The Chosen Dead

by M. R. Hall

  Feeling the need to offer some small words of comfort, Jenny said, ‘I know Miss Lujan’s case must have alarmed you, but all the tests so far show no obvious connections between her and your daughter.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ She was clearly not about to find her husband innocent any time soon.

  Adam Jordan’s bank statements arrived by email late in the afternoon, bringing another story of suspected marital infidelity into sharp focus. Amidst the routine household payments were weekly cash withdrawals, nine in total, each of £120. All had taken place at cashpoints in central Bristol on Wednesday mornings between 10 and 11 a.m. The preciseness of the amount certainly suggested a regular habit of some sort. Jenny recalled glimpsing a tariff in the reception of the Recife: a thirty minute ‘massage’ was £50. The other fact that caught Jenny’s attention was that there was £28,000 in the account. There was a monthly transfer from Adam Jordan’s employers of a little over £2,000, but sums of several thousand pounds were being transferred in at odd intervals from another account in Adam’s name. Of all the problems they might have had, money wasn’t one of them.

  Deciding against disturbing Karen Jordan in her hospital bed, Jenny called her home number and got through to her mother. Dealing with her crying grandson, Claire King was in no mood to talk, but Jenny pressed for an answer to one question: had Karen ever asked Adam to explain why he was withdrawing cash from their account.

  ‘Several times,’ she responded tersely. ‘He said it was getting-by money. He was lying. It’s as simple as that. And please don’t trouble Karen until she’s out of hospital. I don’t think she could take much more.’

  She put down the phone.

  Jenny’s final act before leaving the office for the evening was to call Sonia Blake in the hope that, having absorbed the reality of Jordan’s death, she might have remembered some small but telling detail that would unlock the reason for Adam Jordan’s secrecy, but she was met with an answer-phone message saying Sonia was away in Brussels until the following day. Jenny asked herself whether now wasn’t the moment to let him rest. All she could offer his family, it seemed, was shame heaped on top of grief.

  The humid air that had sat oppressively over the city throughout the afternoon had been banished by an Atlantic breeze that swept in a clear and balmy evening. Jenny drove north over the Severn Bridge beneath an unbroken blue sky. Leaving the sweeping panorama of the estuary behind, she headed into the deep green of the valley and experienced a different kind of elation: the forest seemed to absorb her into its heart, a single, vast, living, breathing entity. Making the final switchback turns into the village of Tintern, the signal returned to her phone and a message alert sounded. She had voicemail. Michael had called to say he had arrived early from a round-trip to Cornwall and was on his way over. The news was like an unexpected gift.

  It was too beautiful an evening to stay at home. As soon as Michael arrived, Jenny insisted they go for a walk. She took him along a narrow footpath that skirted the oak woods on the hill behind her cottage then struck out across sloping, sheep-dotted meadows. After a steep climb they arrived on a ridge above a small raised valley untouched by the passing centuries. Stone walls, some a thousand years old, were the only human marks on the landscape. This was the place, Jenny said, to which she would often come to remind herself where she lay in the grand scheme of things. You could feel small here, but also part of something: the continuum of life.

  ‘Like flying,’ Michael said. ‘Leaving the world behind.’

  ‘No, it’s not about escaping,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s about finding where you fit in.’

  ‘You think I’m trying to escape?’ Michael said.

  ‘When I met you, you were.’ Jenny looked at him. ‘Not any more.’

  He smiled and reached for her hand. They touched fingertips. ‘I think you’re right,’ was all he said, and kissed her.

  They tumbled through the door of Melin Bach, laughing and breathless from running down the hill, and, as naturally as breathing, made love. Then, spent and drowsy, they sat outside to eat, the air still enough for candles to stay alight. Having drawn so close together, their conversation drifted naturally back to their young lives as they filled in the many spaces in the incomplete stories they had constructed for each other. Jenny had heard almost nothing of the brutal boarding school to which Michael had been abandoned while his father was moved from country to country working for an oil company. Nor did she know that he had joined the RAF along with his oldest and closest friend, who was killed when his training jet malfunctioned and exploded in a fireball: Michael had landed the same plane only thirty minutes before. Michael knew about the dark incident in Jenny’s young childhood, but she had never told him what it had felt like when she was older to watch her mother fall out of love with her father and leave them both for life with another man, or how for every day of the six years in which she and her father had lived alone together, she had felt his loss far more keenly than her own.

  ‘Between us I think we’ve covered every shade of guilt,’ Michael joked.

  ‘Do you think we could ever let it go?’ Jenny said. ‘Move on, be free?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He sipped his wine and looked at her in the flickering light, giving it some serious thought. ‘I always used to think not – if I thought about it at all. But now I think there might be a chance.’

  ‘Because of me?’ Jenny said with mock surprise.

  ‘You’ve come through more than I have and survived pretty well.’

  Jenny was strangely touched and felt herself blush.

  ‘Why are you embarrassed?’ Michael asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d got so used to always being the one with problems.’

  Michael said, ‘Is that how you see me?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Hey, I’m kidding.’ He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ve both caught a lot of flak along the way. That’s fine – we understand each other. Why don’t we talk about something else. Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on? Your life’s so much more interesting than mine.’

  She wanted more from him, but he had opened up to her more in the past week than he had in the previous year; to expect anything further tonight would be greedy. So she told him about the strange death of Adam Jordan, and how she suspected he had gone in search of answers in Africa only to find even deeper dilemmas, and damaged souls like Harry Thorn. Michael’s expression grew serious as she described the dope-smoking aid worker whose stunningly beautiful girlfriend cooked naked in front of strangers with no hint of embarrassment.

  ‘That’s what happened,’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t think she was stoned, she just seemed perfectly matter-of-fact, as if it’s what everyone does.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s with him for the money, wherever it comes from. Houses in Notting Hill aren’t cheap.’

  ‘He could have inherited.’

  ‘He certainly won’t have earned it honestly, not in his profession.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘He might have found himself a sideline. A Red Cross guy I met in Afghanistan said after ten years in the field an aid worker was either certifiable, on the make, or a genuine saint, and there aren’t many of those.’

  ‘Maybe you only met the cynics?’

  ‘There’s a lot to be cynical about in that business. Even if all you’re trying to do is give stuff away, you’ve still got to trade your way in, then find a means of keeping useful. Even starving people know how to work an angle, perhaps better than most.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Contraband, weapons, money. Your man Thorn would know all about it.’

  Even though Jenny hadn’t much trusted Harry Thorn, she found herself resenting the casual way in which Michael assumed he was a crook, and that by implication she was naive for not having marked him down as one.

  ‘He may be genuine, he may not. I don’t know until he’s put to the test.’

  ‘He’ll be a g
ood liar, good enough to fool a jury. He’ll tell them about all the skinny little children he’s saved and they’ll lap it up. I would have done until I’d seen the reality with my own eyes.’

  ‘Or maybe he’ll tell the truth,’ Jenny said.

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. If he’s come from a war zone he’ll be a creature of war – you can’t avoid it.’ He tipped more wine into his glass. Their conversation was making him tense. Talking about war had stirred up unwanted memories at a moment when his defences were weakest. She could see the battle raging inside him as he fought to push them away.

  ‘How was Cornwall?’ Jenny said, trying to steer the conversation onto less uncomfortable ground.

  Michael stared into the candle flame with unblinking eyes, as if he hadn’t heard her.

  ‘Michael?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Michael, I’m sorry – it was the wrong thing to talk about.’ She reached for his hand. ‘Don’t go quiet on me. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I was thinking that when we made love tonight it was the first time I’ve ever connected it with having children.’

  Jenny smiled, a little bemused. ‘You’ll be glad to know there’s no danger of my getting pregnant.’

  ‘I’m not so sure I am glad.’

  Jenny found herself lost for words.

  ‘Don’t you ever think about it?’ Michael asked.

  ‘No. I can honestly say I don’t.’

  He looked disappointed.

  ‘Michael, I’m forty-six and worked off my feet. Even if it were physically possible, the last thing on God’s earth I need is a baby.’

  ‘No . . . You’re right.’ He sounded unconvinced.

  They lapsed into silence again, Jenny struggling to deal with all the possible implications of what he had just announced: he wanted to be a father, to have a child with her. It was out of the question. What was he thinking?

  Before she had even recovered herself, he made another announcement: ‘You know, I think you should make more time for your son.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think he’d give you a chance if he thought there was room in your life. I think he feels your attention’s always been tied up with work.’ He raised his eyes and met her gaze.

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘More or less. But hearing about your parents, I can see how it happened. Your mum left home when you were twelve and that was about the age Ross was when you split from David.’

  Jenny was speechless.

  ‘We’re always acting out our pasts. We can’t seem to help it. Look at me now.’ He shook his head. ‘Get so close to you, bare my soul, then feel a need to drop a bomb.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how hurtful that was? I never left Ross. David and I separated, and not before time.’

  ‘You did leave, Jenny, consciously or subconsciously, you chose the moment. Someone’s got to tell you or you’ll never fix it. Better it’s this asshole than some other one.’

  Jenny stared at him in disbelief. ‘I did not leave my son. You have no idea what I went through in that marriage.’

  ‘I think he wants you to fix it, Jenny, but he doesn’t know how to ask. And this has nothing to do with David – just you and Ross.’

  Jenny shoved the table hard towards him, upending glasses and sending plates clattering onto the ground.

  ‘Go home, Michael! And don’t even think about trying to call me. I don’t want to know.’

  She marched into the kitchen, slammed the door hard and locked it, suddenly not caring if she ever saw him again.

  FOURTEEN

  JENNY LEFT THE HOUSE EARLY in the morning without checking to see if Michael had left a message or sent an email. Screw him. She felt violated, as if he had tricked her into lowering her defences to the point that when he struck he could wound her most deeply. She had trusted him completely, and all the while he was biding his time, waiting for the moment to deliver his judgement on her inadequacies as a mother. And on top of that he had had the gall to suggest she have his baby, which doubtless he would expect her to neglect. He was having a crisis. He was confused. He had to be, there was no other explanation. Well, if he expected her to act as his emotional dumping ground, he had another think coming.

  Her fury turned to steel in her blood; she was ready to knock down anyone who dared stand in her way. It brought a strange sense of freedom: the guilt at all her unattended cases fell away. Today belonged to Adam Jordan: she was going to London to interview his colleagues at the AFAD offices. No one ever wanted to admit their small part in events leading to an untimely death, but she would offer them no choice: they would answer her honestly or have the truth dragged out of them in court.

  All along the motorway her angry thoughts jumped between the answers she was going to demand from Jordan’s colleagues, and the unwelcome memories stirred by Michael’s accusation. Like images from a nightmare, she was assailed by half-forgotten details of the weeks and months leading up to the moment when she left David. Again and again her mind replayed her lowest and cruellest moments; she was haunted by an image of Ross’s uncomprehending face as he came to the car window as she prepared to drive away from the house for the last time. Her leaving home had been like her death to him, a taunting voice told her Michael was right; you knew full well what it was that you would have to kill in order to survive.

  Only the rush and confusion of London streets forced the accusing ghosts from her mind. She parked underground near Marble Arch and made her way on foot across the West End towards D’Arblay Street in Soho. The people she passed were freaks, weirdos, thieves; there was no compassion in her today; every face belonged to an enemy. She arrived at her destination: a doorway sandwiched between a cafe and a shop selling leather gear and instruments of bedroom torture. Calm down, Jenny. It’s just work. Breathe.

  The voice of a young African man came over the intercom. Jenny heard him consult with Eda Hincks before he admitted her and told her to make her way to the third floor.

  She climbed six steep flights of stairs and arrived on a narrow landing at the top of the unloved building. A tall, serious woman in her late twenties with scraped-back blonde hair came out to meet her.

  ‘Mrs Cooper. I am Eda Hincks. How may I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to come in and talk, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Now is not convenient.’

  ‘I was being polite,’ Jenny said, heading off further explanation. ‘I need to ask some questions about Adam Jordan.’

  ‘We have a meeting shortly—’ Eda began, in another attempt to head her off.

  ‘We’ll be quick, then. Shall we get started?’

  Refused a choice, Eda reluctantly led Jenny into the small but tidy open-plan offices beneath the sloping mansard roof. There were four desks, only two of which were occupied – one by Eda, the other by a slim young African man with trusting brown eyes. Eda introduced him as Toby Ormondi.

  ‘Toby arrived from Nairobi two days ago,’ she explained. ‘He never knew Adam.’

  Toby looked up from his computer and gave a cautious smile.

  ‘Is this all of you?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘There’s Mr Thorn, his partner, Gabra Giorgis, and now and then we’re joined by staff from our African offices.’

  ‘Do you have many?’

  ‘Two – Nairobi and Addis Ababa. But you have to understand, it’s a very lean operation. When we need staff, we hire them in.’ Eda gestured Jenny to a chair and carefully flicked off her monitor as she sat.

  Jenny had imagined the aid agency’s offices would be larger, busier, and filled with purpose. The room in which she found herself felt like a lonely outpost with little connection to the people it served.

  ‘Have you ever worked out in the field?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Eda answered without embellishment. ‘But I prefer to run the office.’

  Jenny imagined the Afri
cans preferred it that way, too. Eda didn’t possess a personality that promised to bring joy to the needy. She took a notebook from her bag. ‘I’m trying to build a picture of Mr Jordan’s state of mind at the end of his life. I’d like to know precisely what he was doing in South Sudan.’

  Eda reached across her desk and picked up a file. ‘The project portfolio. Take a look for yourself.’ She handed it to her.

  Jenny turned through the pages. There was technical information describing how water from a single well could be rationed to grow acres of crops using buried pipes to bring life back to arid soil, then a selection of before-and-after photographs of the site, together with pictures showing Adam Jordan and Harry Thorn hard at work with a team of locals, digging trenches with hand tools. Sure enough, dried-up scrub was transformed into an oasis. The final pictures showed Adam and several smiling, bone-thin men in sweat-stained T-shirts standing amidst neck-high maize plants.

  ‘How long did this all take?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘A little over six months,’ Eda replied. ‘Unfortunately we were forced to suspend the education and maintenance programme when fighting broke out. This village, Anakbouri, was close to the border with the north. Even post-partition, there’s still violence. Have you heard of the Janjaweed?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘They’re Arab fighters, mostly nomadic. They’ve a long history of conflict with the settled population over land use. There’s also a religious element. Just another of Africa’s problems,’ she added with a trace of sarcasm that Jenny assumed was the closest she came to humour.

  ‘Was Adam Jordan depressed by that?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘We all were disappointed. We heard reports our system was destroyed.’

  ‘What about the people? He must have made a lot of friends. Were many hurt or killed?’

  ‘Of course he made friends. And more than likely some became casualties in the fighting. Until we have our own reports, we don’t yet know who.’