The Perfect Soldier

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘October. I’ll never forget it. Giles was in a terrible state. Vere said we’d all meet in town.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes. Giles looked ghastly. He kept trying to find out … you know … how much it cost for me. I think that’s what upset him most. The thought that I might have to go into some kind of home.’

  ‘And would you? Was he right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘We did the sums, Vere and I. According to Giles we were liable for three-quarters of a million. That would have wiped us out. Me in some Cheshire Home. Vere at the Job Centre.’ She looked up. ‘You know about MPs and bankruptcy? That upset Giles, too.’

  Molly was thinking back to October. No wonder Giles had gone so quiet. No wonder he’d had trouble sleeping. Carolyne was exchanging glances with Helen. Helen produced an envelope and passed it across the table to Molly.

  ‘Open it,’ Carolyne said, ‘please.’

  Molly slid her nail under the gummed flap of the envelope. Inside was a typed cheque made out in her name. The figure in the box said £47,000.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s yours. It belongs to you.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  ‘It’s the insurance settlement on Giles’s yacht. For some reason the policy was assigned to us.’ She hesitated. ‘He meant well. He was a sweet, sweet man.’ She nodded at the cheque. ‘My husband insists you have it.’

  Molly put the cheque to one side. She didn’t entirely understand the logic but just now it didn’t seem to matter. Giles had never been less than responsible. It was a curse he’d taken to the grave. Carolyne was watching her carefully, the toast abandoned.

  ‘My husband wants you to know how upset we are. About Giles. He’d be here today if it had been at all possible.’

  ‘Yes …’ Molly was looking at the cheque again, the old uncertainty creeping back. This woman was beautiful. Giles could be very silly, very soft. Especially when people were hurt, or needy. She looked up. ‘May I ask you a question? Something personal?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How well did you get to know Giles?’

  ‘Well enough to miss him.’

  ‘You met often? Talked a lot?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled, leaning forward, her hand closing on Molly’s, ‘mostly about you.’

  ‘Me?’ Molly looked blank.

  ‘Yes, you. He worshipped you. He was lost without you. He couldn’t talk for five minutes without your name coming up.’ She hesitated a moment, brushing a crumb from her skirt. ‘That’s one of the reasons why I wanted to come out here today. Just to see for myself. And you know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was right.’ She leaned forward, kissing Molly on the cheek. ‘Your soup’s getting cold. And we have to go.’

  Molly had been back at the cottage less than a minute when the phone began to ring. She was standing in a pool of sunshine at the kitchen sink, filling the kettle. She felt radiant, almost light-headed, the darkness and the chill of the past week quite gone. She walked across to the phone, eyeing the pile of unopened Christmas mail on the table. Last year, they’d cut thick streamers from rolls of crêpe paper and hung them from the picture rail. She’d pinned cards to the streamers, columns and columns of them, and the effect had been immensely cheerful. This year, she thought suddenly, she might do something similar. James would have liked that. James would have approved.

  She picked up the phone, recognising McFaul’s voice. She knew at once that he was drunk, the way he used her Christian name, the way he plunged straight into the conversation. He’d been to see someone about the film. They wanted to recut it, alter it, turn it into something safe and tame and acceptable. They couldn’t cope with the truth, couldn’t hack it, didn’t know the meaning of the word. He’d just spent an hour and a half arguing the toss with Ken Middleton. Even he, even Ken, was beginning to have his doubts. Had he been there? Had he seen it? Did he know what it was like to watch someone you loved sawn in half? Did he?

  Molly at last got a word in.

  ‘Who is this? Who saw the film?’

  ‘Alma. Your pal. Alma Bradley.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘What I just told you.’ There was a pause while McFaul fed more coins into the pay-phone. ‘She’ll ring, I know she will. Or maybe Ken will. Someone will.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’ll want you to perform again. They’ll want you on the film. Milk and water. No roughage. Nothing crude. Can you believe these people? Molly?’

  Molly reached for a chair, pulling it towards her, loosening the scarf at her throat. Hearing McFaul like this, she felt an extraordinary sense of kinship. She’d been this way, exactly this way, only days ago. Maybe it was Africa, she thought. Maybe this is what it did to you.

  ‘Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘London.’

  ‘Do you want to come up here? Talk about it?’

  ‘No.’ He broke wind, apologising at once. ‘Just tell me you won’t do it, whatever they say.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’ Molly smiled. ‘Whatever they say.’

  ‘That’s a promise?’

  ‘Yes. And I wouldn’t do it anyway, not even for you.’

  ‘Why not?’ He sounded wounded now, an almost comical sense of hurt. ‘Why not?’

  She thought about the question a moment, softening her tone. In truth, McFaul was one of the few people she’d trust utterly. Not once had he let her down. Not once.

  ‘OK,’ she conceded, ‘I’d do it for you. But only you. Television I can do without. Believe me.’

  McFaul grunted something incoherent. Molly took it as an expression of approval. Then he was telling her about the film again, the way they’d cut the pictures together, the message it sent to whoever cared to listen. The thing was a kick in the belly, a really nasty piece of work. The last five years, he’d wanted to get the message across, and now he’d done it.

  ‘But you’re telling me they won’t use it.’ Molly frowned. ‘So what’s the point?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You’re going to change it?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘What, then?’

  There was a long silence. Molly could hear an announcement in the background. The 15.32 to Guildford had been cancelled. McFaul came back on the phone.

  ‘We hire some place,’ he was saying. ‘We invite the press. That Terra Sancta bloke.’

  ‘Robbie?’

  ‘He’s in touch with these people, journalists. That’s his job. He can help.’ He paused. ‘We need an MP, too. Someone to sponsor us. Ken’s got some motion or other he wants to put through Parliament. Apparently it has to be a Tory. He says they’re the only ones that count. Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘A Tory MP?’ Molly was looking at the cheque on the table. Vere Hallam had a nice signature, elegant, almost legible. McFaul was off on a new tack now, telling her about another idea he’d had. He’d been to see Todd Llewelyn. The man was dead from the neck down but his telly had lots of channels. Stuff the networks. There had to be other ways of getting the thing on the air. Did Molly know anything about satellite television?

  ‘A Tory MP,’ Molly said gently. ‘You mentioned a Tory MP.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you serious? Do you want a name?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK, but I’ll have to phone him first …’ She paused. ‘Do you want me to do that?’

  There was a long silence and for a moment Molly thought he’d hung up. Then he was giving her a number where she could find him. She wrote the number down, listening to him talking about the film again. Then he broke off.

  ‘You know something?’ he said suddenly. ‘You did fucking well in Africa.’

  Molly tried to get through to Vere Hallam for most of the evening. When she phoned the number on the letter he’d written, she found herself talking to a secretary. The secretary recognised her name and gave her two other London numbers. One of t
hem evidently belonged to a flat Hallam occasionally used. He was back at the flat by ten. He sounded extremely cheerful.

  Molly apologised for phoning so late. She had a favour to beg. She hoped he didn’t think her rude.

  ‘I’m so sorry, who did you say you were?’

  ‘Molly. Molly Jordan.’

  There was a brief pause. Then Hallam was back again with apologies of his own. He was delighted to hear her. He was so glad she’d rung. He was desperately sorry about Giles. Of course he’d help in any way he could. Molly explained about the mines. She’d just come back from Africa. Mines were a terrible problem. She paused, hearing a woman’s voice in the background. Carolyne, she thought. Spending the night in town.

  ‘Africa?’ Hallam was back on the phone.

  ‘Yes. Angola.’

  ‘And you say you’ve just been out there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God awful place to go, surely?’

  Molly gazed at the telephone a moment, wondering just how much Hallam knew. Maybe Giles hadn’t told him about James. Or maybe he’d been away somewhere.

  ‘My son got killed out there,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I went to fetch him home.’

  ‘Killed? James?’

  ‘Yes,’ Molly swallowed hard, ‘he stepped on a mine.’

  ‘My God, I’d no idea. You have been through it, haven’t you? Hang on a moment.’

  Molly heard a door closing. Then Hallam was back again. He was sorrier than he could say about James. After Giles, it must have been a terrible blow.

  ‘It happened before Giles. Before Giles disappeared.’

  ‘I see. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No,’ Molly shook her head, ‘it’s OK.’

  There was a long silence. Molly tightened her grip on the phone, determined not to break down again, listening to Hallam asking her whether she wanted to talk about it. Something in his voice, a warmth, a sincerity, made her think at once of Carolyne and a life confined to a wheelchair. This man understands loss, she thought. He’s been there. He’s seen it. He can cope. Hallam put the question again and she nodded, settling into a chair by the phone, telling him about Angola. She described Muengo, the conditions the people had to cope with, the things she’d seen, the lessons she’d learned. She’d gone out there to discover who’d killed her son. And she’d returned a different woman.

  ‘How? How different?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Molly frowned, picking at a loose line of stitching in the hem of her dress. ‘I thought these things were simple, black and white. They’re not.’

  ‘Grief? Isn’t that simple?’

  ‘Yes, and selfish too. It swallows you up. It cuts you off.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Pretty much everything. I wanted a name, someone I could blame for killing James. But when you get down to it, once you get out there, it’s just not like that. The place is a mess, bits of it, maybe most of it. But the people are fine. They’re wonderful. The women, especially.’ Molly paused, remembering the little girl’s mother she’d met in the ruins of the cinema in Muengo. Her name had been Chipenda. Chipenda had lost a child, too, and more or less everything else. Five minutes with Chipenda put one or two things in perspective. Like her own situation. McFaul had been right all along. James had died because he hadn’t listened.

  ‘James always knew best,’ she heard herself saying, ‘always.’

  ‘That’s what Giles said. Wouldn’t be told.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Molly nodded. ‘He was headstrong. He knew it all. That’s what killed him. That’s what took him off the road.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He was looking for a little girl called Maria. She’d wandered off into the bush. James went after her.’

  ‘The bush was mined?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But James thought it was safe?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She paused. ‘Maybe he did. Maybe he was just brave.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And foolish.’

  ‘Of course. But brave, too. Hang on to that, Molly. Courage matters, believe me.’

  Molly nodded, thinking of Carolyne again, listening to Hallam’s voice on the telephone. He was asking her about Angola. Molly had flown out to bring back James’s body. Had she succeeded?

  ‘No. He’s still there.’

  She explained about the grave at Muengo. She’d arrived too late. Disinterment was unthinkable.

  ‘Does that matter? Were you disappointed?’

  Molly thought about the question for a moment or two, then shook her head. After Giles, her son had been the most important person in her life. She’d miss him until the day she died but she’d made a kind of peace with what had happened. James and Africa had been made for each other and it was right that he should be buried there. A spirit like his belonged in Muengo. Not in some sodden graveyard in deepest Essex. She heard Hallam’s murmur of agreement and the feeling that he somehow understood made her smile. He had, after all, known Giles. Like father, she thought, like son.

  She caught sight of Hallam’s cheque again, lying on the kitchen table, and she thanked him for it, changing the subject. Then she brought the conversation back to Global Clearance. There was a man called McFaul. He made minefields safe. He and his boss wanted some kind of sponsor in Parliament. Maybe Hallam could help.

  ‘Of course.’ Hallam paused. ‘This McFaul. Is he a friend of yours?’ Molly hesitated a moment, giving the question some thought. Then she smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I think he is.’

  The worst of the hangover had gone, next day, when McFaul’s phone rang. McFaul was lying on the sofa, resting his leg, listening to Chris Rea. He’d spent the morning walking the length of Southsea beach, letting a keen westerly wind sluice over him, clearing his head. He tucked the phone into his shoulder, reaching for his third cup of tea, wondering how on earth anyone could be so cheerful.

  Molly was talking about an MP associate of her husband’s, someone called Vere Hallam. She’d been on to him this morning. She thought he sounded sympathetic.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To all this mines business. He said he’d welcome a discussion. In fact he wants to buy us dinner.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘You and me.’ Molly paused. ‘And Ken, of course. Can you make it up to London?’ She gave him an address off the Strand. The Savoy Hotel was on the south side, down John Adam Street.

  ‘He’s suggesting tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘Apparently he’s away after Christmas.’

  McFaul scribbled the details on the morning paper, wondering about getting a call through to Devizes. Middleton had been threatening to fly out to Afghanistan. Some problem with a new clearance operation. Molly was talking about Alma Bradley. It seemed she’d been on the phone all morning, begging Molly to come up to London and discuss some more filming. McFaul broke in, still thinking about Ken Middleton, struck by another thought.

  ‘This MP bloke,’ he said, ‘is he a Tory?’

  He heard Molly laughing. Then she was back on the phone.

  ‘Must be,’ she said. ‘Who else is silly enough to put their money into Lloyd’s?’

  Middleton, as it turned out, couldn’t make it to the Savoy. By the time McFaul got through to Devizes, he was already on his way to Heathrow. McFaul phoned him on the mobile, explaining the situation, but the problem in Afghanistan was evidently pressing. Global’s local agent had crossed swords with a village headman and officials had been called in from Kabul to adjudicate. The next direct flight was three days away and by that time the authorities might have closed down the operation entirely.

  Middleton was somewhere on the M4, his voice coming and going as he threaded the Global Range Rover through heavy Christmas traffic.

  ‘What’s this guy’s name again?’

  ‘Hallam.’ McFaul peered at the scribbled note on top of the Guardian. ‘Vere Hallam. You know him at all?’

  McFaul heard the wail of the two-tone horns Mi
ddleton had recently fitted to the Range Rover. Then he was back on the mobile again. Evidently, Vere Hallam was MP for Aylesbury. He was young and ambitious, one of the high-fliers who’d served their time on the back benches and were now tipped for promotion. Middleton wasn’t sure but he thought he’d recently been given a job in the Whips’ office.

  ‘Why him?’ he sounded puzzled. ‘He’s way out on the right. Real ultra. Dry as a bone.’

  ‘God knows.’ McFaul shrugged. Politics, like the pace at which Middleton led his life, had always been a mystery. Middleton was still speculating, posing another question.

  ‘Does he know what we’re after? Support for an EDM?’

  ‘He’s been told about the mines. I think that’s as far as it goes.’

  ‘But he knows our position? Where we’re coming from?’

  ‘He might. I dunno.’

  ‘You’re going to tell him? Or you want to wait till I get back?’

  McFaul explained that Hallam would be away after Christmas. The invitation to dinner sounded too good to refuse. Whatever Molly’s relationship with the man, now was the time to turn it to Global’s advantage.

  ‘Whose relationship?’

  ‘Molly. Molly Jordan’s.’

  ‘She knows this guy?’

  ‘Seems to.’

  McFaul heard Middleton grunting. It was the noise he made when things weren’t going well. Ideally, McFaul knew, he’d like to be there. Taking the helm was Middleton’s stock-in-trade.

  ‘You’ll need the text of the EDM,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Get the office to fax it down to you. And you’d better show him the film, as well. Geoff’s knocked off a couple of VHSs.’ He paused. ‘On second thoughts, maybe you’d better eat first. Stuff like that might put him off his pudding.’

  McFaul was scribbling again. EDM was Middleton’s shorthand for Early Day Motion, a parliamentary manoeuvre that McFaul still didn’t fully understand.

  ‘So what’s the bid?’ he queried. ‘What are we after?’

  ‘Support. Show him the EDM. Get him to sign up. Tell him there’s votes in it.’

  ‘What about getting him out there? Somewhere active? Angola?’

  The mobile faded for a moment, then came back again. Middleton was laughing.

  ‘After that film?’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’