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  “Who the fuck are you?” Bisha said, or snarled, baring his sharp yellow teeth. His Balkan accent grew more pronounced, as his irritation increased. His native tongue was lodged in his throat, as firmly as an arrow had pierced Harold Godwinson’s eye. You can take the boy out of Albania, but you cannot take Albania out of the boy. Although Marshal judged that was slightly unfair. He had known more than one decent Albanian who had settled in England and flourished. Darden, the owner of a café near his grandfather’s house in Eltham. He was a sweet, hardworking man, devoted to his family. And then there was Mira, a half-Albanian insurance broker he had dated many moons ago. She could be vocal in and out bed. If only, like his remote control, Mira had come with a mute button.

  “I would say that I am a concerned citizen, but I’m much more of a staunch royalist – and therefore a subject instead of a citizen. Too few people nowadays seem to have any genuine devotion to our Queen and country, unfortunately,” the former officer stated, his tone still equitable. He still held out a slither of hope that the Albanians would drive off. That trouble could be avoided. Yet man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward.

  Bashkim muttered something to his confederate in what Marshal imagined to be Albanian. If he had said something in Latin or Medieval French then Marshal might have recognised the words, from his time at Oxford. Bisha nodded in reply and took another drag on his cigarette. Marshal noticed his nicotine-stained fingers and a small swastika tattoo behind his ear. Both subtle and unsubtle.

  “You reckon yourself to be some sort of good Samaritan? I can tell you, God will not protect you should we have to get out of this car and teach you some manners.”

  “Good Samaritan? No. I’m Old Testament rather than New, if anything. I certainly believe God should be more vengeful than merciful.”

  Enough was enough, for Bisha. He was proving a nuisance. The drug dealer also didn’t want the stranger to scare off any genuine customers. He just needed to tell Bashkim to get out of the car. The arrogant Englishman’s balls would retreat up inside him and he would scurry away. As an initial act of intimidation and spite, however, Bisha flicked his cigarette at the irritant.

  Before the butt had time to bounce off his chest and hit the ground Marshal reached out and grabbed the small Albanian. Shock and awe. He pulled Bisha through the car window, in a matter of seconds, and then threw him onto the road, as if he were a ragdoll. Bisha first yelped and then groaned, winded. Once they’re down, make sure they stay down. Marshal knew he needed to take the first man out of the fight, before the second one entered the fray. He quickly stamped on Bisha’s groin and then stamped on his head, twice, knocking the Albanian unconscious.

  Bashkim let out a curse, retrieved a knife from the glovebox and scrambled out of the car. As well as acting as an enforcer, his principal duty was to protect his comrade.

  “You need to look after Bisha, even more than you need to look after yourself,” Baruti had drummed into him, like needles repeatedly jabbing his skin to produce a tattoo. “Why?”

  “Because he carries the money,” Bashkim had repeatedly, dutifully, answered.

  In letting Bisha come to harm he had tarnished his honour, trust. Besa. He would redeem himself by punishing the Englishman. He would not kill him, as Baruti needed to sanction such an action. Murder attracted too much attention and was potentially bad for business. But he would make him bleed. Hurt him. Perhaps he would slice open a hamstring or cut off an ear.

  Bashkim walked, or waddled, around the front of the car like a sumo wrestler. He was 6'3". As powerful – and lumbering – as an ox. His chest jutted out like the prow of a tugboat. The meat cleaver was spotted with bloodstains. Marshal retreated a little. The hulking Albanian grinned at his prey, his gold teeth shining like the oversized, vulgar chain around his thick, shock-absorbing neck. He felt like a wolf, who had cornered a sheep. Bashkim wondered if the stranger was part of a rival gang. If so though, which one? Surely the West Indians wouldn’t employ a white man? Although, because it was so unexpected, perhaps they were responsible for the attack.

  Marshal retreated even more, walking backwards towards the other side of the street. His features grew taut, like a finger tightening around the trigger of a gun. The Albanian was tough. But not tough, or smart, enough. Marshal reached the kerb and picked up the half-brick he had spotted earlier, as he approached the car. He needed to make his throw count. If he aimed too low the missile might glance off his opponent, like a tin can pinging off a wall. If he aimed too high the Albanian might be able to duck and avoid the blow.

  A grimace replaced the grin on Bashkim’s face. The red brick loomed large in the Englishman’s hands. He was ready and willing to use it. The Albanian hesitated, caught between charging at his opponent or retreating. Marshal hesitated not. The former Harrovian wicket keeper launched the brick, with speed and accuracy, as if it were a cricket ball. It struck his enemy on the chin. A blurriness, rather than blackness, afflicted the enforcer’s sight. He swayed, like a drunk in a dockside pub. Blood dribbled down his chin, like spittle from a baby’s mouth. Bashkim was momentarily disorientated. But a moment was all Marshal needed. He ran forward and buried his foot into the big man’s groin, as if he were kicking to convert a try. The excruciating pain shot through him like a lightning bolt, sprouting up from the road. He slumped to the ground, the cleaver falling from out of his hand, further disorientated. Defeated. Once they’re down, make sure they stay down. Marshal – his face a paradigm of impassiveness – crunched his heel down on his fingers, as if squashing a cockroach. Blood seeped from his already scarred knuckles. A couple of the bones cracked. In order to immobilise his opponent – and ensure he wasn’t followed – Marshal jumped-up and thrust his foot down at the same time in order to shatter the Albanian’s ankle. The enforcer seethed rather than howled in agony. His entire body seemed to throb with pain. He didn’t quite know which part of him hurt the most. The ex-boxer was down for the count.

  Bashkim muttered another curse, or perhaps he asked who the stranger was, but the Englishman was already out of earshot. He walked over to the still unconscious Bisha, reached into his pockets and stole his wallet and phone. Marshal sensed this might be the start, as opposed to end, of something.

  Know your enemy.

  3.

  The night was a giant mouth, attempting to swallow up all the people. The gadflies. The lights – from the cars, buildings and streetlamps – were the monster’s teeth. The jaws never quite clamped down on all the vapid lovers and imbeciles, shouting into their phones, who populated the scene, Marshal considered. People piled onto buses, without letting the passengers off first, like a clamour to get through the gates of heaven or hell. One youth elbowed an elderly lady in the face. The sickly smell of weed hung in the air, like a faded gravy stain stuck on a lapel. Every other person jabbed their fingers against their phones, sending off vacuous or vicious tweets. London resembled a cesspool, rather than Plato’s Republic, Marshal judged, recalling Cicero’s quote about Rome.

  Marshal still felt a tingle in his foot from where it had inflicted so much damage. He was keen for his foot to also connect with the next cyclist who ran a red light. His fists almost felt jealous or deficient, from not being able to pull their weight. By the time he reached the end of Walworth Road, Marshal’s heartbeat had returned to its normal, nonchalant cadence. He was uninjured, unlike his opponents. It had been a good fight. They had started the contest, from a certain point of view. He had ended it. They could now retreat and lick their wounds. God knows what will happen next. The battle was over, but that did not mean that the war was. Any victory is only temporary, albeit defeats always feel more permanent. It couldn’t do any harm to gather more intelligence on his enemy. He was reminded of a phrase his mother used to say to him: “It doesn’t do any harm to pray”. But Marshal wanted to shunt the gargoyle images of the Albanians from his mind’s eye.

  It was only polite that he turned his attention towards Alison. They had met around
a fortnight ago, at a bar in Blackfriars. She was having a drink with some friends, after work. Marshal was sat reading in the corner, keeping himself to himself. She approached and asked if she could take the empty chair by his table. She then enquired as to what he was reading. She was curious, for professional reasons – as she worked as a commissioning editor for a mainstream publisher. They started talking and Marshal bought Alison a drink, and another one. He liked her. She wasn’t taken back, too much, by his black and dry humour. She could carry off a cocktail dress and walk effortlessly in heels, after a bottle of wine. They exchanged numbers. An unremarkable first date nevertheless turned into a second. Sex at the end of the second date put a favourable gloss on the evening. Lust has the ability to paper over the cracks when there’s a lack of true affection. But the more Marshal got to know Alison, the less he liked her. He initially thought Alison would be well-read, and they could talk about literature and history. But the only classics she had read were those on her academic course list. She also preferred to listen to podcasts nowadays, as opposed to reading for pleasure. The fiction editor hadn’t even heard of Turgenev, let alone read one of his novels. Marshal thought to himself how he could never marry anyone who hadn’t read the Russian. The daughter of a Guardian journalist was rude to waiters – and ruder still to pretty waitresses. She took pictures of her meals and posted them on Instagram. She also spent ten minutes bemoaning Brexit because she might have to replace her Polish cleaner and pay more as a result. He couldn’t quite work out Alison’s chief sin. Was it that she was unintelligent or tedious?

  Small things add up.

  Modern women are second only to modern men for being shallow and self-serving, Marshal lamented. In a spirit of equality – and he was unsure whether this made him a feminist or not – he considered that women were just as susceptible to conceit and cruelty as men. Women were perhaps guiltier of the curse of the age: virtue-signalling. Although some feminists might have argued that the curse of the age was climate change, or cultural appropriation, or patriarchal society. Or actors being paid more than actresses. Or a lack of safe-spaces in universities.

  Marshal’s thoughts wandered on to previous women he had hurt, rather than been hurt by. He was more sinning than sinned against, he realised. They paraded through his mind like a procession of the dead.

  Tanya. He had dated her just after he became an officer. She was sweet, fun. His father, Donald, didn’t approve that she was a hairdresser and the daughter of a lowly window cleaner. Marshal didn’t approve, however, when he found out Tanya had stopped taking the pill. She wanted to trap him, be a soldier’s wife. He didn’t desire to be a husband or a father. Especially the latter. Who would want to bring a child into such a dire world? A world where Bono existed. “I want you to make an honest woman of me,” Tanya had argued. Marshal countered that she would be unable to make an honest man of him, if such a thing existed – and confessed how he had cheated on her with one of her closest friends.

  Petra. Cambridge graduate. Law conversion. Petra lived in Wandsworth, but constantly spoke about her dream to live in Richmond. She had partly dated the soldier because she knew her father, a fundraiser for the Green Party, would disapprove. For some reason, the spark went out of their relationship when he found out she was an evangelical atheist and member of the National Secular Society. Not that Marshal was a devout Christian. Or devout anything. But when she declared that Catholicism was evil, he could never envision marrying her. Or loving her.

  Rebecca. A Home Office civil servant. Devoted to her job. She seemed to love the Conservative government more than him. Although Marshal was capable of a healthy amount of self-loathing, he rightly didn’t consider himself more loathsome than a number of Tory politicians. She was clinical in her love-making, as if it were a box-ticking exercise on an official government document. Her cut-glass vowels suddenly became too shrill for him one day. He would wince, as if he could hear the sound of fingernails scraping down a blackboard, every time Rebecca opened her mouth. Marshal also distrusted anyone who was more overtly right-wing than he was.

  Caroline. An airhostess. Due to her work, they barely saw one another, which was probably the reason why their relationship lasted for so long. The sex was great, but conversation stilted. She talked and he half-listened. They eventually asked themselves what they had in common, aside from agreeing on how good the sex was. The answer was nothing. Nothing can come of nothing.

  A handful of the women in Marshal’s life had remarked that they loved him, over the years. Most had uttered the words after sex – or after drinking several glasses of wine. Some had done so because they judged he wanted to hear it, or they wanted to hear him say it back. But Marshal could never bring himself to reciprocate. To lie. He hoped that his silence said enough.

  Mayflies have longer and more meaningful relationships, Marshal wryly thought as he arrived at Waterloo. He saw that Chekhov’s Ivanov was playing at the Old Vic theatre and made a mental note to book tickets and take someone. It just wouldn’t be Alison.

  The restaurant was situated beneath some railway arches. Perhaps someone thought that the neon glass and aluminium décor would fit well with the old brick walls and brass fittings. They were wrong. The lighting was too harsh, the volume of the Euro-trash music even harsher. The cuisine was French-British. It seemed to Marshal to just be an excuse to douse every dish in butter and jus, served with a portion of triple-cooked chips. He would have preferred to have his chips cooked once and to pay a third of the price for them.

  Marshal saw Alison sitting in the far corner. She was on her phone, doubtless chatting to people on her WhatsApp group. He apologised for being a little late, feeling genuinely guilty for his tardiness. Alison was wearing a red, wraparound sleeveless dress, which showed off both her figure and holiday tan. A recently trimmed bob framed a soft, round, pretty face. Her jade eyes widened and gleamed, competing with the candlelight on the table, when she saw Marshal. She smiled, effusively, like a bride. Alison had just sent a text message to a friend to say that the wealthy, ex-officer could be “the one”. As much courage as he displayed confronting the Albanians, Marshal realised he did not have it in him to break-up with the woman over dinner. He would do so afterwards, in a more cowardly fashion. He didn’t want a scene – or to see her hurt.

  “How was your day?” he asked, once he had settled down and ordered a bottle of wine. He only drank wine by the bottle, as opposed to the glass.

  Alison rolled her eyes, sighed and vented. Marshal noted how she failed to thank the waitress for pouring out her glass of wine.

  “It was a pain! We had an acquisitions meeting, with the sales team. God, they’re as moronic as anyone who voted for Brexit. They turned down the book I have been working on for the past two months. The agent and I sweated blood and tears getting the novel into shape. They said the author, who has been on the panel of Loose Women for Christ’s sake, didn’t have a sufficient amount of Twitter followers. She isn’t marketable, which is code for saying she is too old.”

  Marshal made a face to express sympathy. He didn’t really understand Twitter and couldn’t care less if a minor, or major, celebrity had written a book.

  “How was your day?” Alison finally asked, after telling him about the new Mulberry handbag and Michael Kors watch she had bought, to cheer herself up.

  “As dull as dishwater, I’m afraid. You’re comfortably the highlight of my evening,” he replied, charmingly.

  “How’s your food?” Alison asked, hoping that Marshal was enjoying his meal, as she had read a review on a food blog and picked the eatery.

  “Delicious,” he replied, lying. His sea bass was smothered in too much butter and garlic. His chips were cold, and the wine wasn’t cold enough. But he ploughed through the meal and bottle. Perhaps the fight had helped him work-up an appetite. Marshal bit his tongue on more than one occasion, as Alison gripped her phone and responded to numerous messages throughout dinner. She often said “sorry” whilst doing so, bu
t with scant sincerity. Few people are genuinely contrite nowadays. We don’t answer to God, so why should we answer to our fellow man?

  Marshal was guilty of being distracted throughout the evening too. He was monosyllabic in his answers, detached, when she probed him for his opinions on what was happening in the world, or on reality TV. There was so much that Marshal didn’t care about. It was almost awe-inspiring. He considered so many heartfelt views, or ideological convictions, comical. Or tragic. Or comical for being tragic. Marshal believed in irony, that there were two sides to a story. And both sides were equally wrong, as well as tedious.

  All is vanity under the sun.

  He drank heavily, reaching for his glass like a nervous tic. He tapped his foot beneath the table, yearning to leave and/or craving a cigarette. When Alison left to visit the toilet, Marshal yawned so much he feared he may dislocate his jaw. He forced the odd polite smile, pulling his own strings, like a puppeteer, to please his audience. As much as Alison was a picture of health and attractiveness in front of him, Marshal’s mind’s eye focussed on the image of the two Albanians leaving the scene. They would either visit their boss or the hospital. But would they be ordered to pay a visit to Marshal at a later date?

  After dessert, with Marshal seemingly relaxed with a large brandy in front of him, Alison decided to ask about his time in the army again. She told herself she was being considerate, that she wanted to get to know him more. If he was still scarred by his time in Afghanistan, she wanted to help heal his pain. But Marshal liked to keep his pain to himself, like a leprechaun hiding his treasure.

  “Being a soldier mostly means waiting around. Waiting in line to eat. Waiting to sleep. Waiting for meetings which get cancelled at the last minute. Waiting to go on patrol. Waiting to come back from patrol… The enemy is often boredom… People think soldiers come back from war laden with nightmares or war stories. Most Paras I know came back from the war laden with the pox, however, from stopping off in Berlin or Prague… I wish I had more to tell you,” Marshal explained, shrugging his shoulders in conclusion whilst thinking about paying the bill.