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.
McFaul’s address was in the phone book. She got in the taxi and gave it to the driver. It was raining now, the tyres hissing on the road, the streets empty. McFaul lived on the eastern edge of the city. They drove along the seafront, Molly gazing out, wondering how he’d take it. Maybe he had guests. Maybe he had family. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
McFaul’s house lay at the end of a terrace. Molly paid the driver, watching the lights of the taxi disappear. Then she turned to the front door. She could hear music inside, a man’s voice, deep. She listened for a moment longer, wondering where she’d last heard the song, then she knocked softly on the front door. She was about to knock again when the music stopped. She heard a door open, then a tuneless whistle and the sound of McFaul’s footsteps echoing down the hall. The sound of his footsteps was unmistakable. She remembered it from the schoolhouse in Muengo. Tap-tap-tap, went his footfall on the bare boards, tap-tap-tap.
The door opened and McFaul was standing there. He had a small cigar in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. Molly produced the bottle of Armagnac, holding it out.
‘Present,’ she said simply.
For a moment, McFaul said nothing. Then he smiled, stepping aside, inviting her in.
The Perfect Soldier Page 49