More Than You Can Say

by Paul Torday

  ‘Don’t I need to know at least the name of the person I am going to marry?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir – all in good time. We have already informed the registrar of that name in order to give notice. And we have gained exemption from the normal waiting period. We have told them you have unexpectedly been recalled to active service and want to be married before you return to Afghanistan.’

  ‘I’ll have my passport back now, please,’ I said, and took it. David made no objection. Instead, he went to the door and called for someone. A small man in a natty suit appeared.

  ‘If you will just stand up for a moment, Mr Gaunt, the tailor will take your measurements. Mr Khan wishes you to look as smart as possible on the great day.’

  The tailor produced a tape measure and took a few measurements: inside leg, chest, waist and so on. Then he jotted them down in a little black notebook.

  ‘It’ll be a rush job, Mr Gaunt, sir,’ he said. ‘They say there’s no time for a proper fitting. Well, normally I prefer at least two fittings to get the job right. But luckily you’re an average shape, sir, so we should be able to cut you something you won’t be ashamed to wear. Mr Khan’s chosen the cloth: a charcoal bird’s-eye for the coat and trousers, and a dove-grey waistcoat. Do you have any preference as to the lining, sir? Only Mr Khan didn’t specify.’

  ‘Whatever you think best,’ I replied. I realised I was being fitted for a morning coat.

  ‘We have a nice blue silk that would look very good against the charcoal,’ suggested the tailor. I nodded my agreement. The fitting over, the man disappeared. David escorted me back to my room.

  As I sat there I tried to work out where this house was. I had seen no clues so far as to its name or location: no desk with writing paper on it, no prints of the house, no visitors’ book. I could have been anywhere. I tried to recall how long the drive had been after I had been knocked down. I thought it might have lasted for an hour at most. Therefore I was either in Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire, Berkshire, Hampshire, Northamptonshire, Bedfordshire or Hertfordshire. That narrowed it down.

  Supper was a more solitary affair than lunch. I dined in the conservatory once more, among the sweet exhalations of the plants and flowers, but there was no Mr Khan to keep me company. I was beginning to feel rather bored. That worried me, because when I get bored my behaviour tends to degenerate. There was nothing to do: no one to talk to, and nothing to read. I’m not much of a book-reader anyway, I don’t seem to be able to concentrate these days, so I lingered for a while in the hope that someone would appear: Mr Khan, perhaps, or my future wife. Even Kevin would have been welcome entertainment by this stage. After sitting alone for over an hour, I trudged back upstairs. There was nothing to do except go to bed. I undressed and fell asleep.

  I did not wake the next morning until I heard a knock at the door. I sat up, still drowsy, trying to remember where I was. David came into the room carrying a tray on which there was a teapot, a cup and saucer, a small silver milk jug and a newspaper.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Gaunt,’ he said. ‘I trust you slept well?’ He crossed the room and set the tray on the writing table, then opened the curtains.

  ‘Mr Khan told me to say that there is no hurry, but breakfast is ready in the conservatory.’

  When I went down Mr Khan was already seated at the marble table. On the hotplate stood a cafetière, a silver teapot and a silver jug full of boiling water. There was a wicker basket full of fresh rolls and croissants, and in another basket, underneath little woolly hats shaped like the heads of chickens, nestled some boiled eggs.

  ‘Mr Gaunt, good morning,’ said Mr Khan, rising to greet me. ‘I hope you passed a comfortable night? It is a wonderful morning, a real English autumn day. The colours of the trees are changing and the sun is out. In Dubai it is now forty degrees, still very hot. Here it is so cool, so fresh. Autumn is a beautiful time in the English countryside, do you not agree?’

  ‘Season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah yes. I do not recognise the reference. Perhaps it is one of your English poets? Here is a glass of fresh orange juice.’

  I took the glass and drained it, then tucked into breakfast.

  ‘Do try some of our marmalade,’ Mr Khan urged me. ‘It is made by Mr Frank Cooper. From Oxford, I believe. We will soon be visiting Oxford. That is where the register office is.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten,’ I said. ‘I’m getting married tomorrow, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Gaunt, Mr Gaunt,’ Mr Khan chuckled. ‘How could you forget such an important occasion? But perhaps it is because you have not yet met your bride? Once you have met her, you will not forget her again, I assure you.’

  ‘And when am I meeting her?’

  ‘Anticipation is the thing!’ cried Mr Khan. He seemed to be in a very cheerful mood. ‘But you are not dressed to receive a new bride. Finish your breakfast, then go upstairs. You will find your bridal clothes ready for you to wear. Put them on and come back. Then we will make the necessary introductions.’

  Mr Khan smiled at me.

  After I’d finished eating I went back upstairs to my bedroom. The bed had already been made, and on the bedspread, in a plastic garment bag, was an immaculate-looking set of morning clothes. Beside it was a selection of cream silk shirts, ties, socks and so on.

  I changed into my finery. The charcoal morning tailcoat and trousers fitted me fairly well. The tailor must have worked all night to produce them. I checked myself in the bathroom mirror and adjusted the knot in my tie. I looked all right. In fact, I thought I looked pretty smart. I could have done with a haircut, but the face staring back at me from the mirror reminded me of the younger, more optimistic person who had once inhabited this body, before everything went wrong. I shrugged away the memories.

  When I came back to the conservatory, it was empty. Breakfast had been cleared away and now a bronze ice bucket stood on the marble table, along with a couple of glasses. I could see the top of a champagne bottle poking out with a cloth wrapped around it. So there was to be a celebration: I was to drink the bride’s health. But where was she? I found to my annoyance that my pulse rate had gone up. I was feeling the sort of apprehension I used to feel when I went skiing, standing at the top of a black run; or on those other expeditions, which had so often begun in the darkness before dawn.

  I heard footsteps and went back into the drawing room to see who was coming. A beam of sunlight came through the windows, making the rich patterns and colours of the drawing-room carpet glow as if newly woven. The first into the room was Mr Khan, wearing a dark pinstriped suit and a striped tie. He looked very formal.

  ‘Mr Gaunt,’ he said. ‘Your new clothes fit you very well. You look, as they say, a million dollars.’

  He turned and beckoned to someone lingering out of sight in the hall.

  ‘Mr Gaunt, I am proud to introduce you to your fiancée,’ said Mr Khan as she came into the room. ‘May I present Adeena, the future Mrs Gaunt?’

  My first thought was one of astonishment. For some reason I had imagined I would be meeting a Pakistani or Bangladeshi girl in a sari, with glossy black hair tucked under a headscarf, or else a veiled figure in a hijab. This woman looked like a European: blonde wavy hair curling just at the base of her neck, blue eyes, a honey-coloured complexion, a stunning figure. She was wearing Western clothes, of the sort suitable for a weekend at a country house party: a pale green cardigan over a white blouse and a tweed skirt, with brown suede loafers on her feet. She looked like any other well-bred, well-groomed girl you might expect to meet in such surroundings; and yet, quite unlike too.

  But it was her eyes that caught my attention. They were so full of despair and hatred that I almost flinched when she gazed at me. The rest of her face was expressionless as she was introduced.

  ‘I am very pleased to meet you,’ I said. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I put out my hand. She took it briefly. Her hand was cool and limp, then she let go.

  ‘
Pleased to meet you,’ she replied, with only the hint of an accent. Her voice was without inflexion. She looked as if she would, by a long way, prefer martyrdom to marriage. Perhaps she was ill. She did not look unhappy. She looked beyond unhappy.

  Mr Khan smiled fondly at us both.

  ‘Ah, the young lovers,’ he said. ‘I am so happy that God has chosen me to bring you together. I can see that you are wondering about Adeena’s fair complexion, Mr Gaunt. I will explain. Her family are from Nuristan, in the north-east corner of Afghanistan, the region you call the Hindu Kush. She is of the Q’ata tribe, and it is said they are descended from Iskander the Great, and his Greek armies, when they passed through the region’s wooded valleys on their way to conquer India. She has the blonde hair and blue eyes of her race, so rare in our corner of the world.’

  I felt transfixed by the girl’s haunted gaze. Whatever powerful emotion lay behind her eyes, it was not unrequited love. There was something so dreadful in her presence it inhibited speech. Mr Khan filled the silence.

  ‘You are dumbstruck. That is very good. I told you she would be worth waiting for. Adeena, Mr Gaunt is a member of English society, no doubt with the most important and interesting connections. Also he is a soldier. Perhaps he has served in Afghanistan. Is that correct, Mr Gaunt?’

  ‘Yes, I was in Afghanistan for a while.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ exclaimed Mr Khan. He clapped his hands in delight. ‘Then the two of you can share happy memories of that beautiful country. Your bride is a most knowledgeable person, Mr Gaunt. She can tell you everything about the new, modern, democratic and prosperous country of Afghanistan.’

  He talked about the girl as if she were a thing, rather than a person. What was her name? Adeena, that was it. Mr Khan walked towards the bronze bucket in the conservatory. We followed him, Adeena moving very slowly as if each step cost her an effort of will. Mr Khan pulled out the champagne bottle from the melting ice, and another, smaller bottle containing what looked like orange juice. After a brief struggle he removed the foil and the wire cage and popped the cork of the champagne. He poured me a glass. Then he unscrewed the top of the other bottle and poured a measure of orange juice into the second glass, which he presented to Adeena.

  ‘You must drink to each other’s health,’ he said, still playing the part of the proud father-in-law. He lifted both hands as if conducting, enjoining us to raise our glasses.

  ‘Your good health and happiness,’ I said, raising the champagne glass in Adeena’s direction.

  My voice sounded pompous and formal. Adeena raised her orange juice in reply, then opened out her hand in a deliberate gesture and let the glass fall to the ground. It shattered on the tiled floor of the conservatory and the orange juice went everywhere. Then, with one last look of contempt, directed equally at Mr Khan and myself, she turned and walked out of the room.

  ‘Adeena!’ Mr Khan shouted after her, but she did not look back. In the silence that followed her gesture, I heard her light footsteps going up the stairs, then the sound of a distant door being slammed with some force.

  ‘She’s nervous,’ said Mr Khan, rubbing his hands together. ‘It is too much excitement for her. First she arrives in a strange country, and now she is meeting a strange man who is to be her husband. She will get used to the idea. She is a frightfully jolly girl, really, when you get to know her. I knew her father. He was a jolly chap too, until he was killed.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t have to like me, does she, Mr Khan?’ I said. ‘I mean, I don’t suppose you plan to keep me around once you have the marriage certificate. Let’s be honest, that’s what this is all about. I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry. Once I have the money, I’ll keep my mouth shut. But let’s not pretend it’s anything other than that. I don’t think that I’m a great judge of character, but I wouldn’t say Adeena is dying to get married to me. Would you?’

  Mr Khan had watched Adeena’s departure with the air of a loving father looking after an errant daughter. Now, as he faced me, his expression was a mask of clinical detachment. He stared at me with his dark brown eyes and said nothing at all. The friendly atmosphere that is usually generated by the popping of a champagne cork seemed to have dissipated.

  ‘You will please go to your room and stay there,’ Mr Khan said after a moment or two. ‘Food will be sent to you as necessary. We will call for you when we need you again.’

  I did not argue. Upstairs I sat in one of the armchairs in my bedroom and wondered about the girl I had just met. She was stunning and she was also brave: anyone who defied Mr Khan had to have a certain amount of courage – or else be foolhardy. The third thing I knew about her was that she did not like orange juice.

  I didn’t imagine I would see much more of her. I wondered what was in it for her? Was she a refugee of some sort? Did she agree with this sham marriage? It didn’t matter. Mr Khan would make her go through with it and then I would be free to get back to my life, but ten thousand pounds better off.

  What would happen to her? I wondered. Best not to think about it. I picked up the newspaper lying on the table in front of me and turned the pages without reading them. Rain began to spatter against the window.

  Then, without my being able to do anything about it, the memories started to come back; like a television set I could not switch off, playing nothing but repeats.

  Four

  The images had the vivid quality of a film. Time would not dull or blur them however much I wished it would.

  When my half-platoon of specialists first arrived at Baghdad International Airport that spring we were met in the arrivals hall by an American non-com from Delta Force: a large man in desert camouflages holding up a name board with my name and rank on it.

  ‘Captain Gaunt?’ he asked. When I nodded he replied, ‘Please follow me, sir. We have transport waiting.’

  He did not smile or offer his hand. We followed him through the terminal. He walked quickly and we struggled to keep up with him, carrying our kitbags, which weighed a ton. The terminal was surprisingly busy: military personnel, mostly American; and civilians, mostly men, probably contractors, oilmen, journalists or aid workers. When we stepped outside the heat was fierce. It was spring in Baghdad. We had been told it would be getting hot and it was: forty degrees, at least. Our last overseas posting had been in Pristina, in Kosovo with KFOR. The springs there had been warm but they were nothing like this.

  Outside, a row of Humvees was parked. I noticed that they were not the soft-skinned ones we had seen in Kosovo, but the new up-armoured version. That was comforting. They were being guarded by another soldier from Delta Force with a C7 Diemaco rifle. We’d heard that the twelve-kilometre journey into Baghdad along ‘Route Irish’ could be interesting. I was looking forward to the ride. I felt excited. I think we all were, although we knew this was an unpopular war at home. It wasn’t like Kosovo, where we knew we were needed to stop the whole of the Balkans going up in flames, or Northern Ireland, or any of the other places I had been to in my last few years with the army. But it was action: better than sitting in Basra waiting for someone to lob a mortar at us.

  I felt sorry for the Iraqis. We’d started this war to help them. Nobody I knew had ever seriously believed they had ‘weapons of mass destruction’. This was about bringing peace and democracy to the people of Iraq, wasn’t it? Only someone had disbanded the Iraqi army about two days after the invasion and had sent them home without pay. Then everyone was terribly surprised when they all turned up again as insurgents wearing civilian clothes; shooting, bombing and generally making the country into the most dangerous place on earth.

  Anyway, we were here now, and Saddam was gone. So that was good. Sergeant Hawkes said we’d started the war to make sure we kept control over Iraqi oil, but he was a cynic. Some of us even suspected him of being too clever for his own good, but I liked him. He was interesting to talk to, and read a great deal more than the rest of us put together. I also knew that, despite his remarks, Sergeant Hawkes felt the same sense of
excitement about this new mission as the rest of us.

  The set-up where we were going was unusual. The Multi-National Force was headquartered in Baghdad but the city and all of central Iraq were under the control of the US military. We had been sent there in support of an operation called Task Force Black. This was a special forces job: SAS and Delta Force working together to suppress the spiralling violence on the streets of Baghdad – and practically every other town of any size in central Iraq. Our job was to provide an outer cordon: security cover for the special forces teams while they did what they were good at.

  ‘The squadron is located in a compound in the Green Zone,’ my commanding officer told me before we took the plane to Baghdad. ‘But the quartermaster has run out of room for the moment. Your platoon will be quartered on a temporary basis in a villa near by. There’s a Yank PMC called Green Park based there.’

  ‘A PMC?’ I asked. It was spring 2005 and some of the jargon of this war was still new to me.

  ‘A Private Military Contractor. They are there to provide logistical services to the task force – food, accommodation and so on. You will get your orders from Squadron Command at the Task Force Headquarters in the main compound. Intel comes into the squadron via the Joint Support Group. You may remember them from Belfast. You’re there in a support role, to watch the backs of the SAS.’

  I did remember the Joint Support Group from the time we’d served in Northern Ireland. Its name made it sound as if it was one of those organisations set up to help distressed gentlefolk but its mission was somewhat different. In Northern Ireland it was responsible for agent-handling. I didn’t know they had become involved in Baghdad, or what their new job might involve, but not all of the agents that the JSG handled in Belfast had lived happily ever after.