Mellow Doubt

by Christopher Brookmyre

Page 2 of 8

This is my life: for now, for as long as needs be. Forever, if necessary. Not so bad, you might think, and yes, I can afford it. Money is not an issue. I was always prepared for this possibility, every day, on every job, though I never considered it an eventuality, and certainly not an aspiration. I didn’t do the things I did so that I could afford to loll in the sand for the rest of my days. You lie in the dirt long enough later on; what good’s a headstart? I did what I did because it electrified me every moment I was awake, and I did what I did because I was the best in the whole wide fucking world.

I have killed more people than I could accurately count: four hundred at a rough guess. I have brought down aeroplanes, sunk cruise liners, even trashed a fully armed military base. I had the police of half the planet trailing in my wake, presidential sphincters tweeting at the mention of my name. So all things considered, it is not my idea of the good life to be just another nobody vegetating here in the sun, my back resting against a pile of cash, like a moron lottery winner or some Cro-Magnon Cockney gangster. This is my life now and it represents, to say the least, a bit of a come-down.

But that’s not it.

I am watching a man and a young child, little more than a toddler, play on the sand with a lightweight football. They are using a pushchair and an ice-box as goalposts, the child running up unsteadily to take a shot as his father crouches in the centre of the target. The child connects, giving it a clumsy but firm toe-ender. The ball wobbles in the air as it flies, lending plausibility to the man’s transparent attempt to appear wrong-footed. He collapses to the ground, flailing an arm as the ball bounces past him. The child jumps, hands raised. The man thumps the sand, feigning the anguish of defeat.

Here in the bar, there is no need to fake it. I have lost all that I have lost because I was – I am – defeated. In my line of work, you don’t lick your wounds then return to the fray with renewed determination; not when defeat means that the world knows your true name and your true visage. In defeat you may live, but not to fight another day. You may live to become faceless, to drink beer in a reassuringly crowded holiday resort, and to contemplate the person you will never again be.

The sting of humiliation fades with time, but the loss remains, joined soon by a colder, more sober process of recrimination. The apportioning of blame – so often an opportunity for deflection and plain old denial – was simplified for me in that none of my comrades survived. That only left myself and the man who laid me low. As my adversary he was responsible for my defeat but not for my failure, so, much as I detest him and much as I resent what he has done to me, I know it would be foolish and unhelpful to focus my anger upon him. Sitting in this bar, on this beach, I have come to understand that there occasions when the pursuit of vengeance is simply undignified. Yes, I could kill him, but what would that prove? That I am the bigger man? That he was wrong to cross me? No. Because the truth is that I crossed him, and no two ways about it, I got my arse felt. Twelve of us, professionals, armed and prepared, against… well, best not dwell upon the details. When you lose despite such odds in your favour, you have to accept that you humiliated yourself. Seeking vengeance only compounds it. Let’s be honest, there is no retribution for a humiliation of that magnitude. Nor is there possible reparation to those who were counting on you.

I failed. Me. I was gubbed. I was humiliated. My reputation was effectively erased, as surely as I knew my identity would have to be also. Even my memories have been all but stolen: when I look back upon the things I have done, I can no longer view my victories as anything other than a prelude to my ultimate defeat.

But believe me, that’s still not it.

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