The Perfect Soldier (53 page)

‘You’re wrong. You should listen to what the MOD people are saying. I popped over this afternoon. Took the precaution of getting myself briefed.’

‘I know what they’re saying,’ McFaul said thickly, ‘and it means fuck-all.’

The Japanese couple at the next table were looking apprehensive. Molly encouraged them with a smile. Hallam was leaning forward now, patient, sincere, eager to explain.

‘On the contrary,’ he was saying, ‘I think the army boffins are talking a great deal of sense. The technology’s there to be used. As I understand it, we’re making mines safe. Doesn’t that meet with your approval? Given your obvious … ah … interest?’

McFaul looked away a moment, lost for words, and Molly reached out, restraining him, anxious to avoid a scene. The fax was still lying on the table. She found a phrase that had earlier caught her eye.

‘I’m a bit lost,’ she said. ‘What does “self-neutralising” mean?’

Hallam folded his napkin and put it carefully to one side.

‘It’s a gadget they put in mines these days. I gather they become harmless after a certain period of time. It’s a new technology. We’re up there with the world leaders.’ He smiled. ‘For once.’

Molly glanced at McFaul, wanting confirmation. McFaul was still looking Hallam in the eye. She’d never seen such naked contempt.

‘This is a game the Brits play,’ he said quietly. ‘The guys who work in the field, the guys who know, want mines banned. All mines. We say they’re no better than gas or germ warfare. We say they’re weapons of mass destruction. And you know what? Some of the major players are beginning to agree with us. You take the States. Even France. They’ve
introduced voluntary bans. No export. No sales abroad. But the Brits? They just move the goalposts, start hiding behind the technology. Your friend here’s right. There are firms making mines that switch themselves off. There are smart mines, mines that talk to each other, mines that get up and boogie. The Brits think that’s a wonderful combination. Nice clean conscience. Lots and lots of export orders. In fact they’ve even got a word for it. You’ll find it in the sales brochures. They call it “value added”.’

Hallam was looking pained, his fingers steepled together over his empty plate.

‘That’s hardly fair …’ he murmured.

‘You’re right. And you know why? Because some of them don’t work.’

‘A tiny fraction.’

‘So what? You sell these things by the tens of thousands. One dud in a hundred and you’re back where you started. You know the failure rate in the Gulf War? These so-called “smart mines”? Twenty per cent.
Twenty per cent
. That’s one mine in five. Still lying there. Still live.’ McFaul touched his face for a moment, then leaned forward again. ‘So tell your friends in the MOD they’re wrong. There’s no such thing as a smart mine. A smart mine is a fairy-tale. Mines are unsmart. Mines are evil. All mines.’ He picked up the fax, letting it fall to the table. ‘You should ban them tomorrow.’

Hallam studied McFaul a moment. Heads turned across the room as a chef entered with an enormous birthday cake. There was a ripple of applause, growing louder. The chef stopped at a table and a plump girl in red began to count the candles. She stopped at twenty-one.

‘So what do we do about the bad guys?’ Hallam enquired. ‘Just leave the mines to them? Deny ourselves the option of having any?’

‘Doesn’t apply.’

‘Why not?’

‘We are the bad guys.’

‘That’s naive, with respect. We live in the real world. Imperfect though that world may be.’

The birthday party were on their feet now, toasting the chef. Molly was looking at the cigarette packet, half-open on the table. James, she thought. Lying in the freezer in the schoolhouse. His body torn to shreds.

‘He’s right,’ she murmured, looking at Hallam, ‘mines are evil. I’ve seen the results. I’ve been there. And he’s right.’

Hallam offered her a look of mute sympathy.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but I can only go on the briefings we get. I’m assured we’re not breaking the rules. We don’t touch the kind of kit that finds its way to Angola. We’re just not players in that game. We insist on the responsible use of mines. Absolutely insist. Otherwise there’s no sale.’

McFaul stirred again.

‘Responsible what?’

‘Use.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means what it says. There’s a convention, a code, you know as well as I do. Minefields must be marked, mapped. Civilians must be protected.’

‘But they’re not.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you. As far as we’re concerned, they are.’

McFaul snorted, a short, mirthless bark of laughter.

‘Have you ever been in a war?’

‘No, but that doesn’t invalidate my—’

‘Do you know what war means? Tearing up the rules? Getting right down to it? Kill or be killed? Dark night? Pissing down with rain? Some guy trying to slot you?’ He paused,
nodding. ‘You should try it some time. See how responsible you feel then. With your map and your torch and your handful of signs.’

Hallam was showing the first signs of irritation, tiny spots of colour, high on each cheekbone. His Christmas pudding lay untouched in a pool of brandy butter.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I’m simply trying to explain the logic behind our position.’

‘There isn’t one. You’re trying to square the circle. It won’t work.’

‘It has to work.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s the way we’ve chosen to make our living. As a country. As a nation. That’s how we pay our way in the world.’

‘Who? Who’s chosen?’

‘Me. And you. And fifty million others. I’m afraid we live in a democracy, Mr McFaul. Much though you might regret it.’

‘Fine,’ McFaul picked up the fax again, ‘then why don’t you put this through the Commons? See who dares oppose it? See how many votes there are in maiming women and kids?’

Hallam shook his head, under control again, more sorrow than anger, and Molly was suddenly aware of a woman picking her way towards their table. She was young, in her early twenties, and she wore a striking trouser suit with a low, scooped neckline. She paused beside Hallam, touching him lightly on the shoulder. She had beautiful eyes, barely any make-up. She was smiling.

‘Do you have the key?’

Hallam glanced up at her, feeling in his jacket pocket. He produced a room key and gave it to her. She bent to his ear,
whispering something, and Molly caught the scent she’d noticed earlier. A hint of lemons, underscored with something muskier. The woman was already turning away. She had poise, and grace, and confidence, apologising for interrupting the conversation, glancing back over her shoulder, smiling at McFaul. McFaul watched her as she made her way back across the Grill Room. When she’d disappeared, he reached for one of the crackers, offering it to Hallam.

‘Pull it,’ he said drily, ‘then you can get off to bed.’

Outside on the street, half an hour later, the rain had stopped. McFaul turned up his collar against the wind, bending to kiss Molly goodbye.

‘You can still stay,’ she said. ‘There’s a room booked.’

‘After that?’ He looked over her shoulder, back into the hotel. Diners were streaming out of the Grill Room. Somewhere deep in the building, a dance band was warming up. Molly told him not to be silly. Politicians were tough as old boots. They never took things personally.

‘I know.’ He looked down at her a moment, buttoning his coat. ‘That’s part of the problem.’

Molly returned to Thorpe the next day. She spent the morning shopping in Knightsbridge then caught an early afternoon train, sitting in an overheated carriage, thinking about Vere Hallam. She’d seen him again on the way into breakfast at the hotel. He was leaving for an early appointment in the City, as charming and attentive as ever. He hoped her friend had enjoyed the evening. It was a shame he hadn’t been able to stay longer. He absolutely understood the case he’d been making and only regretted that it lacked a certain balance.
Politics was the art of compromise. One way and another, he thought the government had got this particular issue about right.

He’d walked her into the restaurant, finding her a table near the window. Carolyne was planning a Boxing Day get-together at the family house out in the Chalfonts before they left for Val d’Isere. Perhaps Molly would like to pop over? Molly had been surprised. Not by the invitation but by the prospect of Val d’Isere.

‘Carolyne can make it to France?’ she’d said. ‘She can cope with all that?’

‘Oh, no, she and Helen hold the fort at home,’ the MP had looked at her, amused, ‘much like other wives I know.’

It was dark by the time Molly got back to the cottage. She toured the ground floor, putting on lights, pulling curtains, still angry with herself for not telling Hallam the way she really felt. About the mines. And now, dear God, about his marriage. How could a man lead such a blatant double life? How could someone inflict such public humiliation? And what, exactly, had he meant by ‘other wives’?

She began to make herself a pot of tea, still brooding. Half a lifetime tucked up with the middle classes seemed to have robbed her of the capacity for rage. It was like a missing nerve, a deadness. Put her in a half-decent frock, invite her to a nice hotel, make the right social noises, and she behaved just like the rest of them. No fuss. No embarrassments. No awkward scenes. Just a quiet determination to make the evening a success. Nice wine. Lovely food. Good company. Was that why she’d asked McFaul to London? Was that what a monster like Hallam deserved?

She shook her head in wonderment, asking herself again
why she’d been so feeble. Was it breeding? Should she blame it on her own mother? Her constant talk of manners? Of the need to behave properly? Of the importance of thinking of other people? She gazed across the kitchen, watching the first curls of steam from the kettle. Other people were important. Of course they were. That’s what had shaped her married life. And that’s what, perhaps unsuccessfully, she’d tried to pass on to James. But where had all that left her last night? And again this morning? Why had she so patently failed to even raise her voice?

She thought again of McFaul, sitting in the Savoy Grill Room, his spare frame hunched over the table, his meal cooling on the plate while he talked so forcefully about the minefields. Socially, he was a disaster. He’d looked clumsy and ill at ease. His small talk was non-existent. But Hallam had never been in a moment’s doubt about how he really felt, and when McFaul had pushed back his chair and left the room without a backward glance, Molly had been immensely proud of him. It was poor form not to say thank you, not to end the evening with at least a handshake, but McFaul had come from another world. Thank God.

She turned off the kettle, scalding the teapot with hot water. The recording machine attached to the telephone was on the dresser and she saw the winking red light for the first time. The light meant that a message was waiting. She put the teapot down, walking across to the answerphone. The read-out said there were five messages. She frowned, respooling the tape, still thinking about McFaul. Absently, she pressed the play button, hearing a brief burst of tone then silence as the caller hung up. The second burst of tone was followed by another silence. She hesitated, alert now, looking round, feeling the first chill stirrings of fear. She hurried into the hall, making sure she’d locked the front door. Back
at the phone, she checked the last three messages. On each occasion, the caller had again hung up.

She reset the tape, glancing at her watch. Ten to six. Still early. She thought about going out, calling on friends in the village, confecting some excuse or other, knowing at once that it would solve nothing. No matter how long she stayed, however warm the welcome, at some stage she’d have to come back. The cottage was where she belonged. Being alone was now a fact of life.

She tried to settle down again, starting on a pile of Christmas cards she’d promised herself she’d write, but even this small effort of concentration was beyond her. Names meant nothing. Her head had emptied of memories. After the third card, she gave up, putting the kettle on for another pot of tea then abandoning it for the last of the gin.

The phone rang an hour later. She picked up the receiver, steadying herself on the side of the dresser. After Angola, she told herself, she could cope with anything.

‘Hello?’

There was a silence at the other end. She could hear the sound of someone breathing. Then a voice came on, a man’s voice. He was saying he’d missed her. He was saying it was going to be OK. He was asking her to get a pen. Molly stared at the single plate drying in the rack on the draining board. The plate drifted slowly out of focus. She tried to speak. She couldn’t. The voice had stopped. She could hear a door opening, the sound of traffic, then the door closing again. The voice returned. The voice was still there. Calling her name.

Molly shut her eyes, bending to the phone, not beginning to understand.

‘Giles,’ she whispered, ‘is that you?’

EPILOGUE

Molly left for France the next day. She took a train to London, another to Portsmouth. At the harbour station, before getting a cab to the ferryport, she phoned McFaul. As far as she could gather, he had a house a couple of miles away. Giles had sworn her to silence but she wanted to make the briefest contact.

‘I’m going away for a bit,’ she explained when he answered the phone, ‘I just wanted to say Happy Christmas.’

McFaul sounded surprised.

‘Happy Christmas to you, too.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Yeah?’

There was a long, awkward pause. Through the smeary glass of the call-box, Molly could see a warship ghosting past. It was misty, the air clammy and damp.

‘What are you up to?’ she asked at last.

‘Decorating. The hall’s a mess. Rising damp. I’ve even had to take the bloody carpet up.’

‘Oh.’

Molly was about to mention Hallam but McFaul beat her to it.

‘I phoned his office this morning,’ he said. ‘Told him the news.’

‘What news?’

About the film? Hasn’t your mate from Terra Sancta been on?’

‘No.’

Molly frowned, listening to McFaul explaining about Robbie Cunningham. He’d been offered a job by Oxfam. He was joining their press department. He’d told them about the film and apparently they wanted to make it the centrepiece of a hard-hitting campaign they were planning about the minefields. They already had a number of public figures lined up. Showbiz people. Sports stars. Even the odd MP. They were spending a lot of money. They were taking it very seriously.

‘They say the film sounds perfect. Just as long as it’s tough enough.’

Molly grinned. After last night it was good to hear McFaul laughing.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, ‘the boat’s waiting.’

‘Off somewhere nice?’

‘France.’ She bit her lip. ‘Caen.’

‘From here, you mean? Pompey?’

‘Yes.’

McFaul whistled, scolding her for not calling in. Then he wished her good luck.

‘I’m the one on the beach,’ he said drily, ‘waving.’

The ferry left at three. Molly stood on the deck, watching the city’s seafront slip by. Once she thought she spotted McFaul and she lifted an arm, waving, but the tall figure in the raincoat turned away, not seeing her. Probably someone else, she thought. Probably not McFaul at all.

The boat docked in darkness. Molly joined the handful of foot passengers by the stairwell. The boat was nearly empty. Outside, she could hear men shouting. There was a rumble and a bump as the crane hauled the big covered gangway
into place, and then she felt cold air on her face as one of the seamen tugged open the big embarkation doors. She peered out into the darkness, wondering if she might spot Giles. He’d said he’d be on the quayside. He’d said he couldn’t wait.

The passengers began to file off the ferry. Molly joined them. She’d packed a single suitcase. Giles had said she’d be back after Christmas. She hadn’t a clue why.

On the quayside, the passengers were shuffling towards the waiting bus. It felt even colder than Portsmouth. Molly pulled her coat around her, shielding her eyes against the glare of the big overhead lights. She was still searching for Giles when she felt the slight pressure on her arm. She turned round, lowering the case. His coat smelled of cigarettes. She buried her face in it. He must have been waiting in some bar, she thought. Probably for hours.

When she was back in control, she looked up at him. He was thinner than she remembered but he was whole, undamaged, the same little crease lines round his mouth and eyes, the same tuft of unshaved hair beneath his nose.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said softly. ‘I thought it was some awful trick.’

He had a car. They drove west, along the flat Normandy coast, past shuttered houses and empty streets. To the right, dimly, she could see a faint white line where the surf broke. Giles was talking, telling her what had happened, where he’d been. The shipwreck had been his own work. He’d sacrificed the
Molly Jay
in order to begin a new life. Molly had been barely listening, happy just to hear the sound of his voice. Now, she began to realise what he was saying.

‘You sank the yacht?’

‘Yes. Me and a friend.’

‘Then what?’

‘We went to Poland. Gdańsk. On his yacht.’ He paused. ‘Desperate measures.’

Molly looked at him. In the light of the passing street-lamps he seemed strangely content, a man at peace with himself.

‘Isn’t that illegal?’ Molly asked. ‘Staging your own death?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

She nodded, saying nothing. Then she leaned across, slipping her arm round his shoulders, kissing him on the soft triangle of flesh below the ear. The car swerved to the left. Then back again. Giles was grinning. He looked, for a second, just like James.

‘Forgive me?’ he said.

‘Always.’

‘Truly?’

Molly nodded, her eyes back on the road, wondering how best to put it.

‘I love you,’ she said at last.

Giles had booked a double room at a hotel called Le Trou Normand. Molly was already registered under the name of Pearson. While the receptionist looked for the key in the back office, she murmured the name to herself, and for the first time she began to feel uneasy. Her name was Jordan. Pearson sounded wrong. Was she really ready to spend the rest of her life pretending to be someone else?

They had supper in the restaurant. The long terrace room stretched the width of the hotel. Beyond the sea wall, she could see the sweep of a distant lighthouse. Giles was talking about the syndicate going down. At first, he hadn’t believed it. He’d been certain from the start that the New Jersey claim should have been contested but somehow the case had never got under way. Only when the call came from the Council at Lloyd’s did he appreciate how serious the situation had become.

‘So you phoned Vere Hallam?’

Giles looked surprised.

‘Yes, amongst others.’ He returned to a lobster claw, shredding the white flesh. ‘How did you know?’

‘His wife told me. Carolyne.’ Molly reached over, restraining his fork a moment. ‘If you told them, why didn’t you tell me?’

Giles put his fork down. The smile had gone.

‘I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I tried, believe me. It was just …’ he shrugged, ‘impossible.’

‘But you told her,’ Molly said again, ‘you told Carolyne.’

‘I had to. You’ve met her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know why. She’d have ended up in a home. I couldn’t let that happen,’ he looked at her, ‘could I?’

Molly didn’t answer, turning away, looking out of the window. So far, she’d said very little about Africa, where she’d been, the things she’d seen, the difference it had made to her.

‘I thought you were dead,’ she said softly. ‘I believed them.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘You’d planned it? You knew what was going to happen?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘obviously I had.’ He reached for the second bottle of wine, offering to fill Molly’s glass, but she put her hand over it, shaking her head. He hesitated for a moment, eyeing his own glass, then put the bottle down. ‘I thought about telling Patrick,’ he said, ‘but in the end I didn’t.’

‘Just as well.’

He caught the inflection in her voice, raising an eyebrow, but she shook her head again, discouraging questions. The waitress was hovering, waiting to set the table for breakfast. It was late, nearly eleven. Giles glanced up at her, murmuring
something in French. The girl blushed and nodded, returning to the door that led to the kitchen.

‘What did you say?’

‘I told her you were my wife. I said we hadn’t been together for a while.’ He smiled at her. ‘Nothing wrong with the truth, is there?’

He got to his feet and unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair, extending a hand towards Molly. Molly hadn’t moved.

‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘and there never was.’

The bedroom was upstairs at the front of the hotel. Molly and Giles lay beneath the duvet, the curtains drawn back, the window open. The tide was full now, the waves lapping at the sand beneath the sea wall.

Molly had been talking about Muengo. She’d seen where they’d buried James. It was a quiet spot, peaceful, shadowed by trees. She’d met the girlfriend, too. Christianne.

‘She was French?’

‘Yes. Dotty about him.’

‘Typical.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ She gazed at him in the darkness.

A little later, Giles talked about the future. He’d been looking for places for them both to live. He had a forged passport, credit cards, even a French bank account, but life in France was expensive. Even with the proceeds from the cottage, and the settlement from the life insurance, they might be wise to look elsewhere. Somewhere far away from England. Somewhere non-European.

‘Any ideas? Mrs Pearson?’

Molly had been thinking about the question for hours, knowing it had to come up. Giles was a criminal. By forging
his own death he’d effectively ruled out any return to England.

‘What about you?’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

Giles didn’t say anything for a moment. Molly saw a flash of white in the darkness beyond the window as a gull soared up from the beach.

‘I’ve been making enquiries about South Africa,’ Giles murmured. ‘I’ve one or two contacts there, people I can trust.’ He paused. ‘There’s no extradition treaty if things get sticky, not so far, and it’s a lovely place to live.’

Molly nodded. The choice made perfect sense, the clearest possible guide to the shape Giles’s life would take. In South Africa, he’d be looking for a cocoon, somewhere to mattress his enforced retirement. He’d find a spot by the sea. He’d buy a little boat. He’d make friends at the yacht club. It would be Thorpe-le-Soken all over again. She turned her head away, listening to him talking about the resorts around Durban, describing the dream home they’d live in, the trips they’d plan, the people he knew who’d already made the move. Property prices were falling. The smart money was moving in. He reached for her hand beneath the duvet and held it for a moment. Molly lay quite still, fighting the urge to roll over and end the conversation. She’d heard talk like this before, barely a day ago, at the Savoy. Smart money. Big pickings. Major opportunities. The language that had built the life they’d shared, paid for the comforts she’d always taken for granted. She closed her eyes, picturing Hallam across the table, and she shuddered. Given similar circumstances, he’d probably choose the same destination, accept the same challenge, end up in the same rich ghetto, protected, cut off. She didn’t want that. She didn’t trust it. It was fake. It led absolutely nowhere.

Giles’s fingers had found her wedding ring. He was
bending over her in the darkness, still telling her about South Africa. He wanted reassurance, an answer, some clue to her feelings.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Mrs Pearson?’

Molly hesitated. Then she reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips.

‘It’s made for you,’ she whispered. ‘It’s perfect.’

Molly woke at dawn. A cold grey light spilled into the room, washing over the bed. She looked at Giles a moment. His face was half-buried in the pillow and his eyes were closed and she could tell from his breathing that he was still asleep. She slipped out of bed, pausing beneath the window to collect her clothes. At the end of the hall there was a utility room. She was dressed in minutes, returning to the bedroom to pick up her suitcase. She kept a notepad in the zip compartment inside. Back in the corridor, she knelt briefly, steadying the pad on her knee. She’d spent most of the night trying to find the right words but in her heart she knew that nothing would soften the blow. These things were best done quickly. After Muengo, there was no going back.

‘I’m glad you’re still alive,’ she wrote, ‘and I’m sorry it had to end this way. I meant it when I said I loved you. It’s just the rest I can’t face.’

She folded the message and put it briefly to her lips. Then she slid it beneath the bedroom door and made her way downstairs. Outside, the promenade was empty. She walked across the road, pausing by the sea wall, pulling her coat around her. The tide had receded again, the wet expanse of sand gleaming in the steely light. She shivered, glancing back towards the hotel. All the bedrooms on the upper floor were shuttered except the window at the end. She looked at it a
moment, watching the corner of the curtain stirring in the wind, then she turned and began to walk away.

Molly was back at the ferryport before she realised it was Christmas Eve. From the terminal building, she could see the white bulk of the cross-Channel ferry. The last sailing was about to leave. She bought a ticket, hauling her suitcase up the stairs towards the waiting stewardess. The last place she wanted to spend Christmas was France. France was as unreal, as irrelevant, as South Africa. No, it had to be England. That’s where she belonged. That’s where, one day, she might find a happier end to this story. Not by hiding herself away behind chintz curtains and a fat insurance settlement but by facing up to the challenge of her son’s death. James had died because of people like Hallam. People like Larry Giddings. Running away to South Africa wouldn’t change any of that.

The ferry left minutes later. Molly stood on the deck, watching the coast recede until the cold drove her back inside. Hungry, she treated herself to a three-course lunch with a half-litre of decent claret. Afterwards, she bought a bottle of Armagnac from the duty-free and retreated to the lounge with a copy of
Elle
. By the time she woke up, the ferry was rounding the shoulder of the Isle of Wight, inward bound to Portsmouth.

At the harbour station, the platforms were deserted. She went to the booking office and enquired about through connections to Essex. The next train to London left in fifty minutes. By midnight, with luck, she could be home at the cottage, safely tucked up. She hesitated a moment at the booking-office window. The clerk behind the glass was already back in his crossword. His red crêpe hat had a tear
over one ear and the tinsel had come adrift from the ticket machine. When the clerk looked up again, Molly smiled.

‘Happy Christmas,’ she mouthed, making for the door.