No Comebacks Frederick Forsyth.pdf ((install))
In the style of Frederick Forsyth, the short story "No Comebacks" centers on a meticulously planned murder-for-hire scheme that descends into tragic irony, highlighting the fatal consequences of unforeseen human variables. The plot involves a cold, calculating hitman whose attempt to create a perfect crime goes wrong, proving the futility of escaping one's actions, a theme common to Forsyth's work. The original story features a wealthy man hiring a hitman, which culminates in a shocking, irreversible twist.
"No Comebacks" by Frederick Forsyth is a short story centered on Mark Harrison, a ruthless businessman whose obsessed efforts to eliminate a romantic rival through a hired hit result in a profound, ironic twist. The narrative highlights themes of moral decay and the fallacy of controlling fate, showcasing Forsyth's mastery of the technical, procedurally driven thriller. A detailed analysis of the other stories in the collection can be provided upon request.
7. Writing Prompts (for journal or class)
- Choose one story. Rewrite the ending so the criminal does face a “comeback.” How does it change the story’s impact?
- Compare Forsyth’s short story plotting to Roald Dahl’s adult short stories (Tales of the Unexpected).
- “In Forsyth’s world, the law is useless — only cunning matters.” Agree or disagree?
- Pick a story and explain how the title gains irony by the end.
The Lisbon Departure
The heat in the Algarve was a physical weight, pressing down on the whitewashed walls of the marina, shimmering off the blue waters where the yachts bobbed lazily at their moorings. It was the kind of afternoon where sensible men slept in the shade and only fools or the desperate moved with purpose.
Julian Marsh was neither a fool nor, strictly speaking, a desperate man. He was a man of calculation. A man who understood that in the ledger of life, the most important entry was the final balance.
He sat at a wrought-iron table outside the café, a straw hat pulled low over his eyes, a copy of the Financial Times folded neatly beside an untouched espresso. To the casual observer, he was just another retired British expatriate whiling away his pension in the sun. To the two men watching him from the white Mercedes parked a hundred yards away, he was a loose end that needed tying.
The Mercedes belonged to the Corte-Real brothers. They were not sentimental men. They dealt in construction permits, demolition orders, and occasionally, the sort of removal services that did not require heavy machinery. Marsh had been a surveyor, a man who knew where the bodies were buried—metaphorically speaking—until he had decided to bury a few of his own secrets in the concrete foundations of a new resort development. He had demanded a pension; they had decided on a funeral.
Marsh checked his watch. It was a vintage Omega, mechanical, reliable. 3:14 PM.
In the world of Frederick Forsyth, luck was a variable, but preparation was a constant. Marsh had spent three months arranging this afternoon. He knew the habits of the Corte-Reals. He knew the tides. He knew, most importantly, that the British sloop Firefly, currently moored at the end of the jetty, was not his escape.
His escape was the rusted Tunisian fishing trawler chugging slowly past the harbor mouth, dragging a net that seemed heavy with the day's catch.
Marsh stood up. He left a ten-euro note on the table and picked up his newspaper. He walked with the unhurried gait of a man going nowhere, strolling along the promenade toward the marina.
The engine of the Mercedes coughed to life.
Marsh didn't look back. He didn't need to. He knew the geometry of the kill. They would wait until he reached the relative isolation of the dock, away from the tourists and the café chatter. They would pull up alongside him, the window would roll down, and the silence of the afternoon would be shattered by the suppressed cough of a pistol. No Comebacks Frederick Forsyth.pdf
He reached the pontoon. The wooden slats creaked under his deck shoes. To his right, the water was deep and clear. To his left, the row of luxury yachts.
The Mercedes turned onto the dock access road, tires crunching on the gravel.
Marsh stopped. He turned to face the sea, shielding his eyes against the sun, looking out toward the trawler. It was slowing down, the engine gunning in reverse to stabilize the vessel for the "catch."
The Mercedes braked ten yards behind him. The window slid down.
"Gentlemen," Marsh said, without turning around. His voice was steady, carrying the clipped vowels of the Home Counties.
"Senhor Marsh," a voice replied. "A beautiful day for a sail."
"I'm not sailing, Senhor Corte-Real. I'm fishing."
"I think you are coming with us," the man said. The door opened. The sound of a safety catch being flicked off was sharp in the heavy air.
Marsh turned then. He didn't raise his hands. He didn't plead. He simply checked his watch again. 3:17 PM.
"Your timing is off," Marsh said.
"What?"
"Look behind you."
The brothers turned. Out on the water, the Tunisian trawler had completed its maneuver. The heavy net it had been dragging was not full of fish. It was full of fuel drums, chained to a concrete block. As the winch on the trawler strained, the drums breached the surface, glistening and wet.
But it was what lay between the trawler and the marina that mattered. A small, unmarked rigid inflatable boat had appeared from the shadow of the breakwater. It was driven by a man in blue coveralls. On the side of the boat, stenciled in white, were the words: Polícia Marítima.
The policeman wasn't looking at the trawler. He was looking at the Mercedes through binoculars.
"The trawler is smuggling diesel," Marsh said, his voice conversational. "I tipped off the Maritime Police an hour ago. They are watching the dock right now. If you shoot me, you will have to explain why to the officer in that boat. If you drive away, you draw attention to yourselves."
The brother by the car door hesitated. His hand hovered near his jacket. "You are bluffing."
"The trawler captain has been paid to testify that he was delivering the fuel to a buyer on this dock. A buyer driving a white Mercedes. He has described your license plate perfectly."
The brother by the driver’s side hissed a curse. The policeman in the inflatable was revving his engine, preparing to come alongside the dock.
"You are a dead man, Marsh," the brother by the door spat, but he stepped back into the car. "The Polícia cannot protect you forever."
"I don't need forever," Marsh said. "I only need the next ten minutes."
The Mercedes roared away, tires spinning, racing the police boat to the dock exit. They would make it. They would escape the police, but they would be busy for hours explaining why they were meeting a smuggler. In the style of Frederick Forsyth, the short
Marsh watched them go. He walked to the edge of the pontoon. The inflatable boat slowed, the policeman waving a lazy hand.
"Senhor Marsh?" the officer called out in Portuguese-accented English. "The tip was good. We caught them red-handed."
"My pleasure, Officer," Marsh said.
He looked at the trawler. The captain raised a hand in salute, then cut the fuel drums loose. They would drift out to sea, evidence of a crime that would never be prosecuted because the paperwork would vanish—Marsh had seen to that earlier in the week.
Marsh walked down the pontoon, past the Firefly. He didn't stop. He walked to the very end, where a small, unremarkable dinghy was tied. He climbed in, unmoored the line, and started the small outboard motor.
He didn't look back at the café, the dock, or the country he was leaving. He had bought himself a window of confusion. The Corte-Reals would be entangled in bureaucracy until morning. By then, Julian Marsh would have vanished into the vast anonymity of the Mediterranean.
He adjusted his hat against the sun. He had entered the game as a target, but he was leaving as the architect. There would be no retribution, no final confrontation. Just a void where a man used to be.
No comebacks.
Frederick Forsyth’s 1982 collection "No Comebacks" presents ten short stories focused on technical precision, human error, and the "butterfly effect" of crime. These stories often highlight moral inertia and meticulous, yet doomed, planning, showcasing the author's clinical, "entomologist" writing style. For a deep dive and plot summaries of the collection, see this analysis on COAGULOPATH
6. There Are Some Things You Can’t Hide Behind a Bush
Theme: Blackmail. The Setup: An adulterous couple attempts to hide their affair, but they are spotted. The witness realizes that silence can be sold for a very high price. Why read it: A classic noir setup with a Forsyth twist on the mechanics of blackmail.