Darkness Visible Read online

  Tyerman paused to both retrieve a cigarette and scrutinize the soldier opposite him. He was interested to see how Devlin would react to his assertions. Would he disagree with his character assessment? But the officer had more chance of getting blood out of a stone. For the most part Tyerman’s words passed through him like a phantom. More than seeming defiant or introverted Devlin appeared indifferent, Tyerman later thought. But the meeting had not been a complete waste of time, the squaddie judged. Far from it. Because Devlin now knew the name of the man he had to kill, to keep his promise to Birch.

  2.

  Unfortunately, Rameen Jamal didn’t ever come into Michael Devlin’s sights again. And by the end of the year he finished his tour and left the army. He had given his all – but it wasn’t enough. Tyerman called him into his office again to persuade the soldier to change his mind. But he had more chance of changing the seasons. Devlin went back home to London. He drank and read heavily whilst scratching out a living. Soldiering had given him a sense of purpose and belonging. Or the illusion of such. But working as a glorified security guard for a merchant bank didn’t quite provide the same levels of engagement.

  Yet Devlin eventually found all the purpose and belonging he needed when he met Holly. She was something – someone – special. Good natured and good humoured. Her smile was never vapid, her promises never hollow. There are some women who can prove the existence of God to a man, just by the way they laugh or commit small acts of kindness. Devlin became more like the person he wanted to be when he was with Holly. Good natured and good humoured. He didn’t so much find himself, as she found him. Devlin became a husband and was eight months away from being a father. But instead Devlin became a widower, when Holly died from a hit-and-run accident. They never apprehended the driver and for a time the image of Rameen Jamal was replaced by the faceless figure of Holly’s killer. Happiness is a mayfly.

  The hard, cold soldier grew harder and colder. Grief ate away at him like a cancer, but one which the patient didn’t want to remove. He bought bottles of her perfume and sprayed them around the house – and re-sprayed the letters she had written to him when they first started dating. He listened to her favourite songs, as if she were still in the room and could enjoy them – like a ghost, haunting him. He re-played old messages she had left on his phone, just to hear her voice. The former paratrooper walked the streets, his head bowed down as if he were always going to or coming from a funeral. He talked to God, if only to curse him or deny his existence. Devlin was burdened with the knowledge that everyone in the world was a sinner. Including himself. The widower couldn’t decide, drunk or sober, whether he was too strong – or too weak – to commit suicide.

  He was saved, if saved can be deemed the appropriate term, by Oliver Porter. An ex-Guards officer, Porter worked as a fixer (or “facilitator”) for corporations, the security services and criminal underworld. Devlin was invited to become a contract killer – a gun for sale - and took to the profession like a duck to water. He was as reliable and methodical in his work as a surgeon. Clinical. The profession was well-paid and Devlin bought a luxury apartment close to Tower Bridge. He regularly visited his foster parents again and started to drink in a local pub, which furnished him with more than enough society for his needs.

  Devlin spent several years drinking, reading and killing. Until six months ago, when Devlin started dating Emma, a florist who lived in his building. He told Porter he was retiring. She made him want to return to the land of the living, turn the page. Their first date was in January and come February – on Valentine’s Day – Devlin asked Emma to move in with him. He did so by attaching a key to his apartment to Violet, her black and white mongrel dog.

  “I don’t want to waste any more time than I have to, waiting to be with you,” he lovingly declared, as Violet sat between the happy couple and licked them both affectionately, approving of the union. Later that evening Devlin remembered how he once considered, after Holly died, that the remainder of his life couldn’t help but be a waste of time. He would be fated to spend his life just loitering on the planet, until he died. Until he saw Holly again.

  Devlin considered that he would ask Emma to marry him, before the start of the summer. Then, at the beginning of June, he planned to ask her by the end of the summer. On more than one occasion he walked into jewellers and enquired about certain engagement rings he thought she might like. And he even paid a deposit on one, with a band subtly designed in the shape of a rose – her favourite flower. But every rose has its thorn. Devlin’s doubts ran deep, like a bottomless well. He felt like he was still married to Holly - like a devout catholic unable to countenance divorce. He thought about Holly every day and wished he could be with her, in this world or the next. In some ways, he was having an illicit affair with his dead wife, as Devlin found himself lying to Emma about the amount of times he was visiting Holly’s grave. There would be three of them in any marriage. Every day he felt like he was being unfaithful to at least one of them.

  *

  The dead of night. Devlin stood in his living room and stared at the message on his phone. He didn’t recognise the number. But he knew who the text was from.

  He’s in the country. We need to meet .

  The evening was balmy and starless. Clouds mottled the sky, like a bruise. Devlin had been careful not to wake Emma. She slept so peacefully, thoughtfully, as if she were praying. Violet yawned and padded her way across the wooden floor. She sat at his feet, her ears pricked to attention, cocking her head slightly. She raised her paw to his shin a couple of times, either to snap her gloomy looking master out of his reverie or, more likely, to prompt him to give her a biscuit from out of the cupboard which she often wistfully glanced up at.

  Devlin could ignore the message or refuse to meet. Refuse to do what Birch would ask him to do. Beg him to do. Devlin had made a new life for himself.

  But we are where we are.

  The professional killer couldn’t escape his past. Or he didn’t want to.

  3.

  Just one more. That was all he needed. Devlin was tempted to pop into a newsagent to buy a pack of cigarettes. He nostalgically remembered how, when he first started to smoke as a teenager, shops would sell cigarettes individually. Especially to children. Devlin had quit smoking earlier on in the year, at the same time as Emma moved in with him. She didn’t ask him to stop. He just did, out of consideration for her. He also wanted to prove something to himself, as well as to Emma.

  But he still missed the acrid, fragrant, moreish taste in his mouth. He missed the sensation of the cellophane being peeled off a fresh packet and the comfortable feeling of a cigarette resting between his fingers. He missed the sight of a silken tendril of smoke streaming up from an ashtray. Writhing. Dancing. Devlin kept his word however and hadn’t touched a cigarette since the morning Emma had moved in.

  He made his way south, along Tower Bridge Road. A cool breeze tempered the heat of the midday June sun. He was due to meet Birch at the Huntsman & Hounds pub, just off East Street. Devlin was wearing jeans, a loose fitting purple t-shirt and white Reeboks. He blended in and looked anonymous.

  He arrived at the pub early. He wanted to have a drink first and collect his final thoughts before Birch arrived. Devlin’s nearest local was The Admiral Nelson but he felt it was too close to home, to discuss what they needed to discuss. He often drank in the Huntsman when he wanted a quiet drink, without fear of Emma walking in on him. Michael Robertson, the landlord of the Nelson, had also treated him differently (with either a wariness or awe), after Devlin violently ejected a few drunken city traders from the pub six months ago.

  The Huntsman had recently re-opened and been refurbished. The owners had sensibly retained the smoked glass windows and the old wooden bar, gleaming with varnish and a thousand spilled drinks which had seeped into the grain over the years. Sepia-tinged photographs of Walworth Road and East Street Market, populated by flat-cap wearing costermongers, decorated the walls. The old brickwork and some of t
he original fittings remained exposed and gave the venue character. A mahogany bookcase sat in one corner. Patrons would leave and take books. When Devlin was last there, the previous week, he dropped off a copy of Conrad’s Lord Jim and picked up Call for the Dead, by John le Carre. A worn, toffee brown sofa sat in the opposite corner, somewhat out of place. The rumour was that the owner had picked it up second-hand from a seedy strip club in Shoreditch. A couple of the regulars were tempted to run a black light over it, to confirm their suspicions. But they then thought better of it. Ignorance was bliss, they concluded. Thankfully the pub was devoid of televisions and overly intrusive music.

  Devlin nodded to Terry Gilby, the amiable landlord of the pub. Terry replied with a smile and, most importantly, a pint. Far more than a local politician, priest or social worker, Terry listened with patience and sympathy to his customers’ problems. And far more than any politician, priest or social worker, Terry was also able to fix their problems, albeit temporarily, with a drink.

  Devlin greeted a couple of regulars, who he knew from previous visits to the pub, and bought a round.

  “I’m just due to have a meeting but I’ll join you for a couple later,” Devlin said, downing half his refreshing pint in a few gulps. The beer temporarily quenched his desire for a cigarette.

  I’ll need a real drink by then. To forget about myself. And what I’ll have to do.

  Birch entered. Devlin offered up a smile for his friend, hoping that it was imbued with pleasure at seeing him rather than pity. Birch gruffly exclaimed that he could manage, as he awkwardly manoeuvred his wheelchair up the step and through the door of the pub. Devlin surveyed his friend. His face was gaunt, his cheeks hollowed out like a couple of old stone castle embrasures. When, or if, Birch grinned now his expression would no longer possess a cherubic quality. The sanguine had become the choleric. The stumps of his legs, as well as his torso, were withered. His skin was no longer tanned, but rather tinged with jaundice. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. Birch wore a stained polo shirt and black tracksuit bottoms, pock-marked with various cigarette burns. Faded tattoos – of Gillingham FC’s club badge and 3 Para’s insignia – brandished his hairy forearms.

  Devlin insisted on getting his friend a drink – a pint of bitter with a large whisky chaser – and the two men found a table in the corner. As they positioned themselves however a couple of other people entered the pub and sat on an adjacent table, limiting the scope of what they could discuss.

  “Have you seen anyone from the regiment recently?” Devlin asked, hoping that Birch still had a network of companionship and support. It would help expunge the guilt he felt at having not kept in touch with his friend.

  Birch shrugged his sloping shoulders in reply. Devlin remembered how his shoulders used to once stand to attention at right angles. His bull-neck had turned into turkey wattle.

  “I went to some benefit thing about a month back,” Birch remarked, his voice rough with cigarettes and bitterness. “At least the drink was free. Hyde was there. He’s got a job with some big American company. He’s put on plenty of weight. Perhaps it’s to help him fit in better over there. I also bumped into Cheeseman. He’s just got married. She’s young enough to be his daughter, the lucky bastard. I met her. Blonde, as you’d expect. Her two best assets are there for the world to see – and I’m not talking about her brains or personality. She’ll doubtless cheat on him at some point – but not before he cheats on her… Tyerman was there too. He asked after you, said that he’d hoped you’d be at the party. He wants you to get in touch with him. I think he wants to offer you a job. All he could offer me was the number of some counsellor. But all they do is ask questions. None of them have any answers to anything. God knows how many of them have asked me about my childhood. I tell them that my mother and father didn’t shoot me in the legs and ruin my fucking life. For the money the government pays these quacks for each session they may as well buy me a bottle of Talisker. I’d feel better then,” the ex-soldier remarked, half-joking, before downing the dregs of his whisky. He refrained from telling his friend that Tyerman smoothed things over later at the party, when Birch drunkenly groped a waitress and the manager of the venue wanted to throw him out.

  Although Devlin frequently sent cheques to various charities associated with the regiment he had long given up attending the gatherings and events they arranged. He wanted to put the war and his life as a soldier behind him. Afghanistan had been a fool’s errand in many ways. The army baulked at calling it a defeat. But the British and Americans had poked a hornet’s nest – and got stung. The once Great Game, in the nineteenth century, turned into a campaign of Whac-A-Mole. The army would seemingly knock-down the Taliban in one location, only for it to pop up in another position a week later. The allies also had one hand tied behind their backs in the form of nervous, stingy and incompetent administrations who refused to let the likes of Tyerman and General Petraeus take the fight to the enemy. Many of the schools that the army had helped to set up and provide security for were now being disbanded. Half the Afghan army resembled the Keystone Cops, whilst the remainder would switch their allegiance to the enemy as quickly as night turns into day, or as soon as the bribe went into a pocket. For both the Taliban – and poppy growers – it was business as usual. They had won the war.

  Birch began to drum his nicotine-stained fingers on the table, as he impatiently waited for the couple in earshot to finish their drinks and leave. Although their backs were turned to him he still gave them looks like daggers when they laughed, or when they debated getting another drink in. He puffed out his cheeks in relief when they declined to do so however. As soon as the pair were heading towards the door Birch leaned towards Devlin, his eyes as wide as a zealot, and urgently spoke:

  “I’ve found the bastard. He’s here in London - staying at The Ritz. I’ve got his name on Google Alert and something popped up last week. Apparently, he’s part of an Afghan trade delegation.”

  Devlin calmly nodded his head in reply, whilst twisting his wedding ring around his finger. Emma said she was fine with him still wearing the gold band Holly gave him. She could be so understanding and lovely at times that it hurt. Through a gap in the smoked glass he saw a shabbily dressed man limping across the street, his jaw and eye heavily bruised. Yet Devlin strangely envied the forlorn figure. As he was smoking.

  “I know. I went online and did some research, after I received your message. He will be well guarded. The hotel will be filled, wall-to-wall, with cameras. It’s doubtful we’ll be able to get our hands on his schedule to select an optimum venue and time. Usually a job like this needs weeks of planning,” Devlin said, doubt and caution seasoning his tone, as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He wryly smiled to himself, on the inside, as in the past Oliver Porter used to send him texts this time of day, proposing that they meet to talk about a job. Yet the text on Devlin’s phone now was merely a message, informing him that his new flat-pack bookcases were due to be delivered to his apartment tomorrow morning.

  “Are you trying to back out or to talk yourself out of it? Because you won’t be able to change my mind. I’ve waited years for this. I’ve thought about killing the bastard since that first night in the hospital, when the fucker took my legs and life away. When you made your promise. When you gave your word of honour.” Spittle came out of his mouth and flecked the table.

  Devlin furrowed his brow, either reliving the sorrow of the attack in the village or regretting the vow he made. A man can’t outrun his shadow, or escape his past.

  “I’ll keep my word,” he replied, either defiantly or defensively.

  “This is not all about me. This is also about getting justice for Christopher. The only way we can. You know I’d do it myself, if I could. If I wasn’t in this,” Birch asserted, his face contorted in frustration and enmity, as he banged the sides of his wheelchair. Terry – and the regulars – briefly turned around but then buried their heads back into their pints. Devlin had also positioned himself so that
he blocked any view of the raw rage and resentment smouldering in Birch’s features.