The Perfect Soldier

by Hurley, Graham

  Molly looked at him a moment, trying to remember. Giles’s certificate was next door. She’d put it to one side only yesterday.

  ‘Fifty-two point three,’ she said. ‘Does that sound about right?’

  Patrick went quiet for a moment then nodded.

  ‘Terrific,’ he said gamely. ‘Excellent time. Puts me to shame.’

  Molly masked a smile, wondering already how to get rid of him. She’d decided on a pressing engagement in the village – a coffee morning, say, or a chat to the vicar about Giles’s memorial service – when she felt Patrick behind her. She was standing at the sink now, her back to the kitchen. He was pressing against her. She could feel his erection against the waistband of her shorts. She froze, aware of his hands encircling her, cupping her breasts. Then he was kissing the nape of her neck, murmuring her name, telling her how much he loved her. He’d loved her for years. It was never something he’d ever been able to confess. He’d told no one. He thought he’d never be able to say it to her face.

  Molly turned round, easing his body away from her, much the way you might gentle a frightened horse. Patrick was flushed, his eyes glittering behind the thick glasses, the mildness she’d always known quite gone.

  ‘No one will know,’ he was saying, ‘I promise you.’

  ‘Know what, Patrick?’

  ‘About us. You and me.’ He shut his eyes a moment, swallowing hard. ‘We could use the spare room. I quite understand, believe me.’ Molly stared at him and then began to laugh. He opened his eyes, frowning. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You, my love.’ Molly leaned forward, pecking him on the end of his nose, then rubbing off the kiss with her finger. ‘You’re a very dear friend. And so is Alice.’

  ‘She doesn’t understand me.’

  ‘That’s what all the boys say, Patrick.’

  ‘It’s true. She doesn’t understand anything. She …’ He shook his head, not trusting himself any further. He couldn’t take his eyes off Molly’s breasts. At length, he began to pull himself together. ‘Giles was no angel, Molly. You know that, don’t you?’

  The kettle began to bubble then turned itself off. Molly felt the sweat chilling on her face.

  ‘How do you mean? Exactly?’

  ‘I mean that … all men have …’ he gestured loosely at the gap between them, ‘weaknesses.’

  ‘Oh? And Giles?’

  ‘He was no exception, that’s all. It’s not a criticism. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s just human nature.’

  ‘What are you telling me, Patrick?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he looked suddenly shamefaced, ‘nothing at all.’

  Molly reached out, uncertain, then withdrew her hand when he tried to kiss it. She knew she ought to throw him out, bring this pathetic scene to an end, but somehow she couldn’t. She wanted a name. She wanted evidence.

  ‘Who was it, Patrick?’ she said quietly.

  He looked at her a moment, sobered.

  ‘A woman called Carolyne,’ he muttered.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘He told you what?’

  ‘He told me how much he cared for her.’

  ‘When? When did this happen? Recently? Years ago?’

  ‘October.’

  ‘October? This year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Molly stared at him. Autumn. The time when she’d first noticed the change in Giles, the long periods of silence, the sleepless nights, the regular bottles of Glenmorangie he’d bring in from the off-licence in the village, refilling the empty decanter. She ought to have known. She ought to have guessed.

  Patrick was back behind his usual mask. Sincerity and concern in equal measures.

  ‘He loved you, Molly. Never doubt that. He really did.’

  ‘Thank you, Patrick.’

  ‘I mean it. He wouldn’t see you hurt. And neither would I. That’s why …’ he risked a smile, ‘I came this morning.’

  ‘To tell me about Carolyne?’

  ‘To tell you …’ he blinked, colouring slightly, ‘I loved you.’ He frowned. ‘Love you. I brought you a present, too. A little keepsake. Just between the two of us. I …’ He fumbled in his jacket pocket and for a moment Molly thought he’d bought her a ring. Then a photograph appeared. He offered it to her, shyly, like a child. ‘I’ve got a nice frame,’ he said, ‘if you’d like it.’

  Molly looked at the photo. Patrick was standing on a golf course, his club held high, grinning at the camera.

  ‘Who took this?’

  ‘Alice. It’s her favourite shot.’

  ‘And you’ve given it to me?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of spares. She thinks it does me justice. I thought you might like it. That’s all.’

  Molly studied the photo a little longer then tucked it into the top pocket of Patrick’s jacket. Nothing could disguise the expression on his face. He looked crestfallen, robbed of something he believed to be rightfully his.

  Molly began to shepherd him towards the door. She picked up his coat from the chair. She didn’t want him back. Ever.

  In the hall, Patrick made a brief stand.

  ‘You wouldn’t …?’ His eyes were on the stairs.

  ‘No thank you, Patrick.’

  ‘Only I thought—’

  ‘Your coat.’

  Molly gave him the heavy tweed, folding it over his arm and reaching for the door. Outside, the wind was chill, making her shiver. Patrick stood on the path. Alice wasn’t to know. She thought he’d gone to the golf club. She’d be heartbroken if she ever found out. Molly shook her head, looking at him, then closed the door, hearing him shuffling towards the gate. He beeped the horn once, driving away, and then – at last – there was silence.

  *

  McFaul got to the private hospital at noon. Saturday visiting hours were virtually unlimited, according to the woman he’d talked to on the phone. Todd Llewelyn had been transferred here only a day after his admission to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. His private insurance entitled him to a room on the fourth floor. His visitors, so far, had been sparse.

  McFaul crossed the road, turning up his collar against a light shower. The Marlborough was on a quiet corner in the heart of Mayfair. Smoked-glass windows and a revolving door at the front gave it the air of a discreet hotel. Rooms on the fourth floor were supervised from a nursing station midway along the central corridor. McFaul paused by the desk, giving his name, asking for Todd Llewelyn.

  The nurse was Welsh, a dark-haired, pretty woman in her mid-twenties.

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Friend, then?’

  ‘Colleague.’

  ‘From the television?’ The woman was smiling.

  McFaul shook his head.

  ‘Real life.’

  The woman capped a pen, ignoring the dig. She selected a clipboard from a row of hooks beneath the counter and consulted it briefly. Then she looked up.

  ‘You know he’s had a stroke, I assume?’

  McFaul stared at her. The last he’d heard of Todd Llewelyn, the man was half-dead from malaria. No one had mentioned a stroke.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know.’

  The nurse nodded, looking grave. Llewelyn had collapsed en route from Heathrow to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. A day later, he’d been moved to the Marlborough. He’d survived malaria, only to succumb to a blood clot on the brain.

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Pretty serious, I’m afraid. Both arms. Both legs. And his speech has gone, too.’

  McFaul shook his head, wondering just how much was left. The nurse was leading him along the corridor now. Llewelyn’s room was near the end. Outside the door, she stopped. Through the small square of window, McFaul could see the bottom half of Llewelyn’s bed. Beside it, her back to the door, sat another woman.

  The nurse beckoned McFaul closer.

  ‘His brain’s fine,’ she whispered. ‘He hears and he understands. But that’
s about all.’

  ‘Who’s in there with him?’

  ‘A helper. We have a couple of them. She’s there to change the TV channels.’ She glanced in. ‘We have satellite here, of course. It gives him a bit of choice. It’s the least we can do, under the circumstances.’

  ‘And will she stay? While we talk?’

  ‘No,’ the nurse shook her head, ‘that’s why it’s important you know the code.’

  ‘Code?’

  ‘The way we get through to Mr Llewelyn.’ She was looking at him fondly now. ‘One blink means yes. Two mean no. If he wants the channels changing he blinks three times.’ She smiled. ‘It’s all he’s got left, poor love.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Television.’

  She reached forward, opening the door, touching the woman on the chair lightly on the shoulder. She got up at once, standing aside, making room for McFaul. McFaul was looking at Llewelyn. He was sitting up in bed, his body propped on a bank of pillows. He was wearing green paisley pyjamas and his arms were carefully arranged on the counterpane. His hair was newly parted, and around his neck he wore a plastic bib, a larger version of the kind mothers attach to babies.

  McFaul sat down, hearing the door close behind him. The only thing that moved in Llewelyn’s face were his eyes and McFaul saw the gleam of recognition.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said lamely, ‘Andy.’

  Llewelyn’s head was pointing at the television. A panel of housewives were answering questions about their favourite fantasies. One woman said she went to bed every night wanting to make love to Laurence Harvey. When the presenter pointed out that he was dead, she said it didn’t matter. Dead or otherwise, she’d give him the night of his life. The audience roared their applause and Llewelyn’s eyes found McFaul. He blinked three times, then did it again. McFaul was nonplussed for a moment before he remembered the code. The remote controller lay on the carpet beside the chair. He pressed the channel changer, going forward. A single blink from Llewelyn. He paused. Three more blinks. He changed channels again, then again. Images came and went, far too quickly to make any sense, then Llewelyn stopped blinking altogether and McFaul looked up at the screen in time to see a lion mauling an antelope. The sequence belonged to some kind of wildlife documentary, and Llewelyn stared at it as the huge jaws tore at the animal’s throat. There was a tree nearby, a big old baobab, and fat black birds sat on the lower branches, indifferent to the carnage below.

  McFaul watched a moment longer, then turned the television off.

  ‘I’ve come about Muengo,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m sorry you’re so …’ he frowned, unable to find the right word.

  Llewelyn’s eyes hadn’t left the television. The skin on his face seemed paper-thin. Since Angola, he’d aged a hundred years.

  McFaul went on, regardless, telling Llewelyn about the film that had emerged from the pictures he’d shot. The last three days he’d spent in a bungalow in a village outside Salisbury. Middleton’s contact had invited him down for the duration of the edit, and he’d arrived with the new Sony equipment and the field tapes. Geoff, the editor, had devoted half a day to reviewing the material and had then put together what he termed a ‘rough-cut’. From somewhere, he’d found some blues music, very simple, minor key, saxophone and occasional double bass. The musicians had improvised around a single theme and the music came and went, blowing through the film like smoke, pulling the material together, creating tensions, resolving them, sculpting the darkness at the heart of the film. The film itself was relentless, pulling you in from the start, an opening montage of the worst images underscored with the urgent wail of the saxophone, and McFaul described it now, shot for shot, determined that Llewelyn should understand.

  Domingos dead, the action moved to Katilo, accompanying his triumphal entry into Muengo, the camera always on the move, the shots raw but effective, the rebel commander never off the screen. Next came the scene outside the cathedral, Katilo carving a path through the crowd, his earnest monologue intercut with more images from the hospital. McFaul went on, describing the night at the barbecue, the slaughter of the cow, Katilo’s taunting dance with Christianne. Then they were airborne, climbing out of Muengo, dropping down into the diamond mines, the saxophone bubbling away as the pits by the river flashed by. After Cafunfo, Zaire. McFaul pulled his chair closer to the bed, going into detail, telling Llewelyn exactly the way it had been in Kinshasa, two men dead, their heads blown apart. The film had ended here, more slaughter, the images come full circle, fresh blood spilling across the darkened road.

  McFaul paused, looking at Llewelyn. His chin was on his chest now but his eyes were still bright.

  ‘What do you think? Good, eh?’

  Llewelyn blinked once, an affirmative, the signal for yes, his eyes moistening, and McFaul watched a single tear roll down his cheek. He reached for the dead hand on the counterpane, squeezing it, hearing the door open behind him. Then the Welsh nurse was bending over Llewelyn, drying his eyes, scolding McFaul for upsetting him.

  ‘Upsetting him?’ McFaul was on his feet. ‘You kidding? He loved it.’

  McFaul phoned Devizes from a pay-box on Waterloo station. He’d promised Middleton the latest on Todd Llewelyn.

  ‘He’s paralysed,’ he said. ‘Can’t speak. Can’t write. There’s no way he can object to what we’ve done.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. I stayed most of the afternoon. Poor bastard, I almost felt sorry for him …’

  McFaul could hear the football results in the background now. A passion for Swindon Town was Middleton’s one concession to a life outside his work. After a pause, and a groan, he was back on the phone.

  ‘What about the woman? Your friend? Mrs Jordan?’

  ‘I’ve been phoning. She’s always engaged. Can’t get through.’

  ‘Keep trying.’ He paused again. ‘Geoff brought the film over this afternoon. Let me have a dekko.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s fucking incredible. Spot on.’ He favoured McFaul with a brief, mirthless laugh. ‘Even a politician might get the point.’

  Molly was back from the pub by half-past nine. She’d driven out on the Harwich road, trying to find somewhere small and anonymous, a chair in a quiet corner where she could curl up with her paper and her Campari and soda, safe from interruptions. Staying in the cottage after dark had begun to unsettle her and the knowledge that it was Saturday night somehow made the feeling worse. She wanted the assurance of other people around her. She wanted to hear laughter and conversation without having to contribute anything of her own. After a couple of drinks, she’d thought, the cottage wouldn’t seem so daunting. Alcohol would cushion her fear of the silence. With luck, she might even sleep.

  The pub, though, had been a disaster. She’d found a place called The Wheatsheaf, miles from anywhere. In the darkness it had looked inviting, half-curtained windows, wooden tables, a hint of candle-light. Inside, she’d found a small, cluttered room hung with sepia prints of the old Thames barges that used to work the estuary. There’d even been a dog, an ancient cocker spaniel, blind in one eye. She’d bought her Campari and her bag of peanuts, and settled in a corner, waiting for the pub to fill up. But nothing had happened. Just a handful of glum regulars who’d tottered in from God knows where and leant heavily on the bar, staring at her.

  She’d somehow imagined a darts tournament, cheerful, thirsty young men, high-spirited, loud, boisterous, a thick blanket of noise she could pull around herself, keeping out the cold. Instead, she’d felt progressively more exposed, all too aware of the long silences, the muttered conversations, the sense that she’d intruded into this gloomy weekend ritual. She’d hung on as long as she could, her spirits raised by each approaching car, but when nothing happened, and the grandfather clock by the door struck nine, she gave up. Even the cottage, she’d thought, would be better than this.

  Back home, she emptied the last of the single malt from Giles’s bottle of Glen
morangie and sat at the kitchen table, her coat still on. She’d spent most of the day trying to forget what Patrick had told her but try as she might she couldn’t erase the woman’s name. It was like a persistent leak in the top of her head, dripping and dripping. Carolyne. Carolyne. Carolyne. She tried to visualise the woman, put a face and a body to the name. She tried to rationalise it, tell herself it was nothing serious, just a middle-aged man getting himself in a bit of a muddle. God knows, the poor lamb was probably bored out of his head. After twenty-seven years of marriage, who wouldn’t be? She pushed the thought as far as she dared, imagining them meeting, probably in London, probably at lunch-times, probably in some wine bar or other, snatched moments together, a little private oasis in their respective lives. Was she married? Divorced? Single? Did she have a place of her own? Did they ever go there? Or had it been some cheap hotel? Scrawled entries in the visitors’ book and a couple of desperate hours between nylon sheets? She confronted the questions one by one, hauling them up from her subconscious until the kitchen began to blur around her and the glass at her elbow was empty.

  The phone made her jump. She must have put the receiver back on the hook before she’d left for the pub. She looked at it for a full minute. Then she got up from the table and walked unsteadily towards the dresser. The phone was still ringing. She peered at it a moment. She’d connected the answering machine as well, and there was a message waiting for her.

  She picked the phone up. It was Robbie Cunningham. She recognised the voice at once and it brought a smile to her face. Someone young. Someone decent. Someone who wouldn’t damage her. She began to talk, curious at the way her words ran into each other, little dodgem cars, colliding and colliding. She began to laugh, hearing the concern in Robbie’s voice. He’d been trying to get through for days. The phone was always engaged. Was she OK? Was she coping? Was there anything he could do?

  Molly told him everything was fine. Twice. Then she began to cry. Robbie did his best to comfort her and she reached for a dishcloth, drying her eyes, feeling foolish. She told him she was drunk. Best to go to bed. Best to sleep it off. Was it urgent? This call of his? Or could it wait until the morning?