The Perfect Soldier (21 page)

‘Maid’s Head.’

Molly had seen the crowd now. One of the soldiers was
clubbing a youth who’d tried to clamber onto the back of the truck. He had both hands up, protecting his head, so the soldier started beating his legs instead.

‘Why’s he doing that?’ Molly said. ‘What’s going on?’

Peterson bumped the Land Rover over the broken kerbstone, avoiding the milling crowd. The women at the back of the crowd turned and peered in, their faces barely an inch from Molly’s. Hunger and the shelling had given them a gaunt, raw-boned look and when one of them tried to wrench open the passenger door, Peterson accelerated away, curtaining the scene behind a cloud of dust.

‘The army still has food,’ Peterson was saying. ‘Maize, mostly. The local folk are desperate, poor buggers. We do our best but …’ he shook his head, ‘in the end it’s down to them.’

‘Down to who?’

‘The army,’ he corrected himself, ‘armies. When they decide to stop fighting, the people eat. Until then, too bad.’ He glanced across at her. ‘If you’re young and black in this country, it’s a tough choice. Stay out of uniform, and you risk starvation. Join the army, and you’ll probably end up dead anyway.’

‘What sort of choice is that?’

‘None. But at least the soldier dies on a full stomach.’

Molly shut her eyes, leaning back against the seat. She was beginning to sweat in the heat, dark patches of perspiration blotching her shirt.

‘I’d no idea,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought Luanda …’ She shrugged, unable to finish the sentence.

‘Luanda what?’

‘I don’t know. I just thought … the poverty, the rubbish everywhere, the kids in the street, the beggars … but this …’ she shook her head, ‘it’s medieval.’

They were at the MSF house now. Peterson pulled the Land Rover to a halt at the kerbside and helped Molly out, locking both doors behind him. Christianne appeared under the porch. Peterson had already alerted her over the radio about Molly’s arrival and she’d volunteered her own bed at once. Now she stepped into the sunshine, her hand extended. Molly stopped on the path, confused for a moment, looking at her. Then she opened her arms, recognising the soft, oval face, the auburn curls, the look of quiet determination beneath the girlish smile, and Peterson turned on his heel, heading back towards the Land Rover as the two women embraced.

McFaul’s first reaction was to laugh.

‘You’re doing what?’

‘A film.’

‘Here? You’ve come here? To make a film?’

‘Yes.’

The visitor had walked into the schoolhouse uninvited, a tall man, slightly stooped, with bloodstains on his collar and one side of his face purpled with recent bruising. Already, from his shoulder-bag, he’d produced a small camcorder, leaving it on the table, much as one might proffer a calling card. McFaul studied the camera. Global had something similar. They’d bought it to pick up field footage for training sessions. McFaul had used one in Afghanistan and had been impressed with the results. He looked up again.

‘You came in the Dove? This morning?’

‘Yes. For my sins.’

‘So you’re the journalist?’

‘Correct. Todd Llewelyn, People’s Channel.’ He began to sway a little on his feet, reaching automatically for the
table for support. ‘Bloody hot,’ he muttered at once, ‘and a flight you wouldn’t believe.’

‘How come you got to land?’

‘Money.’

‘How much money?’

‘A lot.’

Llewelyn was looking at the survey maps now, newly pinned to the classroom blackboard. Beneath the maps, neatly stacked against the wall, was some of the equipment McFaul and Bennie wouldn’t be needing over the next few days. Bundles of wooden stakes. Rolls of red and white tape. Spare sets of protective clothing. A box or two of battery chargers. Llewelyn stepped across the room and picked up one of the old Schiebel mine detectors. McFaul kept them for back-up in case of problems with the new Ebingers.

‘Impressive,’ Llewelyn was saying, ‘I’d no idea you carried so much kit.’

‘That’s only part of it. The rest’s still operational. This lot’ll be crated up this afternoon. Ready for the off.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Llewelyn looked up sharply.

‘Yeah.’

‘When?’

‘No one knows. Couple of days maybe?’ He paused, watching Llewelyn picking through the rest of the equipment, then examining the survey maps. The man’s curiosity was boundless.

‘This film …’ McFaul began, ‘what’s it about?’

‘You …’ Llewelyn’s finger was on one of the maps now, tracking the line of the river, ‘and this operation of yours. The risks you run. The little miracles you work.’ He paused, glancing round. ‘That’s Ken Middleton’s phrase, not mine.’

McFaul blinked. Last time he’d made contact with the boss, Middleton had been insisting on evacuation, and
the merits of a transfer to Mozambique. Not once had he mentioned a film.

‘You’ve talked to him?’

‘Of course.’

‘You go down there? To Devizes?’

‘No, we met in London. Nice chap. Dedicated, too.’

‘And he said it was OK?’ McFaul frowned. ‘Doing this film of yours?’

‘He was delighted, providing we hammered the training angle. I gather that’s where the miracle comes in. Getting the locals to sort themselves out.’

McFaul nodded. ‘Working miracles’ wasn’t a phrase he’d ever associate with Ken Middleton but the sentiment was true enough. The man was obsessed by spreading the word. Always had been. Llewelyn had returned to the table, perching his long frame on one corner.

‘But why me?’ McFaul began. ‘Why here?’

Llewelyn studied him for a moment or two.

‘Films like these need a focus. A lure. Something to get people on the hook.’ He paused, glancing at his watch. ‘I understand you lost an aid worker recently. Kid called James Jordan …’

It was mid-afternoon before Christianne took Molly to the grave. They went on foot, walking slowly through the hot dusty streets, Molly at last oblivious to the wreckage all around her. The girl’s relationship with James had been much closer than she’d imagined, much closer – in truth – than she’d ever thought her son could possibly merit. The James she’d known – energetic, reckless, single-minded to the point of arrogance – wasn’t at all the person Christianne described. The James whose adolescence had seemed never-ending had, on a different continent, become a man.

‘He used to cook for you?’

‘Often.’

‘And was it …’ Molly shrugged, ‘OK?’

‘
Oui
. It was simple, of course, but here you have no choice. He liked rice very much. With chillis. Spicy food.’

Molly nodded, remembering James’s passion for Indian curries. One of the excuses he gave for not staying longer whenever he came home was Thorpe’s lack of a good takeaway.

‘And other things? Apart from cooking? He helped you with those as well?’

‘With lots of things. He helped all the time. He was …’ she frowned, hunting for the right expression, ‘very practical. And fun, too. He made me laugh. Silly things. Little jokes.’ She nodded.
‘Oui.’

They were on the outskirts of Muengo now, the shell damage less visible, the wattle-and-daub dwellings largely intact. Ahead, shimmering in the heat, was the place Christianne had described earlier. The hillock was crowned with a clump of mango trees and at the foot of the rising ground lay the grave. Only this morning, Christianne had discovered that the hillock had a name. The Africans called it ‘
O Alto dos Mil Espiritos’
. The hill of the thousand spirits.

‘You’d been here before? You and James? Was it a special place?’

‘No.’

‘Shame.’

Molly had her arm linked to Christianne’s. She liked the feel of the girl, her warmth, her sturdiness. She had a rare candour, too, a talent for asking direct questions without risking the slightest offence.

‘You came to take him away,’ she was saying. ‘Were we wrong to bury him here?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ Molly squeezed her arm. ‘I feel close to him now, just talking to you.’ She glanced across. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

Christianne shook her head.

‘No,’ she said.

Molly paused, stopping in the road, trying to frame the thought anew. The girl’s question had opened doors inside her own head and what lay beyond them seemed suddenly important.

‘I think James must have changed,’ she began. ‘I think something must have happened to him. Maybe he grew up. I don’t know. But you were here. You must have seen it.’ She paused. ‘Does that make sense?’

‘Yes.
Absolument
.’

‘So what happened? What made the difference?’

Christianne eyed the nearby hillock. Crude wooden crosses had appeared at the head of the long grave. Some were draped with strings of beads. At the foot of one was a Coke can full of flowers.

‘I don’t know,’ she said at length, ‘except I miss him.’

McFaul got out of the Land Rover and stood beside the road for a full minute. The bush stretched away to the horizon, scrub and grass newly greened after the recent rains. Down the blacktop, away from the city, he could see yet another UNITA road-block, the torn-off bough of an acacia tree supported on two oil drums. Soldiers were watching them through binoculars, ever-curious.

‘It’s the closest I can get,’ McFaul said at last.

‘No chance of going to where it happened?’

‘None. Unless you fancy talking to our friends there. And that could take several days.’

Llewelyn shrugged and told him not to bother. He’d already erected the tripod and fixed the camcorder to the metal plate on top. Now he was squinting through the viewfinder, lining up the shot. Satisfied, he opened the back of the Land Rover and took out the red placard he’d borrowed from McFaul’s storeroom back at the schoolhouse. The placard was already fixed to a stake. Under a white skull and crossbones, it read ‘DANGER – MINES’. He stepped off the road, the stake in one hand, a mallet in the other. McFaul was watching him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Over there.’ Llewelyn indicated a patch of bare earth ten metres in from the road. ‘To put this in.’

He began to move again, the knee-high grass parting in front of him. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. McFaul was laughing now, derisive.

‘What’s the matter?’ Llewelyn said, visibly irritated.

‘What’s the
matter
? What do you fucking think’s the matter? You come all this way, thousands of miles. You give me all this righteous shit about the Third World and what we’ve done to it, fucking mines everywhere, ninety per cent of the country off-limits. You spend all afternoon filming me at it, giving you chapter and verse, where you find the fuckers, what a pain they are to lift, what happens if you get it wrong. You look at all the pictures, all those horror shots we use, kids bleeding to death, kids with no legs, kids mangled beyond belief, and you’re asking me what’s the matter? You serious?’ He nodded at Llewelyn’s feet. ‘Or is this just research? Seeing if they really work? Seeing what it feels like, losing a leg?’

Llewelyn looked uncertain for a moment.

‘You’re saying this is dangerous?’

‘Yeah. I’m saying you’re a step away from the full Angolan experience. Only give me a moment or two before you try one out.’

‘You mean this bit might be mined?’

‘Sure. That’s why the guys up the road have got the binos out. It’s like us and fireworks. Everyone likes a good bang.’

‘Shit.’

Llewelyn stepped carefully back towards the road, tiptoeing like a child in very cold water. Then he stopped, planting the stake firmly in the loose soil beside the road.

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Putting this in. Here has to be safe.’ Llewelyn frowned. ‘Doesn’t it?’

Ten minutes later, Llewelyn was ready for the take. He’d moved the tripod back to the middle of the road, tightening the shot to exclude the tarmac. Over his left shoulder, the death’s-head placard was clearly visible. McFaul had already pointed out that there’d been no such warning at the spot where James Jordan had met his death but Llewelyn had ignored him. Reality, he said, occasionally needed a helping hand. Sticking to the facts one hundred per cent could sometimes get in the way of the story. Viewers had to have a reason for staying with the film, an assurance that something dreadful was about to happen. Otherwise their attention might stray.

Now, McFaul stood behind the camera. Llewelyn had given him a pair of miniature headphones to monitor the sound. In the viewfinder, he could see Llewelyn’s upper body turned towards the camera, one shoulder slightly lowered, a pose that evidently gave the delivery more punch.

‘Ready?’

McFaul nodded, fingering the Record button. A red light
began to wink in the viewfinder and he watched, fascinated, as Llewelyn lifted his head and began to talk about James Jordan. On camera, the man was transformed. He became authoritative, grave, concerned. He talked about the Terra Sancta boy as if he’d known him most of his life. Here was someone young, white, idealistic. Someone who cared. Someone who wanted to make a difference. He’d lived and worked amongst the native Angolans. He’d sunk wells for them, piped clean water from the river. He’d eaten with them, sung with them, danced with them. Then, one hot summer’s night, he’d taken one step too far.

At this point, Llewelyn gestured back towards the bush.

‘That sound OK?’

McFaul looked up. The camera was still running.

‘He didn’t live with them,’ he pointed out, ‘no one lives with them. And he didn’t eat with them either. Most Europeans hate mealies.’

‘I meant the delivery.’

‘The what?’

‘The delivery, the performance.’ Llewelyn was frowning. ‘Did it sound all right? Look OK?’

‘Fine …’ McFaul shrugged, putting the camera on Pause, ‘I suppose.’

‘Good.’

Llewelyn told him to tighten the shot still further. Llewelyn’s head was to fill the frame. The second piece to camera was to butt straight onto the first. Cut together, it would add to the effect.

McFaul was beginning to lose his temper.

‘Effect?’

‘Just tighten the shot.’

‘I have done.’

‘Good.’