Home Front: A James Marshal Thriller Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  Men are wretched things.

  19.

  Even the moreish smell of cooked bacon was unable to prompt Marshal to order some food as he sat in Bobo. He was early - keen not to add the misdemeanour of tardiness to his already blotted copybook. His innards felt uncommonly unsettled. Marshal could not quite decide if the butterflies in his stomach were borne from the nerves of meeting Grace - or murdering Mullen. He frequently straightened the gleaming cutlery in front of him, despite the items being arrow straight already. His eyes flitted from left to right, keeping an eye out for Grace. He was dressed smartly, in a summer suit, and had even ironed a shirt. He appeared as jittery as a man who was about to propose. But he was not about to propose. Far from it.

  Grace approached, walking through the park. Did the sun come out even more? The skirt on her summer dress swayed, from the breeze or her brisk gait. She did not want to be impolite or late either. A ribbon of red lipstick made her already kissable lips glisten. She was Shania Twain, Dolly Parton and Julie Christie all rolled into one. Grace was beautiful. Marshal could have believed in Keats right now, that “beauty is truth, truth beauty.” And in Dostoyevsky - “Beauty will save the world.” The pedal steel guitar of his soul sang once more. Marshal temporarily forgot that he was intending to assassinate a man later in the day. His hand brushed against his cutlery, creating a lack of symmetry in front of him, but he didn’t care. Pati, no stranger to style herself, complimented Grace on her dress before showing her to the table. Her heels clicked against the waxed wooden floor, as rhythmic and seductive as a flamenco dancer.

  Marshal courteously stood up as Grace arrived. Perhaps courtesy, even more than beauty, could save the world.

  “Hi,” Grace said, somewhere in between warm and wistful.

  “Hi,” Marshal replied. He felt like half-smiling but forced a full smile. The usually articulate soldier did not quite know what to add. There was much he wanted to say. Too much. He had a novel’s worth of words stuck in his throat. Or several novels. A romance. A tragic romance. A Graham Greene “entertainment”. Marshal was unsure as to how the meeting would play out. More to the point, he was unsure how he wanted it to play out. He straightened his cutlery once more, albeit it was not as straight as before. He caught the scent of her perfume. His being shuddered - like the bus outside, stationary at the lights, juddered. If it shook any more, bits might fall off it.

  The couple, if they could still be called a couple, ordered some coffees. They spoke about the weather and general, strained pleasantries, while waiting for their drinks. Marshal stirred his coffee for an elongated time, before leaning forward and speaking in earnest. Part of him wanted to reach out and hold Grace’s hand. Part of him wanted Grace to reach out and hold his hand. Instead, he moved the pepper closer to the salt.

  “You know me better than most, for better or worse,” he remarked, with a furrowed brow, thinking how, from a certain point of view, she did not know him at all. “You know that something is wrong. But what’s wrong?”

  Nothing and everything, Marshal mused.

  Grace had come with the intention of punishing Marshal for his risible behaviour. The former officer had not been a gentleman. But a sense of pity, rather than punitiveness, flooded her heart as she gazed at him from across the table. As much as he had shaved and was well-attired, weariness dripped from his features like dirty sweat. His eyes bespoke of a lack of sleep and surfeit of alcohol. He had somehow fallen - and was still falling, she sensed.

  “You need to tell me, James. I think John’s death triggered something that was already inside of you. The things that we bury have a way of rising to the surface at some point.”

  Marshal briefly wondered how long it would take for the dumbbells, holding Fergal Nolan down, to rust sufficiently - allowing his corpse to float to the surface.

  “I know,” he mumbled by way of a reply, like a chastened child, as he stared into his treacle-black beverage.

  “You have grown so distant that I do not recognise you anymore. I was with you, but on my own, after John passed. You looked through me, rather than at me.”

  “I know. I’m still a little lost. I’m not sure if I know which are the right questions to ask, let alone what are the answers to such questions,” Marshal said, his brow furrowed even more. He was tempted to offer up a “truth,” that he had not wholly come back from the war, all those years ago. Jack was just one of many ghosts, he could have explained. He had seen too much death. His distance had come from him being damaged - and wanting to protect Grace. Yet the “truth” would have been, at best, a half-truth. He had not witnessed enough death. He wanted to take more lives. Marshal wanted revenge, not absolution. Should Grace know the whole truth about him, then she would not want to know it. If only men and women could be reconciled with lying to themselves and each other, then they might have a chance at living happily ever after, he wryly fancied. But perhaps they are reconciled to such rabid deception and self-delusion. It’s the human condition, to deceive.

  When Grace moved into his home, Marshal started to miss certain aspects of his old life. But when she moved out, he missed her. This meeting was partly about conveying to Grace that he loved her, more than he had loved any other woman. Even if he had to leave her, she should know that he loved her. Ardently and devoutly. It was also about closure - saying goodbye - lest he not survive the day. But at the same time did he not want to leave the door open, so he could walk back through it tomorrow? If there was a tomorrow…

  “Oliver said that I should be patient. But as much as I try to be a good Catholic, I do not have the patience of a saint,” Grace half-joked, without smiling. “I do not think there is, but if there is someone else, you must tell me.”

  It was Grace’s turn to dolefully stare into her coffee.

  “No one else would be foolish enough to have me. But there’s no one else,” Marshal replied, assuredly, rightly despising himself for having caused Grace to suffer such tortuous thoughts. There was someone else, though, he considered. The fashion model’s rival was a porcine, ignominious terrorist. Marshal noted that he owed Porter a debt of gratitude, for fighting his corner, but ultimately, he would need to fix things himself.

  Another pregnant pause. Marshal subtly checked his watch. Grace pretended not to notice that Marshal had checked his watch.

  The sound of a nearby diner breaking a glass shattered the shard of silence between them.

  Mike, the owner of Bobo, rolled his eyes - again. As his attention was drawn towards the sound, he noticed Marshal and Grace and headed over to say hello. Mike would be duly discreet about how many times Marshal had drunk at the bar in the past fortnight. Instead, he asked after Grace - and if her bookshop was still flourishing.

  “Things are going well, thankfully. We even had an author who came in to sign the other day who wasn’t conceited… Like you guys, we have some wonderful, loyal customers.”

  As she spoke the sun came out from behind a clump of clouds. The amber light swept through the window, like a peacock fanning out its tail, and bathed the side of her kind face in lambent gold. The light used to illuminate and soften her features in the morning. First thing on a Sunday they would often read in bed. He remembered reading Flashman and Tolstoy. Grace would read Austen or Flaubert. Somehow, they both knew when to stop reading and make love.

  Marshal noticed her hand splayed out on the table. Her bare hand. Her ringless finger both tempted and shamed him. In a different, better, world the light should be shining off a diamond engagement ring or wedding band.

  Mike was soon wanted elsewhere, and he left the couple to resume their conversation, or awkward silences.

  Marshal finished his coffee, craving a vodka. He remembered how as a raw recruit he would take part in the occasional poker night. He was nicknamed “Bluffer” because he seldom bluffed. The choices in the game resonated with him now. He could “fold” and end the relationship. He told himself that he would be protecting Grace, but there was an element of self-int
erest, or self-preservation, in the decision too. He could “raise” - go all in - and propose to Grace. Or Marshal could “call” - and allow Grace to determine how the game should play out. The sun retreated behind a dull cloud again. The Phil Collins setlist started, signalling an end to an eighties shuffle. Marshal took a sip of water to wet his dry throat. He felt his voice would break if he spoke - if indeed he could speak at all.

  “I only wanted you as someone to love

  But something happened on the way to heaven.”

  He gazed across the table at Grace, hoping to discern some tells. He found himself gripping his knife and fork, as if a meal were about to be served. What was the point of raising - going all in - if he did not know if he would be alive at the end of the day to spend his winnings? If he folded, he might never come back to the table again.

  Marry her, or do not marry at all.

  Light reflected off the film of sweat forming on his forehead. The cadence of his breathing altered. He felt like he was stuck, sinking, in glutinous mud. Perhaps it might be best if the world just swallowed him up. He was tempted to excuse himself and pretend he needed the toilet. For a moment, Marshal felt like breaking into a smile, or laughter. He had been in better possession of himself when he had gunned down Viktor Baruti and tortured and executed Nolan. His chest throbbed, as if his heart might turn into a Catherine wheel, which was just about to break free from the nail holding it in place. Raise or fold. Raise or fold. Raise or fold. There was another option, however, one that he regularly employed during smoke and booze filled nights playing poker, all those years ago. The sun came out from behind the clouds once more. Or seemed to. He could, would, “check” - and defer making any decision.

  “I know that I do not deserve it, Grace, but I would ask that you have faith in me for a little while longer,” Marshal said - pleaded.

  I might then have a little more faith in me.

  “This too shall pass,” he added. “I just feel like a man who is still trying to dig his way out of a hole. But have faith in me. Have faith that I’m sorry. Forgive me, as it will help me forgive myself. God knows that I can be a wretch sometimes, a pilgrim who has barely made any progress.”

  Grace had never known a man to talk like Marshal. Or be like Marshal. He was from a different, better, age. The Catholic would forgive the penitent. She loved him, more than he knew.

  Marshal had ticked the box to say sorry. But he felt too drained, or cowardly, to say goodbye. Grace would be too confused, ask too many questions, if he said goodbye. He willed his hand not to tremble as he took another sip of water. Oliver would explain certain things to Grace, should his mission fail, he judged. There would be more questions than answers, but that was only to be expected. Marshal hoped that grief would not put her in a hole that she could not dig her way out of. On more than one occasion, over the past day, he had imagined Grace standing beside his grave, crying. She looked good in black, of course.

  Oliver Porter sat in his study at the top of the house. Violet lay content on the deep pile patterned carpet, keeping one eye open, in the hope that her master might open the treat drawer in his rosewood desk. A framed print of Goya’s portrait of the Duke of Wellington hung on the wall above the desk. The Iron Duke. Porter removed a Romeo y Julieta from its case and ran the length of the cigar under his nose. An ornate, polished bronze and silver cigar cutter and a sleek, chrome cigar lighter sat beside his laptop. Porter never tired of the small ritual of lighting and smoking a cigar. He loved it, even more than his wife disapproved of the habit. Porter felt he had earned his reward. He had written a thousand words, or a thousand good enough words, of his historical novel during the morning. He thought that he might finish a first draft by the end of November. He imagined that he would feel a sense of satisfaction and trepidation once he finished. He would tentatively send the manuscript out to literary agents. He wondered what he could do to help fix himself a book deal. He would be willing to threaten or bribe an agent perhaps, but not become a celebrity or employ a ghost writer.

  Porter was about to cut the end of the cigar, savouring the moment, when his phone rang. The caller ID was an unknown number, but Marshal had warned him that he may call on a burner.

  “Hello,” Porter said, offering up a tone of six out of ten on his cordiality meter.

  “Today will be the day,” Marshal remarked, without ceremony. His voice was a harlequin pattern of confidence and diffidence. To have sounded any different would have been unnatural, Porter mused.

  “It doesn’t have to be, should you be having any doubts. You can still walk away, James. No one would know,” Porter said, in hope more than expectation.

  “I would know.”

  “It’s a gamble.”

  “One worth taking.”

  Porter worried that his friend may have been descending into zealotry. He was a strange fish, the fixer thought. Marshal looked equally at ease carrying a copy of Kierkegaard as he did carrying a gun. He remembered when he first met the PMC, looking for work.

  “You may have to work for some unpleasant people,” Porter warned.

  “I just like to call them people,” Marshal replied, darkly or jokingly.

  Porter had characterised Marshal as being indifferent, all those years ago. He seemed more zealous than indifferent now, to his detriment.

  Smoking the cigar did not seem as appealing now, as he stared at the Romeo y Julieta before him. Churchill had smoked the same brand. Porter took a deep breath, as if he were about to say something of import, but he merely emitted a sigh, as opposed to any sage words.

  “I just want to assure you, Oliver, that I have taken steps so that, if I am apprehended or worse, Mullen or the authorities will not be able to trace anything untoward back to you,” Marshal said, intending to dump the burner phone he was using on the way to the offices in Mornington Crescent. “I also have one last favour to ask. Should something go awry this afternoon, can you put the video in the right hands? It may be summer, but Martin Coulson would welcome it as an early Christmas present.”

  Porter sighed, or huffed, a little. More than he intended to do. Perhaps he was disapproving that Marshal was going ahead with things, or that the avenging angel was dragging him back to his former life. The fixer had retired. Retirement had been good for the soul. Unlike Marshal, Porter did not feel an itch, in his trigger finger or elsewhere, to fix things. Fixing something for one person usually meant breaking something else for someone else. Porter promised that he would pass the evidence on, though. Marshal would have the last laugh, even when he was dead. His revenge would outlive him.

  “I must ask a favour of you in return,” Porter asserted. “But I will tell you another time. You will need to be still with us, of course, to carry out any favour.”

  Marshal failed to mention his recent meeting with Grace during their conversation. He told himself that there was insufficient time to discuss the matter. But, in truth, Marshal did not want to be reminded of his callous behaviour. He knew how much he had sinned. He did not need Porter to point it out too.

  After he ended the call, Marshal changed into jeans, a non-descript (reversible) jacket and baseball cap. He was more than willing to appear anonymous looking at any time, but today, especially, he wanted to be forgettable. He closed his eyes and visualised the list that Mariner had sent him, where certain surveillance cameras were in place - and how to avoid them. The cap would duly shield his face too. The black sports bag was already packed, containing a Glock 21 - replete with suppressor - along with a few other items. There was already a round in the chamber. If all went well with the plan, he would only need one round.

  Man plans, God laughs.

  20.

  Marshal walked with an uncommon purpose. He was almost marching, like he was a soldier again. A black cab had dropped him off, half a mile from the offices in North London. Death and taxies. He had flagged the cab down, half a mile from his home. As much as Marshal was determined to murder Mullen, he was also infected by a
bout of fatalism. It cast a pall over his thoughts, like a veil falling over a widow’s face. He judged that he could well be heading towards his own demise - but he didn’t much care. It didn’t much matter. Marshal remembered how, before taking part in patrols in various hotspots in Helmand, he would recite a passage from Shakespeare in his mind. He did so again now.

  “Be absolute for death; for either death or life

  Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life, -

  If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

  That none but fools would keep.”

  Rather than descending into a debilitating bleakness, Marshal felt emancipated, edified. He felt a little light-headed, giddy, like an epileptic feels before a fit. The tweeters, Lycra-clad cyclists and Liberal Democrats failed to bother him, as he walked past them. They did not matter either. They would scatter in the wind, like everything else. Nothing mattered, except ending Mullen. The future would then take care of itself. If he died, he died. Everything is born to die. Marshal mused that he had been on the planet - a world which he was far from enamoured with - for long enough. Or too long. The dull ache in his stomach, which had gnawed away at him for as long as he could remember, subsided.

  Marshal could tell himself that Grace mattered. But it would be a lie, albeit a beautiful one. Like the idea of faith and God. But maybe they were lies worth telling. Otherwise, he would have been even less enamoured with the world. If only there was an English word for “ennui” he jokingly thought. Marshal realised that he needed to laugh more - at himself and others. Laughter, along with whisky, was the best medicine.