The Perfect Soldier

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘You didn’t try?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s …’ Molly exchanged glances with Christianne, ‘a bit awkward. Before I came out here I met the ambassador. Nice man, extremely helpful, but …’ she looked at McFaul at last, ‘he didn’t really approve.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of me coming here. He was very fair. He didn’t stand in my way. He just made it plain that I shouldn’t be going … shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. So you’ll understand why …’ She offered McFaul a wan smile. ‘I expect I’ll see him when I get back to Luanda. He can get it off his chest then. Whatever it is he wants to say.’

  She fell silent as the hammering started again and McFaul wondered just when they’d get round to talking about James Jordan. In his own mind the boy’s death had already become a classic, the kind of textbook case history he’d quote when he next talked to incoming aid workers. The way McFaul read it, this woman’s son had taken his own life. Explaining just how wasn’t going to be easy but it had to be done.

  McFaul got up and limped across to the window. Bennie was hammering as well now and the noise was getting on his nerves. McFaul pulled the window shut. The glass had long gone and the replacement plywood plunged the room into semi-darkness. The hammering abruptly stopped. McFaul glanced down at Molly.

  ‘That OK for you?’

  ‘I’d prefer it open. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I just thought …’ McFaul shrugged, opening the window again then resuming his seat at the table. Looking at Molly, he’d settled on the word that best summed up what her son had really done. Suicide. The boy had committed suicide. By not listening. By thinking himself somehow invulnerable. McFaul stirred, aware of voices outside the window. The newcomer was Llewelyn. He must have walked over from his billet in the UN compound. He was talking to Bennie, running through some kind of check-list he’d evidently compiled, sequences he’d need for his precious film before the Hercules descended and brought the shoot to an end. There was stuff he wanted to do around the schoolhouse, a classroom situation to mock up. It might feature Bennie, he said, going through the basics with the locals. Then there were the survey maps Llewelyn had already seen, close-up material, a hand adding fresh details, somebody working at the computer keyboard, inputting new data, someone else on the radio, conducting a pretend conversation, material to establish just how hi-tech the de-mining business had become. The list went on and on, punctuated by grunts from Bennie, and McFaul was on the point of going out there and telling Bennie to get on with the crating when Llewelyn mentioned Molly’s son.

  ‘This boy Jordan,’ Llewelyn was saying. ‘Your boss tells me you had him in the fridge for a while. At your place.’

  ‘Yeah. Too fucking right.’

  ‘Because the power was off at the hospital?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘So your boss brought him here?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Dunno. Couple of days at the most. Long enough to knacker everything else in the freezer.’ McFaul was on his feet now, returning to the window. He could hear Bennie laughing but he was too late to bring the conversation to an end. ‘Gennie failed,’ Bennie was saying. ‘Ran out of fuel. You could smell him half a mile away, the state he was in. Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of stiffs in my time but nothing like this. You ever watch Alien? That sequence when the guy’s flat on the table and this thing comes bursting out of his—’

  McFaul shut the window with a bang. The room went dark again. Molly sat at the table, motionless. When Christianne tried to comfort her, she shook her head, crossing and uncrossing her arms, taking a deep breath.

  ‘You should have told me,’ she said quietly. ‘However bad it was you should have told me.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Non.’

  Molly looked at her for a long moment, her face quite impassive.

  ‘So how bad was he?’ she said at last. ‘When you buried him?’

  Christianne looked at McFaul, out of her depth now. McFaul sat down at the table. Molly’s hands were ice-cold to his touch.

  ‘He was a mess, Mrs Jordan,’ he muttered. ‘He was a mess when we found him. And a mess when we buried him. There was nothing we could do.’

  ‘Molly. My name’s Molly.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK, just tell me. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ve come.’

  McFaul hesitated a moment, remembering the night he’d driven out with Domingos to recover the boy’s body, the long hours they’d spent with Christianne at the roadside. By the time they’d swept a path to the site of the explosion, Jordan’s remains were black with flies. One or two had somehow survived the transfer into the body bag, the buzzing audible for days afterwards.

  Molly was still watching him, still waiting for an answer.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ McFaul said at last.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘There’s nothing else I can tell you. He stepped on a mine. Probably a bounding mine.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a mine that …’ McFaul shrugged, ‘jumps up.’

  ‘And explodes where? At what height?’

  ‘Metre. Metre and a half.’

  Molly raised her hand, palm down. When it reached belly-height, McFaul nodded. Molly’s hand shook for a moment.

  ‘So who makes these mines?’

  ‘Everyone. The Americans. The Russians. The Italians. They’ve been around for years. Soldiers hate them. As you might imagine.’

  ‘And do they sell them? To these people?’ Molly gestured vaguely towards the window.

  ‘Yes. Or to middlemen. That’s the likeliest. That’s the way it normally works.’

  ‘And they … these middlemen …?’

  ‘Sell the mines on. To whoever wants them.’

  ‘Buys them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘For a profit? They’re sold for a profit?’

  ‘Yes. First to the middlemen. And then …’ McFaul shrugged again, ‘to the customers. We call them end-users. In the business.’

  ‘Business?’

  There was a long silence. Christianne leaned forward, her second coffee still untouched.

  ‘I told Molly about Maria …’ she said. ‘The little girl, you know, that night.’

  McFaul nodded. Unlike James Jordan, Maria had survived the minefield, only to be killed a week or so later during the second night of shelling. Christianne knew the mother, a woman called Chipenda, and Molly had said she wanted to meet her.

  McFaul nodded, glad that the conversation had changed tack.

  ‘You know where she is?’

  ‘Yes. She’s in the cinema. Camping out.’ Christianne paused. ‘I was wondering about Domingos. We need someone to translate. She only speaks Ovimbundu. I thought …’ she glanced at Molly, ‘if Domingos’s not too busy.’

  McFaul was already on his feet. He limped out of the schoolroom. Llewelyn was crouched in the sunshine, the camcorder cradled in one hand, explaining a sequence to Bennie. They were pretending the equipment had just arrived. On a cue from Llewelyn, Bennie was to start unpacking it. McFaul watched for a moment, then intervened.

  ‘Molly Jordan’s here,’ he said to Domingos, ‘she needs a bit of help.’

  At the mention of Molly’s name, Llewelyn looked up.

  ‘Now?’ he said. ‘She’s here now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘Having coffee,’ McFaul glanced at Bennie, ‘and listening to you, fuck-face.’

  Bennie looked nonplussed for a moment, then closed his eyes and groaned.

  ‘Shit,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Boss.’

  ‘Yeah. And so you fucking should be.’

  Llewelyn was on his feet now, the unpacking sequen
ce forgotten.

  ‘What’s she doing next?’ he asked. ‘Why Domingos?’

  ‘She wants to meet a woman in the city.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just someone.’

  ‘Yes, but who?’

  McFaul took a step towards Llewelyn, tired of arguing with this clown who’d appeared with his camera and his tripod and his fantasies about James Jordan. He was about to settle the debate when Molly appeared at the schoolhouse door. McFaul lowered his fist and turned away, taking Domingos by the arm. The Global Land Rover was parked nearby. Beside it, McFaul explained about Molly, still shaking with anger. Mrs Jordan wanted to talk to Maria’s mother. He and Domingos would go with her. Domingos would translate. Under the circumstances, it was the least they could do. Domingos nodded, watching the Englishwoman walking towards them, deep in conversation with Llewelyn. Beside the Land Rover, they stopped. Llewelyn was looking at McFaul.

  ‘I need to get this on tape,’ he said at once, ‘it’s important.’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘This meeting you’ve set up. Mrs Jordan and the girl’s mother. It makes all kinds of points. In fact, it’s vital, absolutely vital.’

  McFaul stared at him a moment, another surge of anger darkening his face. He should have hit him earlier, he knew it. He should have established the rules, brought this sick media game to an end. Llewelyn was already opening the passenger door of the Land Rover. McFaul looked at Molly.

  ‘You want him along? You want it all filmed? Taped? Whatever he does?’

  Molly was watching Llewelyn as he made himself comfortable in the back of the Land Rover.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t.’

  Molly stepped towards the Land Rover. Llewelyn moved across the bench seat, making room for her. She looked him in the eye, shaking her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t want this on camera.’

  Llewelyn stared at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I don’t want you here. This is private. Myself and Domingos and Mr McFaul.’

  ‘Andy,’ McFaul muttered.

  ‘Andy.’ Molly glanced up at McFaul, correcting herself. ‘Just the three of us.’

  Llewelyn shook his head, disbelieving.

  ‘We’re here to make a film,’ he said thickly. ‘It might help if you remembered that.’

  ‘You’re here to make a film. I’m here for lots of reasons. Please …’ she held the door open, gesturing with her hand, ‘if you don’t mind.’

  Llewelyn began to argue about contracts. Molly interrupted.

  ‘I haven’t got a contract,’ she pointed out.

  ‘You have. You signed one. That first afternoon, that first session in the hotel. In Colchester.’

  Molly frowned remembering a sheet of paper on a clipboard, thrust under her nose minutes before the interview had begun.

  ‘You said that was a formality. I remember. You called it a blood-chit. Not a contract.’

  Llewelyn shrugged.

  ‘Same thing,’ he said. ‘It binds you into the project. We’ve brought you out here. We’ve paid the expenses. If it wasn’t for us, you’d still be in Essex.’

  Molly hesitated, all too aware that she needed advice. Robbie Cunningham had disappeared first thing with Tom Peterson. She glanced at McFaul. He didn’t look like the kind of man who’d bother much about contracts. He bent towards her.

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I want to go and see this lady. The little girl’s mother.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘With you and Domingos.’

  ‘And our friend here?’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘thank you.’

  McFaul nodded. Llewelyn was examining the camera now, holding it up to his eye and making adjustments to the focus ring. McFaul limped round to the other side of the Land Rover. He opened the rear door and pulled Llewelyn out into the sunshine. Under the creased linen jacket, he was surprised how thin the journalist felt. Close to, he looked pale and drawn, his face more grey than white. McFaul escorted him towards the schoolhouse. When Llewelyn had stopped protesting about his lost footage, he released his grip.

  ‘You know the call sign you lot use for Terra Sancta?’

  Llewelyn nodded, rubbing his arm.

  ‘Tango Sierra.’

  ‘Exactly. And you know what that means? In the real world?’

  Llewelyn shook his head, watching the smile spread across McFaul’s face. For a moment, the two men looked at each other. Then McFaul patted Llewelyn roughly on the shoulder.

  ‘It means tough shit,’ he said, turning away.

  They drove into the centre of the city. The streets were coming alive again, hunger and thirst forcing the people out of the shelter of their homes. In the square beside the cathedral there was even the beginnings of a market, women squatting behind squares of grubby matting, trading what little they still possessed for a handful of maize or a corked half-bottle of cloudy paraffin.

  The cinema lay beyond the cathedral. Once, it had been the hub of Muengo’s social life, a long barn-like building, whitewashed cinder-block walls with a decorative façade at one end. Two wide steps led up from the street and there was still the remains of a poster beside the yawning hole where once the doors had been. The poster was rain-splashed and torn but Molly recognised the bleached outline of two faces, nose to nose in a passionate embrace. Ali McGraw. Ryan O’Neal. Love Story.

  Molly smiled, feeling the touch of Domingos’s hand on her elbow. They stepped into the gloom of the vestibule. Only the steel frame of the booking office remained, the timber stripped away. Molly stopped a moment, catching her breath. She could smell smoke. The place was on fire. She was sure of it. Domingos had disappeared through another opening, a jagged hole in an inner wall. Molly followed him, McFaul behind her. Molly could see daylight now, a curious ash-greyness that washed in through the hole punched in the masonry. Beyond lay the body of the cinema, the auditorium, and she was about to step through when she stopped again, her breath gone completely, on the edge of a world no film she’d seen had ever pictured.

  The cinema was a sea of bodies, women and children and old men huddled in groups, the walls towering above them, blackened and sooted, the roof gone, the whole scene veiled by the drifting smoke of a hundred cooking fires. Domingos began to pick his way between the squatting families and Molly ventured after him. Two Angolan nuns stepped aside, acknowledging Domingos’s whispered greeting. One of them was nursing a tiny infant, naked except for a scrap of thin sacking, and Molly paused a moment, looking down at it, wondering whether it was still alive. Outside, through a ragged shell hole in the wall, she could see piles of rubbish – rusty tins, rain-soaked cardboard, torn shreds of the thick blue polythene favoured by the aid charities – and there were kids in amongst it, turning the stuff over, sifting through it, desperate to retrieve anything edible. There were women out there too, and some of them had covered the lower half of their faces against the smell. Molly did the same, one hand to her nose, trying to mask the stench of sweat and smoke.

  Domingos had stopped now. He was squatting beside a woman who’d made a home for herself beside the wall. Above her head, in the space between two cinder-blocks, a pair of bare wires dangled from a broken socket. A child lay on her lap. To Molly it looked no more than a couple of months old, a tiny thing, swaddled in a threadbare cloth. Its eyes were closed, one cheek pressed to the woman’s bare breast, its wrists no thicker than an adult’s thumb. An older child stood beside it, naked except for a pair of ragged shorts. It had a chronic eye infection, yellow pus oozing down one cheek.

  Domingos was talking to the woman. He gestured up towards Molly and the woman followed his pointing finger. She nodded. Domingos stood up.

  ‘Her name is Chipenda,’ he said. ‘Maria was her eldest child. The child your son tried to save.’

  ‘Maria,’ the woman nodded, recognising the name, ‘Maria.’

  Molly knelt quickly besi
de Chipenda. The child on her breast stirred, opening one eye as Molly extended a hand. The woman looked at Molly’s hand, the rings, the perfect nails, openly curious.

  ‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry …’ Molly glanced up at Domingos pausing to let him translate, ‘about your daughter … the shelling …’ she hesitated, ‘all this …’

  The woman, Chipenda, nodded at once, muttering something in Ovimbundu.

  ‘It’s terrible.’ Domingos was playing with the older child. ‘She says it’s terrible.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. She’s right. It’s dreadful …’ Molly hesitated again, not knowing quite what to say next. McFaul had joined them now, pale, grim-faced, gazing down at the wreckage of three lives.

  ‘Ask about her husband,’ he suggested. ‘Ask her where he’s got to.’

  Molly nodded. Domingos obliged with a translation. The woman began to talk very fast, leaning towards Domingos as if she was sharing some family secret. Domingos listened without comment. Finally he nodded, getting to his feet. He looked tired and dispirited, as if he’d heard the same story a thousand times before.

  ‘She says she hasn’t seen her husband for nearly a year. They used to live in a village about three days away. The soldiers came and set fire to the village. Many people died in their huts, burned to death. She and her husband tried to go back afterwards and start again but the soldiers had put mines in the fields so everyone was frightened of going there. Then one night the soldiers returned and took her husband for the war.’

  Molly was looking at the woman.

  ‘Which soldiers?’

  Domingos translated. The woman shrugged. She was drawing patterns in the dirt to keep the child amused.

  ‘Just soldiers,’ Domingos said. ‘She doesn’t know which side.’

  ‘So …’ Molly frowned, ‘when will she see her husband again?’

  Domingos glanced at the woman but didn’t bother to translate this time.

  ‘She wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘He may be dead already. He may come back one day. She can’t tell.’

  ‘And there’s nothing …’ Molly shrugged, ‘she can do? No one she can see? Ask? She just accepts it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Domingos gestured around. ‘What choice does she have?’