The Perfect Soldier
Page 9
‘No,’ Todd shook his head. ‘I’ll do it on a camcorder. No hassles. No dramas.’ He smiled at Molly. ‘Just little me.’
Molly looked between the two men, trying to get her bearings again, while Llewelyn explained a little more about the camcorder, how the system worked, how much time and trouble it would save.
‘Just the three of us,’ he said finally, ‘looking for James.’ He leaned across, his hand on Robbie’s arm. ‘Nice title, don’t you think?’
Robbie nodded, nonplussed, and Todd returned to his study of the menu. At length he looked at Molly again.
‘Have you decided?’ he said.
Molly glanced up. The last thing she felt was hungry.
‘An omelette or a salad,’ she said. ‘Something light.’
‘I meant about the film.’
‘Oh …’
Molly tried to hide her confusion. Given their imminent bankruptcy, Todd Llewelyn represented the only way she’d ever get to Angola. There were limits to what she’d do to earn her passage but she knew how badly she wanted to see the place, to be part of it, to understand exactly how it was that James’s life had come to such an awful end.
‘Tell me again …’ she said, ‘about this film of yours. Why are you making it? Why go to so much trouble?’
Llewelyn smiled, ever-sympathetic. The project, he said, had already come to mean an enormous amount to him personally. He had kids of his own. He sensed only too well how it must feel to lose someone so close. And so he wanted to get the film right. Desperately. More right than anything else he’d ever done.
He paused, extending a hand across the sofa.
‘Your film is simple,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s about sacrifice. And it’s about remembrance. If you’ll do it at all, you’ll do it for James.’
Molly looked away for a moment, turning the words over in her mind. She didn’t much like sacrifice. It wasn’t a word she’d ever associate with James. But remembrance was different. That mattered. That was important. Remembrance. Yes.
She closed the menu and returned it to the waiter.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘but let’s do it now.’
Robbie took Molly Jordan to the interview set. Room 305 was one of the smaller bedrooms and the camera crew had pushed the twin beds together, making a tiny working space between the window and the dressing table. Two chairs occupied this space. The curtains were pulled against the bright sunshine outside and there was a semi-circle of lights on tall metal stands.
Downstairs, before disappearing to make a telephone call, Llewelyn had promised an intimate conversation, just the two of them. She was to forget the camera, the lights, the technicians, and simply concentrate on how she felt. Now, though, she began to wonder whether she could really go through with it. The little room looked so claustrophobic, so intimidating. How could she bare her soul under conditions like these?
She was about to turn to Robbie, asking for help, when Llewelyn appeared at her elbow.
‘Molly Jordan …’ he murmured, introducing her to the crew.
Molly shook hands with the cameraman and the girl who was doing the sound, forgetting their names at once. They were faces from the darkness the other side of the lights, intruders in this life she’d suddenly decided to make so public. She sat down. The girl clipped a tiny microphone to her lapel, tidying the trailing wire inside her jacket, and she just sat there, passive, letting it happen, marvelling at her own part in this strange act of self-exposure. She felt unreal, detached, as if all this was happening to someone else. Someone else in the pool of light. Someone else on the buttoned velour. Someone else nervously touching a forefinger to an imagined smudge in her lipstick.
She felt a hand on her knee. It was Llewelyn’s. He was asking if she was ready, if she was OK. She heard herself saying yes to both questions, simple lies, quite the reverse of what she really felt.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he kept saying, ‘believe me.’
She nodded, adrift now, helpless in his hands. He began to phrase the first question, filling in the background, asking her about James, what kind of child he’d been, what kind of son, and she heard herself beginning to talk in a low, hesitant voice, not at all the way she normally spoke. James had been like any other child, she was saying. A real handful. Noisy. Nosy. Naughty. Into absolutely everything. Vaguely, beyond the lights, she was aware of Llewelyn watching her, sympathetic, capping each little story with a nod and a smile. She went on, unprompted. James at school. James learning to ride his first bike. James at the helm of his father’s dinghy, his little body lost in the big orange life-jacket. The things she’d remembered. The images she’d filed away.
The interview went on, each question inching her closer to Africa, closer to Sunday, closer to the moment when she’d stepped back into the cottage, her face glowing from the morning run. Giles had been sitting at the kitchen table. She’d known something was wrong though it was a while before he could bring himself to tell her.
Llewelyn broke in.
‘What did he say?’
‘Say?’ She looked suddenly blank. ‘What did Giles say?’
‘Yes, how did he put it? Can you remember? His exact words?’
She shook her head, suddenly lost, remembering only that feeling of imminent disaster, a huge wave from nowhere, towering above them both, crashing down on their heads, destroying everything. She felt herself beginning to lose control, her eyes flooding with tears, and she turned her head away a moment, hiding her face, aware of Llewelyn sitting just feet away, totally immobile. Never in her life had she felt so miserable, so alone. She sniffed, swallowed hard, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The blur that was Llewelyn’s face resolved itself. He was watching her carefully.
‘So how did you feel?’ he asked her after a while. ‘When he told you.’
She opened her mouth. Then closed it again. Then shook her head.
‘Terrible,’ she said bleakly. ‘I felt terrible.’
There was a long silence. Then Llewelyn again.
‘He’d gone,’ he murmured. ‘He was dead.’
‘I know.’
‘You must have …’ He paused, leaving the thought unvoiced, her cue, her responsibility.
She closed her eyes. Suddenly, the room was overpoweringly hot. She thought about asking for a glass of water then changed her mind. She began to get up but Llewelyn was leaning forward now, restraining her.
‘The microphone …’ he was saying, ‘… you’re still wired up.’
She muttered an apology, sitting back in the chair, feeling foolish, all these tears, all this emotion, all these watching strangers. Then a shadow stepped into the light and she heard a whispered oath.
‘For God’s sake …’
It was Robbie’s voice. He was unclipping the microphone, helping her up. In the bathroom, he offered her a flannel soaked in cold water and she found herself clinging to him, grateful, while he dried her face. Her face was still buried in the towel when the door opened. She felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked in the mirror. Llewelyn was standing by the shower curtain. All she could think of to say was sorry. She’d spoiled the party. She’d let him down. He shook his head, smiling at her face in the glass.
‘You were great,’ he murmured. ‘Just perfect.’
Giles was at his desk in the office he occupied at Lloyd’s when the telephone call came through. He abandoned the sandwich he’d been eating and picked up the phone. So far the day had been infinitely kinder than he’d expected. No deadline on the closed year settlement. No summons to appear before the Council. Even a cautious word of encouragement from the Managing Agent who’d stirred things up in the first place. Giles knew he was still in deep, deep trouble. Without question, they’d lose most of what they had. But with a little discretion, and a lot of good sense, he might yet salvage a little of his reputation.
The voice on the phone belonged to a woman. She gave a name he didn’t recognise. She began to ask him questions about the performance of th
e syndicate. She’d heard rumours of massive losses. She understood there was an American connection. Certain Names were making a great deal of noise. There was talk of litigation. After each question she paused, asking for a confirmation or a denial, but Giles stonewalled. The information she was after was strictly confidential. She was trespassing in areas where she didn’t belong. He had no intention of helping her in any way whatsoever.
Finally, the woman changed tack.
‘I understand your son has been involved in some kind of accident,’ she said.
Giles stiffened behind the desk. Below the office, the big trading floor was filling up after lunch.
‘Who is this?’ he asked for the second time. ‘Who are you?’
The woman gave her name again. She said she worked for a major Sunday newspaper. She was acting on a tip, what she called ‘information received’. The tip was very recent. She trusted the source completely. She paused.
‘I take it James Jordan is your son, then,’ she said.
Giles nodded, numbed.
‘Was,’ he muttered, ‘was my son.’
‘Then maybe we could talk about him, if it’s not too painful. My editor wondered whether you might think about giving us an exclusive. We could clear space next Sunday and—’
Giles put the phone down, sitting immobile behind the desk. Minutes later, when his secretary returned with fresh coffee, he’d gone.
The party in Muengo started at six. McFaul and Bennie had spent the afternoon checking and cleaning the de-mining gear at the schoolhouse. Domingos had turned up at the schoolhouse too, eager to help, but McFaul had given him the two plastic jerrycans and the keys to the Land Rover, telling him to ship home as much water as he could. If Domingos and his family were to survive the siege, they’d need every drop they could lay their hands on. Domingos had driven back and forth all afternoon, filling and refilling the jerrycans, and McFaul had accompanied him back home on the last trip, carrying a sackful of tinned food he’d sorted out from their own supplies. If it came to an evacuation, Domingos would inherit everything at the schoolhouse but in the meantime McFaul was determined that he and his family shouldn’t go hungry.
Now, past seven o’clock, Christianne met McFaul at the door of the MSF house. Down the hall, McFaul could hear voices in the kitchen and he recognised the tall, greying figure of Tom Peterson. All afternoon there’d been rumours of an impending ceasefire. If anyone knew for sure, it would probably be the Terra Sancta man.
McFaul pushed a paper bag into Christianne’s hand. She was wearing another of Jordan’s shirts, blue denim this time, a declaration – McFaul assumed – that she still belonged to someone else. She took the bag, looked inside.
‘Is this gin?’ she said.
McFaul nodded.
‘Gordons.’ He grinned. ‘And Bennie’s brought some Scotch, too.’
He squeezed her arm and pushed on down the hall. The kitchen was crowded and McFaul made his way towards the far corner where François, the Swiss from the Red Cross, was locked in conversation with one of the Norwegian surgeons. The table beside them was piled with drink: bottles of Sancerre, tins of Portuguese and South African beer, and a big glass bowl brimming with some kind of fruit punch. McFaul gazed at it a moment, full of admiration. Fresh fruit had been unobtainable for weeks yet Christianne had managed to lay her hands on oranges, mango, bananas, even slices of fresh pineapple. McFaul helped himself, aware of Peterson beside him.
‘How’s it been?’ he said, not looking up.
He hadn’t seen the Terra Sancta man since the first night in the Red Cross bunker. According to François, he had a billet with the UN mission.
‘Fine!’ Peterson was saying. ‘And it looks like Fernando’s cracked it.’
McFaul fished another piece of fruit from the punch bowl. Fernando was the UN rep, a fat, cheerful Portuguese from Beira.
‘UNITA playing ball?’ McFaul laughed.
‘Yep.’
‘You serious?’
‘So Fernando says. Their people in Huambo are promising a ceasefire and safe passage out. Dusk tonight to dusk tomorrow. I’ve been on the telex all day. Luanda are sending a Herc, subject to confirmation.’
‘ETA?’
‘Around noon, I hope.’ He touched McFaul lightly on the arm. ‘And once they go firm, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.’
McFaul nodded, sucking the punch from the wedge of orange. The punch tasted of rum and white wine and God knows what else.
‘So you’re taking Jordan home?’ he grunted. ‘Mission accomplished?’
‘Fingers crossed. Winchester have booked him onward on the Sabena flight. He should be back by …’ he frowned, ‘the weekend. Ties it all up rather nicely.’
‘Yeah,’ McFaul looked at him for the first time, ‘except he’s dead.’
The party went on for four hours. Christianne served prawns and rice, as promised, and there were side dishes of cassava, beans and aid-supplied mashed potato. Around eight o’clock, Fernando appeared and announced that the ceasefire arrangements had been ratified by both sides. The Red Cross people in Luanda had confirmed a Hercules, and the plane would be landing at the local strip around eleven-thirty. There was room on board for every aid worker, and he passed round a photocopied sheet setting out the precise timetable for the evacuation. Wherever possible, transport and other equipment would be left in the hands of the local Angolans. Otherwise, the stuff would simply be abandoned. At the end of this impromptu speech, one of the women from the World Food Programme team raised her glass and proposed a toast, and the kitchen rang with cheers. Most of these people, McFaul thought, have been in Angola long enough to know when to beat a retreat. If the fighting intensified, and UNITA troops entered the city itself, there’d be every prospect of a bloodbath.
A little later, Fernando gone, the dancing began. By now McFaul was sitting on the floor in the hall, his back against the wall, a half-empty bottle of Sancerre between his knees. Couples walked to and fro from the kitchen, joining the sway of tightly packed bodies in one of the darkened front bedrooms. The music they were playing – late sixties, early seventies – stirred memories in McFaul but he preferred the comforts of the ’88 Sancerre to Diana Ross and the Supremes. He was singing along to ‘Baby Love’ for the third time, his head nodding on his chest, when he felt a hand on his arm. He opened one eye. Christianne was bent over him, her face shadowed by the heavy auburn curls. It took him a second or two to realise how drunk she was.
‘Why outside?’ he protested. ‘I’m happy here. It’s OK.’
‘Please,’ she said urgently. ‘Please.’
McFaul looked at her a moment, then shrugged and allowed himself to be pulled upright. She led him down the hall and out into the darkness. Someone whistled and clapped their hands in mock-applause before the door shut behind them. McFaul still had the bottle. He offered it to Christianne. She shook her head. They began to cross the road and almost at once Christianne lost her footing amongst a pile of rubble. McFaul leaned down, helping her to her feet.
‘You’ll miss all this,’ he said, ‘after tomorrow.’
‘I’m not going,’ she said at once. ‘Not me.’
McFaul glanced across at her face in the darkness. Her head was tilted back, her eyes on the stars.
‘Nice punch,’ he said drily. ‘Nice party.’
‘I’m serious. You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘No.’
‘So OK,’ she shrugged, ‘don’t.’
They walked a little further. Now and again, bodies stirred in the shadows. The people who lived here didn’t have two-way radios, weren’t up with the latest news, didn’t know about the promised ceasefire. They relied instead on gossip and their own grim intuitions, and by and large they were right. McFaul kicked at a shredded plastic bag, ghosting softly across the road.
‘Why?’ he said at last. ‘Why stay?’
Christianne caught his arm, a gesture at once clumsy and intimate.
‘Y
ou were in the hospital today,’ she said. ‘You saw how it is there.’
‘Yeah, but …’ McFaul shrugged. He’d met her there as they’d arranged. The hospital was a makeshift affair, occupying two floors of a half-derelict apartment block near the river. James Jordan occupied most of the hospital’s only fridge, a big Russian model the size of a wardrobe, and carrying the bulky plastic bag over the wounded, broken bodies that covered every available inch of floor hadn’t been easy. Christianne had managed to lay hands on a supermarket trolley and wheeling the body bag away from the hospital, towards the waiting Land Rover, McFaul had fought the urge to be physically sick. The place had stunk. Blue polythene over the empty window frames kept the worst of the flies at bay but the result was a heavy, airless fug with an almost liquid quality, a pungent cheesiness that lodged at the back of the throat. The stench had reminded McFaul of similar places in Afghanistan. Then, the problem had been bombing strikes and the sheer numbers of dead. Now, according to Christianne, the dead were lucky.
‘We have no drugs,’ she said, ‘and no rehydrates, either.’
McFaul nodded. Earlier, he’d been talking to the Norwegian surgeon and he’d said exactly the same. McFaul had asked him why he wasn’t back at the hospital, saving lives, and he’d shrugged, waving the question away. Once things became this bad, he’d said, surgery made little difference. You might set a bone, or suture a wound, or stop a haemorrhage, but the guy would probably die of a cross-infection anyway. Hopeless, he’d said. Damn, fucking hopeless.
‘What about water?’ McFaul enquired.
Christianne was singing now, ‘Hey Jude’, making up the words as she went along. She stopped and pulled a face.
‘No good,’ she said. ‘The water’s no good. Yuk. Terrible.…’
‘So what would …’ McFaul frowned, ‘your boyfriend have done about that? Would he have stayed too? Like you?’
‘Yes, for sure. We talked about it. Many times. He loved this place. He thought he could do so much.’
‘Yeah, I gathered.’
‘And he did do a lot. More than you think.’