by Thomas Waugh
Far more than a united Ireland, Fergal Nolan was motivated by the causes of greed and power. He was an ambitious drug dealer and gangster in his own right, as well as occasional enforcer for Mullen. Nolan had experienced the occupational hazard, twice, of serving time in prison (he refused the offer of a commuted sentence in exchange for informing on his confederates). The first time was for GBH, the second for possession of drugs with intent to supply. Other suspected misdeeds included armed robbery, extortion, bribery of a public official. There was a list of other various violent crimes Nolan was connected to. He was alleged to have stabbed a member of a rival drug gang in a pool hall, with a broken snooker cue. During his youth, Nolan worked as a debt collector. His signature, when torturing one of his victims, was to slice open a captive’s nostrils and septum with garden secateurs. Police reports also cited that Nolan had regularly tortured people using a clawhammer, pliers and craft knife. He utilised the latter on a rival loan shark, attempting to move into his territory, by cutting off his eyelids, before dumping his body in acid. He had also been known to squirt lighter fluid over his victims and burn people alive.
Marshal read on. More evidence of an unpleasant worldfilled with unpleasant people. Grace had once argued than the was as much light as there was dark in the world. Marshal said that he wasn’t so sure. Or he was sure. There was so much more darkness than light. He proposed that it was almost a mathematical equation: “There are more cardinal sins than cardinal virtues. But that’s not the only reason why the tally will always number more for the former than latter.”
13.
Oliver Porter made himself scarce and retreated to his glorified shed. He would tie some flies, read, and maybe nap with Violet sleeping by his feet. He explained to his wife beforehand that she might want to spend the evening with her niece without him getting in the way. “I’d feel like a fifth wheel.” Porter was keen on being absent when the conversation inevitably turned to the topic of Marshal. He was in no mood to get drawn into either condemning or excusing his recent behaviour. His wife already sensed that something was amiss with the ex-soldier - or Grace had told her something was amiss.
“How was James today?” Victoria asked, almost nonchalantly, when he returned home.
“A little pre-occupied. I think his friend dying in such a brutal manner has affected him. I would advise Grace to be patient with him.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” she suggested, less nonchalantly, narrowing her eyes, as if she were the member of a jury, scrutinizing a witness.
“I can’t be sure, of course. I do not have a window into my own soul, let alone anyone else’s,” Porter replied, more humorously than defensively. Just because Marshal and Grace were at odds with one another, that did not mean that he should have a falling out with his wife as a consequence.
“I just do not want Grace to get hurt.”
“He will be hurting himself if he does. I recommend we give him some space. Absence will make the heart grow fonder. It’s a maxim I am willing to test this evening, by leaving you and Grace alone to talk. I will fetch a couple of good bottles of wine from the cellar for you,” Porter remarked. He realised that if he chose the wine then his wife could avoid, accidentally or not, removing the best bottles from his beloved cellar.
“I would recommend to James that he does not give Grace too much space. You do know that she wants to marry him?”
She may well become a widow, before she becomes a wife.
Mullen sat behind his desk, with his itinerary for the following day in front of him. His secretary, Caitlin, had briefly discussed it with him and left. He had pursed his lips as she walked out the office. The priapic statesman liked his female staff to wear skirts. The shorter the better. Caitlin was dressed a trouser suit, again. Her new, severe, haircut did little for her too. She was beginning to look like a lesbian, or a Labour councillor. Mullen had conducted an affair with his assistant over a decade ago, when she was under forty. Caitlin had conducted herself with discretion and professionalism during and after the fling. When his roving eye inevitably turned to metal more attractive, she was sensible enough to not cause a scene, lest he terminate her contract, or have Duggan punish any disloyalty or ingratitude. As much as he told himself that Josephine had made him a one-woman man, it was time perhaps to employ some fresh meat, Mullen thought. It was time to give another young Irish girl a leg-up. He was wary of forcing Caitlin to retire, though. She was loyal and efficient, after all. She also knew too many secrets. Mullen noticed how the secretary had pursed her lips when mentioning his dinner tomorrow night with Josephine. Older women hate younger ones as much as Catholics hate Protestants, he judged. A compromise would be to re-define her duties, so she worked in one of the back offices. She could wear as many trouser suits as she wanted there.
He glanced down at the typed-up itinerary in front of him. He was being taken out to dinner by a group of green energy lobbyists that night so he would get in late tomorrow morning. He had a few calls to make once he got to the office. One was to an unofficial business associate, back in Belfast. They would discuss buying a workspace above a fast-food outlet. The stench of fried chicken they pumped out would conceal the smell of weed they would store and distribute from upstairs. He had to take another call with one of the producers of Question Time, to discuss another appearance on the show. He liked it when Mullen attacked the Tory on the panel. “You piled in on him in the studio, and then there was a pile-on from a twitter mob,” the former Independent journalist had said to him, gleefully. “I am a soldier on the frontline of the culture war,” the one-time student union rep had boastfully remarked to Mullen, adding that he believed in a united Ireland. The Irishman felt little solidarity with the tee-total champagne socialist, however. He wasn’t involved in any war that the republican recognised. And he certainly refused to call him “a soldier”. Late afternoon would be spent giving a speech at the offices of the charity Freedernity, a poor man’s Amnesty International. The organisation was not so poor that it could not afford a Mullen fee, or an army of chuggers.
As well as having dinner with Josephine tomorrow evening, Mullen was keen to see her tonight as well. She would want him to come to her apartment, no doubt, but he would insist that she come to his place. She would say she needed money for a black cab yet book an Uber and pocket the difference. Mullen had known mercenaries who were less mercenary. It had proved cheaper when he just paid for sex. But she was worth it. Josephine made him feel young, virile. The lauded statesman smoothed his hair across his head, so as little of his bare scalp showed beneath his thinning hair. He pursed his lips again. The packet of Viagra had just one pill remaining.
Duggan tapped away on his phone, slumped upon the sofa, as he confirmed the staff rotas with some of his team. The Head of Security took another swig from his ice-cold bottle of beer. Beads of sweat ran down its neck. It was time to relax. His gun and shoulder holster lay on the table. Duggan looked forward to an evening off. He slid his hand inside his pocket and touched the bag of coke once more. He might book an escort or watch over the video again of the Brit being tortured and killed.
“It was the bastard’s funeral yesterday. Is everything else dead and buried too?”
Mullen was confident that he was in the clear, but every few days he asked his lieutenant for an update. The statesman had a lot to lose if he became complacent. Twice a day he would have Duggan sweep for any surveillance devices.
“The investigation is still active, but they are chasing their tails. They’ve got something between nothing and sweet fuck all, boss. As much as a few of the bastards may suspect you’re involved, they cannot prove anything. I’ve been told that Coulson has a particular hard-on for you, but he can’t keep it up forever. Nolan cleaned the scene. Even if they somehow get to Nolan, they will still be empty-handed. What’s the worse that they can do at an interrogation session nowadays – serve you a lukewarm tea or stale biscuit? The fuckers have got more chance of finding Lord Lucan than maki
ng our boy talk.”
“I almost wish that the likes of Coulson had something on me, so they would bring me in. With the money I could get from suing them for wrongful arrest I might be able to afford to divorce Mary,” Mullen said, half joking, as he poured himself a whiskey. “Give Nolan a bonus, to keep him sweet. He’s a good lad. An asset.”
“Aye, he knows when to open his mouth and when to keep it shut. He’s willing to learn, and he’s willing to teach,” Duggan replied, with a measure of paternal pride in relation to his second-cousin. “I was talking to Danny O’Connor yesterday. He says that some of the old boys were toasting you in the pub the other day, celebrating that you finally got your man. I told them that it wouldn’t be the last shot fired in the war. Rather, it’ll be the first of many.”
“Our day will come,” Mullen said, quoting the IRA motto, holding up his glass to his companion. “You should treat your niece and nephew too, for their work. Buy them a keg of Guinness. On me.”
Duggan nodded, although he thought how his niece and nephew would prefer some weed or a new games console as a thank you.
“Even fashion models can suffer from pride and vanity it seems,” Grace joked, forcing a smile, as she sat around the kitchen table with her aunt. They were working their way through their second bottle of wine. “I said to James that I am here for him, but how many times should I say that before I bore him and myself? I can’t listen if he doesn’t want to talk.”
Grace tucked an errant lock of blonde hair behind her ear, smoothed out her dress and straightened a ring on her finger, so the sapphire faced upwards, but there was a sense that things were fraying in her body and soul, Victoria felt.
She was close to crying. The forced smiles grew even more unconvincing. The measures of wine grew larger. Grace glanced through the window. The fragrances of the nearby rosebushes and freshly mown grass wafted into the kitchen. A clear sky revealed a vista of stars, in cruel contrast to her gloomy mood. She had hoped that Marshal would come back to her house after the launch party. She would make dinner. They would make love. The funeral was over, signalling an end to the chapter, Grace believed – or wanted to believe. Yet she feared that Marshal was becoming even more withdrawn. He was a ship, about to sail over the horizon or off the edge of the world. It was entirely plausible that she might never see him again. Grace felt as mournful as a widow. Victoria subtly, or unsubtly, hinted that she would be able to find someone who would like her in the future. But Grace was doubtful whether she would find someone who she liked, or loved, more than Marshal.
She had prayed for him, more than once, over the past fortnight – even visiting a local chapel to do so. Sometimes Grace felt guilty, praying for Marshal to come back to her for selfish reasons. She would be willing to downsize and give up her house if it meant moving in with him. Grace also realised that she was feeling something akin to grief. It was not that she was losing him. It was that she had lost him already and was experiencing the various stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression. She was not quite willing to admit acceptance. Yet.
Grace was sure that there was no one else - Marshal was not having an affair - but that brought little consolation. It meant that she might be the cause of the problem, or their relationship had run its course. There were too many threads that her mind could pull upon and cause her mood to fray even more. Marshal was not the only one to suffer sleepless nights.
“James is not stupid. Oliver said that he just probably needs a bit of time and space. Everything will be okay,” Victoria said, as convincing as one of Grace’s smiles. “It’s the price of being with a soldier. We know them enough to know that they will always keep part of themselves hidden. They go dark. And they believe they are doing so for our protection. I have seen the thousand-yard stare on Oliver. You have probably seen a similar haunted expression on James, when he thinks no one is looking. It seems like he is glaring into nothingness, or the past or future. We will never know. Nor do they, I imagine. It’s a sorrow with reason. But you should cultivate a faith, with or without reason, that will help you combat what you might be feeling. James will come back to you. If he doesn’t, it’s his loss.”
Victoria placed a comforting hand on her niece’s arm, but Grace barely felt a thing. Marshal was similar to Schrödinger’s Cat. Her relationship was both alive and dead at the same time.
“Thanks. I needed tonight. I have been spending far too much time alone in that big house. How did you get to be so wise?” Grace warmly remarked, feeling a little better - albeit she could not feel any worse.
“It must be wine talking,” Victoria replied, as she topped up their glasses.
The bedroom was richly furnished. Most purchases he had put on his expense account. The décor was a mix of the old and the new. His mistress had been responsible for the new. A narrow, half-filled bookcase stood by the door. A specially commissioned painting, depicting the Kilmichael Ambush, hung opposite the bed. Mullen had installed a safe behind the picture, containing cash and an additional passport, in case he ever had to leave the country in a hurry.
Josephine first slumped upon his flabby torso, breathless, and then rolled off him, having pretended to orgasm at the same time as Mullen. Her breasts heaved up and down, still glistening with massage oil. She had come over from Cork, in her early twenties, with the intention of following in the footsteps of her mother and being a nurse, but London was expensive. The streets are paved with gold for those who are already rich. At first Josephine spent time web-camming to pay for her studies. Several of her “fans” said she looked like one of The Coors – but with augmented breasts. A friend then introduced her to escorting: “You can earn more in one evening that you do now in a month… Just lie back and think of Michael Kors handbags… You will have most clients by the balls, quite literally.” After some initial nerves and awkwardness Josephine embraced her new profession. She enjoyed playing a part and making her clients feel special. Sex for some men worked better than prescription drugs for curing boredom or depression. Her nurse’s uniform was finally of some use. Josephine, or “Beauty” as she sometimes called herself, worked her way onto the party circuit and slept with a procession of actors, footballers, and politicians. She suffered some bad experiences, but not enough to compel her to stop. Eventually, Josephine had to choose between her studies and her job, which afforded her a standard of living that nursing would never be able to compete with. The high-class independent escort secured a handful of regular, affluent clients. English was her first language. She could hold her drink and a conversation. She seldom put in a bad performance, in or out of bed. She worked hard to maintain an enviable lifestyle. Josephine was also mindful of sending money back home to her family, so her younger brother could afford to attend university. She explained to her mother that she secured a position of being a carer for a couple of wealthy, private clients. She bought an apartment in Battersea, dined out regularly, wore expensive clothes and travelled extensively, both with clients and a couple of other escort friends. Her experiences as a trainee nurse gave her an aversion to drugs, so her body and finances were in good shape. Although it can seemingly be teased out, time waits for no woman. Josephine decided to retire and become Mullen’s full-time mistress. The politician treated her well, knowing full well that if he didn’t then she could easily find a different patron to keep her in the kind of style she had grown accustomed to.
Josephine had wanted to give herself - as well as her older lover - a good workout, having not attended the gym. Strands of jet-black hair clung to her sculptured, sweat-glazed face like slithers of spinach sticking to a dinner plate. She grinned, hoping to make Mullen grin too – to help convince him of the good time he was having. Josephine, as was her habit, also stroked the white hairs on his chest and hooked her leg around his. She decided she would stay the night. His apartment was close to a favoured nail bar, which she would visit in the morning. She would also make love to him in the morning and, afterwards, ask him for some money to buy a n
ew dress for their dinner that evening. He would be too tired and enamoured to refuse her, she judged. Mullen often said that he “wanted her” in his messages, but never that he “loved her” – which, for the courtesan, was preferable. He liked to be dominant with her, a slave to her submissive role playing. Mullen had recently spoken a couple of times about divorcing his wife, but Josephine had no ambition to marry her client. She enjoyed her freedom and life of leisure and luxury too much. He would make her sign a pre-nup, and ultimately secure a new mistress once she became his wife, who might cast a spell over her husband like she had done. Josephine had not wholly given up hope of finding someone special and marrying for love, as well as money. She also wanted a dog and a child – in that order. The former escort still saw a couple of old clients – a CEO of a hedge fund and a disc jockey. Should Mullen return to Belfast soon, she would accept the CEO’s invitation to travel with him to Zurich on a business trip.
Mullen sighed heavily - or wheezed – his old dugs moving a little, like blancmange on a plate. Satiated. Once he regained his breath, he would smoke a cigarette. He welcomed the breeze from the oscillating fan in the corner. Duggan had instructed him to keep his windows closed after the killing of his enemy, just in case. He felt good, although not quite as good as when he had consummated his revenge. The father had finally honoured his son and kept his promise to himself, made all those years ago. He had the name, and he had finally obtained justice. Toynbee’s book (the Corbynite had sent him an advanced, signed copy) had lit the touch paper. Although his wife might guess that he was behind the murder, he would refrain from confessing to her. Ideally, she would soon be his ex-wife. It was best to keep her in the dark, about various aspects of his life.