Home Front: A James Marshal Thriller Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  He yawned - whilst glancing over a story in the newspaper about a Tory politician working with a senior union official to embezzle funds from an NHS Trust - and determined that it was now, or never. Marshal would make the call later. Pull the trigger and scratch the itch.

  When he returned to Amelia St, Marshal felt a different type of itch. Partly he was tired of bloody images of Foster’s torture and execution spooling through his mind, like a snuff movie. He no longer wanted to picture Mullen’s bloated, pompous features either. He wanted to think about Grace. His thumb hovered over the buttons on his Blackberry, tempted as he was to send a message. He missed the way she slow-cooked lamb, and how she could tell when he was being sarcastic, but others couldn’t, when they were at a party. He missed watching movies - Wall-E and Onegin - with Grace. He missed signing off each text with her with xx. When he was posted in Helmand, Marshal had occasionally dreamed about having someone to come home to. The dream had come true. But it might soon fade. Die. Marshal realised that if he could not marry Grace, he would not marry anyone.

  Marshal cradled a whisky tumbler one hand and his Glock in the other. Hank Williams and the sound of a pedal steel guitar played in the background. Melancholy infused the air like cigarette smoke. The gun felt as heavy as his heart. The loaded gun. Marshal idly wondered how many cells in his body would be willing to turn the weapon on himself. Not enough would be one answer. But more than zero would be another. He glanced at the copy of the Graham Greene biography on his coffee table and re-read a passage in the book:

  “I put the muzzle of the revolver into my right ear and pulled the trigger. There was a minute click, and looking down at the chamber I could see that the charge had moved into the firing position. I was out by one… My heart knocked in its cage, and life contained an infinite number of possibilities. It was like a young man’s first successful experience of sex.”

  Marshal wryly smiled, thinking that it would be somewhat difficult to play Russian Roulette with a Glock. He pictured the revolver, contained in Foster’s holdall. He wondered if the bag contained any ammunition for the weapon. Playing Russian Roulette would be one of the only sources of an adrenaline rush, to rival the soldier’s time in Helmand. Would he ever be courageous, depressed or foolish enough to place a bullet in the gun, spin the wheel, and pull the trigger? Suicide was an answer. But Marshal did not want to ask the question. He needed to stay alive long enough to do his duty by Foster. He needed to use the bullets with Mullen’s and Duggan’s names on them before he could consider firing upon himself.

  It was time to make the call.

  Marshal sat on a wooden bench in a quiet corner of Geraldine Mary Harmsworth Park, or Bedlam Park as it was often called, named after the site of the famous, or infamous, mental hospital once situated there. He pulled out a burner phone - along with a gizmo which Mariner sent to disguise his voice - and dialled the number he had pulled from Nolan’s device.

  Mullen sat behind the desk, too enervated even to drink. His daughter had just sent him a message, asking him to stop contacting her. He could not be sure if she was distancing herself from him for political or personal reasons. Mullen yearned for another Roy Greenslade, someone who could tell his side of the story. He needed a journalist who was as scrupulous, or rather unscrupulous, as a politician.

  The phone which he used for his less official business, vibrated. The number was unrecognised, and the politician declined to answer.

  Marshal was unsurprised and undeterred that he could not get through immediately. He sent a text message, however, to attract Mullen’s attention:

  I have information about Fergal Nolan and the contents of his phone.

  The Irishman’s tired eyes widened. His fleshy features even seemed to firm up a little, in anxiety or malice, as he read the message. Such was the dramatic change in his expression that Duggan stopped swiping right on the dating app, devoted to teenagers, that he was viewing.

  A minute passed, during which Mullen showed the message to his lieutenant, before Marshal’s burner phone rang.

  “Who’s this?” the statesman uttered, unable to suppress his contempt. His voice gruff and guttural.

  Marshal kept his emotions in check, like taming the report of a gun, hearing the voice of the man responsible for his friend’s murder. The man who he would kill.

  “You do not need to know my name. You need to know that I have it in my purview to be your best friend or worst enemy. We are both aware that, as a politician, you like to talk. But you must now listen. I do not want you to take what I have to say personally. What I will be proposing is a business transaction. I have something in my possession that I would like to sell - and you would like to purchase. You will be tempted to ask a number of questions, which I can largely pre-empt and answer now. You would like to know how I acquired my information. Let’s just say that you may have been right - and the intelligence services can be as corrupt as those they surveil. A member of one of the organisations, tasked with investigating you, alerted me to your various misdemeanours. He also flagged-up Fergal Nolan as being a potential weak link in your network. I can tell you that, in perhaps more ways than one, Nolan spilled his guts. He may have happily pocketed his thirty pieces of silver, by way of the pension plan that your company fails to pay. Or you may wish to conclude that Nolan is dead – and all that’s left of him is a ring of scum, from him having taken an acid bath. But the fate of your former employee should be of little concern. It’s in the past. What should concern you now is your future.”

  Mullen’s rubbery lips were twisted, as if he might snarl at any moment. Yet his jaw was clamped shut. His face grew as red and hot as chipotle chilli as he listened to the arrogant, self-satisfied, distorted voice on the phone. Mullen attempted to interject, but the blackmailer calmly warned him not to interrupt. Duggan was equally affronted by the figure on the other end of the phone, but focused on scribbling down some notes on who their suspect might be.

  Professional blackmailer/criminal… Links to intelligence services… Current MI5 or Met Police operative?... Fergal likely dead.

  Marshal would have been satisfied to read Duggan’s notes. The fox was throwing the hound off the scent.

  “Another question you may have, is what am I doing this for? The dull but honest answer is money. For all the talk of social justice and need for climate change, money still makes the world go around. I do not hold any personal enmity against you. What I am proposing is a simple trade. You must remove emotion from any decision, as I have. I trust that I have gained your attention by selling certain titbits of information to the press. That was but an appetiser. The main course would be passing on the red meat of a video I have in my possession. I could have given the video to the media or your enemies if my intention was just to hurt you. But where would the profit be in that? My price, to hand over the phone and vanish, is simple and non-negotiable. Three hundred thousand pounds. To be paid tomorrow, at two o’clock. I will collect the money, which should be placed in a briefcase, from the reception of your offices. If you leave the case under the name of Dominic Usher. It will amuse me no end if you would like to google that name, in order to uncover my identity. My associate will put the phone in a padded envelope and hand it to the receptionist, to pass on to you. I imagine that you will be tempted to now threaten me - or refuse to pay. But I can assure you that everyone pays, in one way or another. I have sufficient information about your financials to suggest that the sum I require will not ruin you. It would be counter-productive to ask for an amount that you would be unable or unwilling to pay. I am a businessman, and a businessman must employ utmost good faith. I am an honest blackmailer - if that is not a contradiction in terms - far more honest than any of your colleagues in parliament. Once you make the payment, I will disappear into the ether. That will conclude our business. Please do not insult my – and your - intelligence - and argue that you will not be able to raise the requisite funds in time. For the fee of three hundred thousand pounds, I am lettin
g you get away with murder. I am confident that you will accept the settlement, rather than face the consequences. Quite rightly, you would not believe me if I said that I will destroy all copies of the videos. But I will be retaining a copy for reasons of insurance, not to blackmail you a second time. I have no desire to tarnish my reputation and break my word.”

  Mullen seethed. Air whistled through his nasal hair. The statesman was a man accustomed to dictating instructions, not being dictated to.

  “Even if you find the smallest, darkest hole to hide in, I will hunt you down for the dog that you are, should you attempt to double-cross me. You say you know me, but if you really knew me - and what I am capable of - you would not have targeted me. If I choose to, I could end you,” the former Brigade Commander asserted, puffing out his chest, as if the blackmailer were present and ripe for intimidation.

  “I suggest you concentrate on paying rather than threatening me. It is only natural for you to consider that I will use my leverage once more - and come back to extort money out of you once more, as you repeatedly extorted money out of people in Belfast during your previous career. But I never feed on a carcass more than once. If you endeavour to try and track me down, however, I will take great pleasure in chewing you up and spitting you out. Finding me will not be the end to your troubles, but the beginning of them,” Marshal warned, his tone as polished and hard as steel.

  His foot tapped nervously away on the bench. He felt like a bowstring, being drawn back too much, waiting to snap. Marshal wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the act of playing the confident blackmailer. He gazed at the Imperial War Museum, which sat at the other end of the park. His grandfather had originally brought him to the museum when he was six. Marshal also remembered how he had taken Grace there on a date, some time ago. He had opened up to her, more than any of his other girlfriends, about his time as a soldier during the afternoon.

  “I feel like I put the person I was in Helmand into a box - and put it in a corner of the attic - like packing away a toy soldier. I might sometimes want to unpack him, as though he needs to see the light of day once in a while. But not when I am with you… I much prefer mobilising the English language and unsheathing a quip rather than firing any weapon nowadays.”

  She had bought him a framed print of the iconic photograph - of Churchill holding a Tommy Gun - in the giftshop. The picture was still hanging on his bedroom wall. Marshal now felt a desperate desire to see Grace, to smell her perfume. He wanted to see her and hear her laugh more than capture Mullen in his crosshairs. He could no longer picture the engagement ring he had picked out.

  Marshal reiterated the payment details and arrangements to conclude their transaction, before hanging up.

  The die was cast.

  18.

  The neck of the whiskey bottle clinked against the rim of the glass as his hand trembled, in rage or anxiety, whilst pouring a drink. Mullen left the top off, both because he thought he might find it difficult to replace, and he would need to pour another measure soon. He puffed his cheeks out and exhaled. The former terrorist was resigned to paying, which was not to say he was happy about it. The blackmailer had already arguably ruined his career and marriage. Perhaps he should thank his tormentor for the latter. Mullen had twisted his wedding ring from his finger. His liver-spotted hand appeared better for it, he thought. He remembered how a few women had spurned his advances in the past, having seen the gold band. Or they were frigid, he judged. Mullen briefly wondered what Josephine would think, in relation to his prospective divorce. He also wondered if he would see her again.

  Mullen instructed Caitlin to purchase a large briefcase, immediately. He made a call to his accountant and bank and moved some money around – money which he had intended to conceal from his disloyal spouse. Perhaps paying the blackmailer would start less than paying his wife. It stuck in Mullen’s craw, to be pressured into paying. The former extortioner, during his days fund-raising for the cause, did not enjoy being extorted. Towards the end of their call the blackmailer had second-guessed his victim:

  “Do not attempt to track the suitcase. Do not attempt to follow my associate. Should you do so, this will break the terms of our arrangement - and you will cause the outcome which you are trying to prevent. You need to swallow any pride or resentment you might be feeling - and pay the money. And it will then all be over.”

  Mullen noticed a couple of flies swirl around a wastepaper bin in the corner. The hum of their wings was even more vexing than the incessant drone of the air conditioning. He felt like ordering his lieutenant to dispose of the insects, as a prelude to swatting away his enemy. Mullen was not willing to be resigned to defeat completely, though. It was the man who was making his life a misery who needed to pay a price. The ultimate price.

  “It’s not all over. Far from it. The bastard thinks that he’s thought of everything, but he’s overconfident - and he has underestimated us. As you say, for all his talk of associates he could just be a lone wolf. If we take away the man, we take away the problem. He can be the new Tom Byrne. Walk into this lion’s den and you’ll get mauled. I want you to go over any intelligence files you have of potential suspects again. Post yourself on the roof opposite. If you have a target and shot, take it.”

  Duggan nodded - and sniffed. He would clean his sniper rifle this evening. It had been a long time since he had fired the weapon. Too long.

  Hank Williams played in the background.

  “No matter how I struggle and strive,

  I’ll never get out of this world alive.”

  The breeze billowed out the curtain. He took another sip of whisky, savouring the elixir as if it might be his last measure. Marshal smiled to himself. He thought how he was more nervous about the prospect of calling Grace, than he had been about talking to Mullen. Also, unlike his call to Mullen, Marshal struggled to compose his lines beforehand or know which persona to adopt. Be yourself, he could have advised. But who was he? Soldier or civilian? Marrier or murderer? Someone who drunk too much, or not enough?

  But Marshal had to talk to her. Before it was too late.

  Grace could hear the nearby refrain of “stroke” coming from a procession of boats gliding down the nearby Thames. Gulls carped in the background too. She was home alone, again. Her fine eyes were a little puffy from crying, again. A half-empty, sweating bottle of Sancerre sat on the coffee table, just about within reach, as she lay on her leather sofa. Her head rested on a plump, plush cushion. Her knees were tucked-up, in the foetal position. The décor in the room - which looked out upon a neat, fragrant garden - was homely, elegant and expensive. Visitors gushed about her beautiful her home was. It was a dream house. But it increasingly left her cold. Rather than the walls closing in, she began to realise how large the house was, just for one person. Grace had finished furnishing all the rooms to her taste and satisfaction. But something was missing.

  She let the phone continue to ring, both glad and stressed to see the caller ID flash up. Grace was more than tempted to let things go to voicemail. Why shouldn’t she ignore him? Had he not ignored her? He had hurt her - and the former model had promised herself, on the flight from New York to London, that she would no longer put herself in a position to be hurt by a man again. For so long Marshal had not hurt her. Grace had to admit that he may not be the man she knew, or thought she knew. And their - or his - problem could not just be put down to the death of his friend. There was more to the story than that.

  “Hi,” Marshal said.

  Grace initially paused, as she sat up straight on the sofa. She briefly wondered whether his “Hi” had been apologetic, sad, conciliatory. His greeting hung in the air, like a piece of mouldy cheese, on the turn.

  Marshal stared at his Glock perching on a bookcase, by his collection of Loeb Classics. Plutarch, Cicero, Martial, Marcus Aurelius, Virgil and Horace sat next to one another, like a council of elders.

  Grace wanted to cry - but did not quite know why.

  “Hello,” she finally repli
ed. Her greeting was neutral, barely polite. But just about polite, like a housewife dealing with a tardy tradesman. She was relieved to hear his voice, though.

  “Sorry that I haven’t been in touch. Mea culpa. I could of course babble on like an idiot over the phone. But I’d prefer to babble on like an idiot in person. Can we meet?”

  Grace wanted to be terse and unforgiving, but she liked it when Marshal was self-effacing. The dry-humoured soldier was a breath of fresh air compared to other men she had known. The fashion designers, actors, and financiers. The egotists, narcissists, and sociopaths.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice as cold and hard as obsidian.

  Another strained pause ensued. Marshal was not quite sure if it was indeed Grace on the other end of the call for one, brief, moment. He felt an all too familiar loathing for himself, swelling like goitre - for his specific sins and the general sins of man. Man is born into sin, as the sparks fly upwards. What progress can the pilgrim truly make?

  “Would you be free to meet at Bobo at eleven tomorrow?”

  Grace was minded to decide the time and the place of their meeting. She was owed that, at the very least. But she would assent. She was free - and wanted to see him.

  Marshal was tempted to make a joke that he would have Chef serve him a slice of humble pie or make him eat crow - but desisted.

  A short pause.

  “I will be there. I have to go now. There is somebody at the door,” Grace said, lying. Perhaps she said it to make him jealous, or to convey that she had already moved on. Grace was determined not to show how hurt she was. She would only be willing to do so in order to hurt him in return. Marshal was right when he quoted Homer, Grace mused.