The Perfect Soldier (10 page)

They stayed in the bar for twenty minutes or so. Robbie organised the drinks and she joined Llewelyn on the sofa. On the journey over from Thorpe-le-Soken, Robbie had already explained about the Angolan trip, extending the Director’s invitation for her to fly out at the charity’s expense. Molly, astonished, had reminded him of their conversation only days earlier. Then, Terra Sancta had ruled out any such visit. So what had changed? The question seemed to have embarrassed Robbie. He’d talked vaguely about a film project, and said that Todd Llewelyn would be involved, but it was plain that he hadn’t wanted to take the conversation any further. Now – her thoughts a little more collected – she put the question again. This time, to Todd Llewelyn.

‘Robbie tells me you’re interested in going out to Angola. Some kind of film,’ she said carefully. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

Llewelyn was nursing a gin and tonic. He cleared his throat, leaning forward, using the low, urgent, almost confessional tone that had become his onscreen trademark.

‘It’s a question of focus,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in documentaries all my life. They only work well when you have a story to tell, an important story …’ He looked down at his drink. ‘James died trying to do his bit for Africa. I think that’s an important story. And I think you’re the person to tell it.’

‘Me?’ Molly blinked. Robbie hadn’t gone this far. Anything like.

‘Yes,’ Llewelyn nodded, ‘you. If anyone on this earth knows a son, it has to be his mother. Who better to tell James’s story?’

‘But why? Why James? Why me?’

‘Because he tried,’ Llewelyn said gently. ‘Because he did his best. And because, in the end, it cost him his life.’

Molly looked at him, transfixed. For a moment or two he’d become the face on the screen again: the carefully sweptback hair, the steely glint in the eyes, the look of total probity. A sharp prosecution barrister, Giles had called him, with the weekly benefit of a very good brief.

‘Robbie tells me you’re keen to get out there,’ he was saying.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Then this might be the best way of achieving that. Angola’s at war, as you know. Going by yourself, or even with your husband, wouldn’t be easy.’

‘My husband can’t come,’ Molly said at once.

‘Oh?’

‘No, he’s very busy just now. He’s got one or two …’ She shrugged, not wanting to go any further.

Llewelyn was watching her carefully now, newly alert.

‘What does your husband do?’

‘He works at … ah … Lloyd’s …’

‘Broker?’

‘Underwriter …’ She paused. ‘It’s pretty tough at the moment. You probably know more about all that than I do. So …’ she shrugged again, ‘Angola’s out of the question. He just couldn’t afford the time.’

Llewelyn watched her for a moment, then glanced at his watch. A waiter appeared with three menus, handing them round. Llewelyn left his unopened. For the first time, Molly noticed the copy of the
Financial Times
lying on the sofa beside him.

‘There’s a film crew upstairs,’ Llewelyn began. ‘A cameraman and a sound recordist. They’re on stand-by for after lunch but the decision is yours, absolutely yours. No pressure. I promise.’

Molly looked at Robbie, confused now. Robbie was trying to hide his own surprise.

‘Here? Upstairs here? In the hotel?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Llewelyn was toying with his gin and tonic.

‘People’s have asked me to do an interview before we leave. That’s if Molly decides in favour, of course. They believe it’s important that we understand the way she feels now, while it’s still so fresh, and actually I think they’re right. We have to have a context, a framework. Grief is a strange thing. It changes people. I’ve seen it time and time again.’

Molly nodded. This much, at least, she knew already.

‘But what would happen?’ she asked. ‘Upstairs?’

‘It’s very simple. We’ve put a couple of lights in a bedroom. We’ll shoot it in such a way that it’ll look like you’re at home. The shot will be very close, very tight.’ He drew an oblong in the air, framing her face.

‘But why not come home? If it’s that important?’

Llewelyn smiled, ever-patient.

‘Logistics,’ he said simply. ‘I know it sounds crazy but the crew have to be back in town by six. This way we give ourselves a chance.’ He paused. ‘But it’s your decision and yours only. Please. Let’s eat.’ He gestured at her menu and picked up his own, skipping the hors-d’œuvres and moving straight to the entrées. Molly looked at Robbie again. This time his expression gave nothing away.

‘What do
you
think?’ she said.

Robbie had his finger in the menu. He glanced up.

‘Todd’s right,’ he said guardedly, ‘it’s really up to you. All we … Todd … can do is explain what’s involved.’ He paused, looking across at Todd. ‘Are the crew upstairs coming to Angola too? Assuming we go?’

‘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 the 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.