The Perfect Soldier (50 page)

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 Glenmorangie 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?

Robbie hesitated.

‘It’s not me, exactly,’ he said, ‘it’s Alma. Alma Bradley. You remember her?’

Molly nodded. Luanda, she thought. The big room in the posh hotel overlooking the city. She’d been interviewed there. Alma’s had been the face beyond the lights.

‘I remember,’ she said thickly. ‘Nice woman.’

‘She wants to talk to you. She wants to meet.’

‘Oh?’

Molly frowned, wondering how practical it would be to return to Angola. The prospect of Africa was becoming daily more attractive. Even Kinshasa, she thought, might be preferable to this. Molly bent to the phone, telling Robbie she was happy to fly out. Maybe he could come too. Just like old times.

‘Africa?’ Robbie sounded bewildered.

‘Luanda. Angola. Wherever she is.’

‘She’s back here. She lives in Chiswick.’

‘Oh …’ Molly nodded, staring blankly at the wall, ‘Chiswick.’

Robbie was giving her a phone number. She looked for a pen but couldn’t find one.

‘Got that?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I know it’s late but I know she’d appreciate—’

‘Of course.’

Molly shut her eyes, squeezing them hard, suddenly wanting the conversation over. She wasn’t up to this. Not real life. Not any more. Robbie was back where he’d started, asking her whether she was OK. Molly said she was fine, making an effort to bring the exchange to a sensible end. She tried to remember the name of Robbie’s partner. He’d talked about her a lot in Angola, telling Molly about their plans together.

‘How’s that lovely girlfriend of yours?’

‘She’s pregnant.’

‘She’s what?’

‘Pregnant. We’re going to have a baby. Mid-June. Best news ever.’ He paused. ‘All I need now is a proper job. Terra Sancta’s on the rocks. I’ve got to find something else. Fast.’

Molly heard herself congratulating him, telling him what wonderful news it was, then the thought of a child overwhelmed her and she put the phone down, no longer able to cope with the conversation. She and Giles had felt exactly that way, exactly that excitement, years back, when her own pregnancy had been confirmed. They’d been living in Chelmsford. She’d taken a train to London and met Giles outside Lloyd’s, dragging him across the road to a pub and
giving him the news. Even then, with six months to go, they’d been convinced it would be a boy.

She stood by the dresser, looking at the empty glass on the kitchen table, wondering whether to start on one of the bottles of Rioja Giles had been saving for Christmas. Then she remembered the message waiting for her on the answer-phone. She pressed the play button, steadying herself on the back of a chair. There was a click and a brief burst of static, then she heard a voice. It was a woman’s voice, warm, steady, beautifully controlled. She’d been phoning and phoning. She wanted to arrange a meeting. She wanted to talk. She lived in London but she was happy to travel down. Her time was no problem. She’d fit in with whatever suited Molly best. She gave a telephone number, repeating it twice, and Molly found a stub of pencil, scribbling it down, staring at it. It was an 01296 number. Alma Bradley’s had been 0181. She was sure of it. Absolutely certain. The woman was coming to the end of her message. She’d be in all day Sunday. Perhaps Molly could phone.

She paused, then laughed.

‘By the way,’ she said lightly, ‘the name’s Carolyne.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days later, a week before Christmas, McFaul and Ken Middleton met outside Green Park tube station. They walked along Piccadilly, picking their way through the mill of Christmas shoppers, and then crossed the road. Halfway up Shaftesbury Avenue they turned left, into Wardour Street. The address Alma Bradley had given McFaul on the phone was at the far end. McFaul pressed the top button on the speaker-phone, giving his name.

Alma Bradley was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. She had a scarlet AIDS ribbon pinned to the shoulder of her black trouser suit and she was smoking a small cheroot. She offered them both a brief handshake and led them to a room at the end of the corridor. The room was long and narrow. Shelves of film cans lined one wall and a sagging venetian blind hid the single window. Beneath the window, on a table, McFaul recognised the editing gear Geoff had been using to cut the pictures he’d brought back from Africa. It was the same model. Exactly.

Ken Middleton had Geoff’s tape in the pocket of his anorak. Since the rough-cut, Geoff had condensed one or two sequences, excising what he called ‘flab’, but the piece had lost none of its rawness. On the contrary, it delivered hammer blow after hammer blow, a remorseless assault on whatever preconceptions one might have about life in the Third World. Hunting for a title, Middleton had finally
settled on a suggestion of Geoff’s. Listening to Ken talking about the minefields, he’d picked up the phrase ‘The Perfect Soldier’. Sappers and salesmen used the phrase alike. It referred to the anti-personnel mine, ever alert, ever lethal, never off-guard. Applied to Katilo, it was equally ironic. Here was the battlefield commander who would use all that high explosive, littering it around Angola with the guileless abandon of a child tossing away sweet papers. Katilo was the reality behind all the silky phrases in the sales brochures. Katilo was what the men in suits really meant when they talked about ‘interdiction’ and ‘terrain denial’. Put Katilo and land mines together and you ended up with a film like this.

There were three chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the screen. Alma settled herself in the middle chair while Middleton loaded the cassette. In a week and a half, he’d mastered the first page of the instruction manual.

‘How long?’ Alma was looking at McFaul.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How long is the film?’

‘Oh …’ McFaul frowned, ‘about twenty-five minutes. Maybe a bit less.’

Alma nodded, saying nothing, and for the first time McFaul noticed the Harrods shopping bag hanging from a hook on the wall. Priorities, he thought grimly. Twenty-five minutes in the minefields, then back to the serious stuff.

Middleton started the tape, taking a seat. McFaul had seen the film half a dozen times now and he let the tidal flood of images wash over him. During the darker sequences he watched Alma’s reflection in the screen and he marvelled at her lack of reaction. When the Norwegian surgeon hacked through the last of Domingos’s leg, wrapping it in newspaper, she reached down for her handbag and lit another cheroot. Apart from that, nothing.

At the end of the screening, she asked McFaul to turn on the lights. He did so, returning to his seat while Alma made a phone call, ordering a minicab. The initial request to see the film had come from her. She’d traced Global to Devizes a couple of days back and phoned Middleton, explaining her interest. She’d already done an interview with Molly Jordan. She was familiar with the story. She understood there might be field tapes. How could she help?

Now, she put the phone down. Middleton was waiting for a verdict. This woman said she had access to the networks. She was the shortest cut to a huge audience.

‘It’s horrible,’ she said at last, ‘revolting.’

‘That’s the point.’

‘I’m sure, but it’s untransmittable like that. No one’ll touch it. And that’s a guarantee.’

Middleton and McFaul exchanged glances. In the street outside, they’d both anticipated a strong reaction, maybe even tears. But not this cold rebuff. Alma was reaching for the eject button on the video-player. She took the cassette out, examining it.

‘Who cut this?’

‘Guy called Geoff. Geoff Hunt.’

Alma frowned a moment, then shook her head.

‘Don’t know him.’ She glanced up. ‘You have the rushes? The field tapes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘Back home.’ Middleton paused. ‘Why?’

‘I’ll need them.’

‘Why?’

‘To put together something realistic, something transmittable.’ She tapped ash into the bin. ‘Something we can sell.’

‘It’s not your material,’ Middleton pointed out, ‘it’s ours.’

‘Of course,’ she shrugged, ‘if you really want to bury it, that’s your decision. All I can give you is advice.’ She nodded at the cassette. ‘Take that to anyone on the networks and they’ll show you the door.’

‘Channel Four?’

‘Even them.’

‘So what …’ Middleton picked up the cassette, ‘would you do with it?’

‘Me? I’d tear it apart and start again. The focus should be Molly Jordan. You’ve met her?’ Middleton shook his head. ‘Then you should. She’s an impressive woman. An ideal witness. She lost her son in the minefields. You probably know that. She’s been out to Angola, too. She knows what the country’s like.’

McFaul stirred.

‘She was there,’ he said softly, nodding at the screen, ‘she saw it all.’

‘All what?’

‘Everything on that film. Except Domingos.’

Alma half-turned on her chair. She looked astonished.

‘You’re telling me she went through all that? The stuff round the bonfire? The mugging sequence?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t get her on tape?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was irrelevant.’

‘
Irrelevant?
A white woman amongst all that?
Irrelevant
? Do you know anything about television? What sells? What turns the punters on?’

‘No,’ McFaul picked up the cassette, pocketing it, ‘but I know about Angola. And I know about mines.’

McFaul stood up. Middleton was looking uncomfortable. Alma began to backtrack.

‘Listen …’ she was saying, ‘don’t get me wrong. Those are extraordinary pictures. I’ve never seen anything like them in my life. Thank God. But we have to be realistic. The networks will never stand for material like that. Never. So why don’t we just talk about this? Take a fresh look?’

McFaul was already heading for the door.

‘It’s the truth,’ he murmured. ‘That’s not a bad place to start.’

Molly Jordan stood on Thorpe-le-Soken station waiting for the train from London. The woman called Carolyne had left another message. If Molly didn’t phone to cancel, she’d be arriving at three minutes past twelve.

Molly shivered, knowing she should have worn a thicker top. The sun was out, and it was a glorious day, but the wind was off the sea again, cutting through her thin angora sweater. She began to walk up and down, keeping to the sunny side of the platform, wondering yet again quite how she’d handle the next hour or so. She’d booked a table at a pub in the village. At least they’d have something in common to talk about.

The train clattered into the station and a handful of passengers got out. Most of them were retired pensioners returning from shopping trips to Colchester. Molly scanned the faces, wondering whether Carolyne, after all, might have had second thoughts, surprised to feel the first stirrings of disappointment. She’d nerved herself for this moment all morning. The last thing she wanted was another let-down.

A porter had appeared. He was wheeling a collapsible ramp. He stopped beside the waiting train, unfolding the ramp and securing the top end inside the guard’s van. A
woman appeared, backing carefully down the ramp, steadying a wheelchair. In the wheelchair sat another woman, much younger. She was wearing a headscarf of the deepest blue, a beautiful colour, and as the wheelchair bumped down onto the platform the sunlight spilled across her face. She had a lovely face. It was oval-shaped, her skin slightly olive, her jet-black hair pulled back beneath the scarf. She was smiling at Molly. She was lifting a gloved hand.

Molly ran towards her, not quite believing it. The woman behind the wheelchair was adjusting a plaid blanket, tucking it in around the younger woman’s knees. The noise of the departing train drowned her first words but Molly had no need for introductions. This was the voice on the answerphone. Definitely. She bent to the wheelchair, offering her hand, but the woman reached up, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She smelled of something expensive, L’Air du Temps maybe. Molly was grinning, ashamed of herself, giddy with relief.

‘Carolyne?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lovely to meet you.’

Molly led the way out of the station. Only when she was unlocking her car did it occur to her that getting her guests the mile up the hill to the village might not be simple. She glanced down at Carolyne. She had dark brown eyes and a warm smile.

‘Leave it to Helen,’ she said, ‘she’s marvellous.’

The woman behind the wheelchair asked Molly to open the back door of the car. Then she lowered one arm of the wheelchair and retracted the footrests, positioning the chair alongside the car. Standing in front of Carolyne, she folded the blanket, handing it to Molly, then bent down again, tucking her hands beneath Carolyne’s thighs. Carolyne winked at Molly, putting her hands round Helen’s neck. Molly heard
the older woman counting quietly to three, then, in a single movement, Carolyne was standing up, supported by Helen. She was wearing a blue pleated skirt and expensive leather boots. Helen nudged her body towards the car then lowered her gently into the back seat, bending briefly to tuck her legs in.

Molly shook her head, impressed, trying to imagine Giles mastering the manoeuvre. If this was what it took to get into a car, how could this woman possibly cope with anything as demanding as an affair? Molly opened the boot, ashamed of herself for even listening to Patrick, standing back while Helen collapsed the wheelchair and stowed it away. When she mentioned the pub, Helen said that wouldn’t be a problem. She’d been with Carolyne for years. There wasn’t a pub that had beaten them yet.

At The Bell, they had a big table near the window. Carolyne stayed in the wheelchair, eating from a tray on her lap. She explained at once that time was short. She had to be back in London by half-past four. The train left at ten past two. Molly nodded, curious now about the reason for her visit. It had to have something to do with Giles but she couldn’t think what.

‘You knew my husband?’

‘Yes,’ Carolyne nodded, reaching out, touching Molly on the arm, ‘and I’m sorry. Deeply sorry. He was a good man. You were very lucky.’

‘I was. I know I was. I often … you know …’

Molly broke off, hiding her embarrassment behind a spoonful of soup, and Carolyne watched her for a moment, visibly anxious.

‘You didn’t mind me inviting myself out here? Phoning up like that?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

Carolyne nodded, cutting off a corner of pâté and balancing it on a triangle of brown toast. Her husband, she explained, had been a friend of Giles’s. They had a relationship going back years, mainly business, spiced with the odd lunch. Occasionally, when he could afford the time, Giles would come across to the house. Which is where she’d first met him.

‘At home?’

‘No,’ Carolyne smiled, ‘the House of Commons.’

Molly gazed at her a moment, her napkin poised. The cream-coloured envelope, she thought. The one that had caught Patrick’s attention.

‘Your husband’s an MP?’

‘Yes.’

‘Vere Hallam?’

‘Yes.’

‘He wrote to me. I’d no idea you were … you were … married.’

‘My fault. I should have said on the phone. Funny the way you always make assumptions.’ She laughed. ‘But I’m here now so it doesn’t really matter, does it?’

She nibbled at her toast. She had long, slender fingers, perfect nails. She was extraordinarily beautiful.

‘What happened?’ Molly was looking at the wheelchair. ‘Do you mind me asking?’

‘Not at all. I had an accident.’

‘When?’

‘Years ago. In Florida.’

It was a story she must have told a thousand times. She’d been seventeen years old. She’d been mad about swimming. She’d dived into the ocean from a wooden pier and she’d got the depth of the water wrong. As simple as that.

‘So what happened?’

‘I broke my neck. They call it a C6 fracture. The sixth bone down from the top.’ She reached for the butter. ‘Nothing works below the waist.’

‘Nothing at all?’

She looked up, her eyes steady, the merest hint of a smile.

‘Nothing. Helen sorts me out most of the time. Vere and I manage the rest between us.’

‘You knew him before the accident?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He was doing the rounds at Stoke Mandeville. He’d just won his first by-election and the hospital’s in his constituency.’ She paused, reflective, looking at the toast. ‘If you’re thinking that makes him some kind of saint, you’d be right. I was pretty down in the dumps. Meeting him made up for everything.’

Molly nodded, impressed.

‘Tell me about Giles,’ she said.

‘He was sweet. Vere joined his syndicate. You probably know that. He made us oodles of money and we needed it, believe me. There was a lousy insurance settlement after the injury and paralysis doesn’t come cheap.’

Molly nodded, aware from her own voluntary work in the village just how expensive full-time care could be. Helen alone would cost a fortune.

‘So Giles helped …’ she prompted, ‘during the good years?’

‘He certainly did. He made it easy for us, and that was important from Vere’s point of view. He wanted to get ahead, naturally, and you know what politicians’ hours are like. Late sittings at the House. Endless committees. Constituency business. It goes on and on.’ She paused, licking the butter from her fingertips. ‘With Helen around, there was never a problem. I could have a life, too. And that was important to both of us, believe me.’

Molly glanced at Helen. She was already looking at her watch. Molly leaned forward.