. As well as dog walking, Porter occupied his time with reading, writing (he had just completed a first draft of a novel set in Byzantium at the dawn of the First Crusade) and fishing. He had recently discovered a spot on the Kennett that was a veritable sanctuary, with a nearby pub and no mobile phone reception. Porter also apportioned time to his role as a school governor and serving on the parish council. His fellow council members were slightly suspicious of how the “consultant” had earned his money, but they were all too happy to accept the money when he made significant donations at Christmas and Easter. The gossips and cynics were right to be wary of their convivial, but confounding, neighbour. The consultant worked as a “fixer”. Organisations had hired him over the years to make or break political careers. The latter was always easier, given the odious characters who were attracted to the profession, like flies to shit. Porter was adept at finding a person’s weak spot, confident as he was that every person had one. Blackmail and bribery were common currency. Sex scandals could be manufactured, but most of the time reality sufficed. If you needed close personal protection, Porter could arrange a professional and discreet bodyguard. If you needed a passport, he would not ask you what it was needed for. Rather he would just ask for which country. If you needed to move your money out of the country, Porter would introduce you to a trusted courier or hawaladar. If you were an unregistered lobbyist, he could arrange a meeting with the appropriate minister, over a cordial lunch for three at the Athenaeum or the Savile Club. If you needed compromising material on an enemy (or friend), then Porter would hire an investigator or hacker on your behalf. He would get his hands dirty, so others wouldn’t have to. If you were someone who had capital, but the wrong bloodline, who needed to get a child into the right school, then Porter would just ask the client if they preferred Eton or Harrow.
The respected, respectable Guards officer sat like a spider, at the heart of a web which was connected to the security services, media, the criminal underworld, corrupt corporations and iniquitous individuals. Every problem could be solved, fixed, without fuss or fanfare. For certain distinguished (monied) personages, Porter worked as a broker between clients and associates. Hitmen. Unfortunately, or not, Porter was seldom short of business over the years.
Former satisfied clients would still contact him, but he always courteously said no, when they tried to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. When former associates asked for work, due to burning through money (or divorcing), Porter referred them to private military and security contractors. He was retired – and happier for it.
Porter did have one minor problem he needed to fix today, however. His wife had asked him to arrange a driver and bodyguard for her niece, Grace, who was flying in from New York. Grace was coming back to Britain, having worked as a fashion model in America for a decade. Victoria was fond of her niece. Porter had met Grace a couple of times and he found her charming and intelligent enough. For a model.
The fixer contacted a couple of suitable ex-soldiers he had employed for close protection work before, but they were unavailable. His wife had stressed how the candidate needed to be trustworthy. “I don’t want them hitting on Grace. Find someone happily married, if that particular unicorn still exists. Or better still, find someone gay… She’s been through a lot this year.”
Porter emitted a small sigh, both then and now. He would make some more calls when he got home. The Kennett would have to wait. The fish would have to do without his company this afternoon.
The fixer’s attention was temporarily turned away from his task though. One of his neighbours, Henry Troughton, accompanied by his young son, Simon, was approaching from the opposite direction. Porter emitted a slightly wearier sigh, before putting on a smile to greet his fellow school governor. Although they served together on the school board and were neighbours, neither man considered the other a friend.
“I suspect that Henry will never like you, as he cannot forgive you for displacing him as the richest man in the village. Money means the world to him. And you will never like Henry because he is a bore,” Victoria had explained to her husba
nd, perceptive as ever.
Troughton, an investment banker and chair of the local Conservative Party Association, was wearing a worsted tweed suit. Apparently, his political hero was Chris Grayling. Much to Porter’s displeasure, he noticed that Troughton had on the same Le Chameau chasseur style wellington boots. He hoped that was the only thing they had in common. The banker was as jowly and pot-bellied as Porter used to be. He walked with a slight limp, from gout rather than an old war wound. If one was misfortunate enough to get close to his porcine features, one would have noticed broken blood vessels beneath the skin, like tributaries of rivers on a map. The bumptious Tory was self-righteous, without being self-aware. His ambition for the coming year was to install himself on the candidate list to be the next Conservative Party MP for the constituency. He had the time and capital to run a good campaign. Troughton often trumpeted how he was descended from Sir Horace Walpole. Who knew? And who cared? Ironically, the man standing in front of him could have granted the would-be politician his wish, in a previous life. Troughton held more opinions about any and everything than Shami Chakrabarti – and was just as keen as her to get into the House of Lords. Porter felt sorry for his timid, bird-like wife, Margot, who had to suffer the brunt of his overbearing manner. He just hoped that the boy would not be so cowed when he came of age.
“Morning Oliver,” Troughton announced, in his bluff, plummy accent.