Recoil (8 page)

A plan started to form in my head. After lunch, I’d walk Silky back to her office, past the glittering display windows of the jewellery shops. I’d reach into my pocket, pull out the box, and say something like, ‘I’ve always preferred economy-sized, myself . . .’ Maybe I’d buy her an ice-cream at the place at the end of the street, put it behind my back, and say, ‘Which hand?’ I wondered how Hugh Grant would do it.

Twelve thirty came and went, and Silky didn’t call. I knew she was busy, so I didn’t call her. I ordered another coffee and decided to hit the inside pages.

There was an election crisis in Peru, and a hosepipe ban in London. Two volunteers with a medical charity had been kidnapped at gunpoint by one of the factions in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Nobody seemed to know why they were being held, and the outlook was bleak. None of the players up there was ever going to win a nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize.

The country’s name had changed from Zaïre since I was there on the team job in ’85, but not much else. For over seven years, the Congolese had been involved in the biggest conflict the world had seen since the Second World War. Hutus responsible for murdering nearly a million Tutsis in Rwanda’s 1994 genocide had fled across the border to escape the avenging Tutsi army. Zaïre had imploded from civil war and incursions by neighbouring states. Rwanda invaded again in 1998, sparking a war that, at its height, sucked in nine other African countries. Four million had died, and the rest of the world had barely heard about it. The only people who had were the medical charities, like Mercy Flight, who had guys on the ground doing their best to patch up the wounded and fucked-up.

The place was a nightmare for exactly the same reasons as it had been when I was there: greed, and the struggle to control the country’s vast gold, diamond and mineral resources. If it wasn’t rival groups backed by one foreign power or another in their fight to get their hands on the mineral wealth, it was people starving to death simply because they had fuck-all to offer – no diamonds, no oil, no crops – and, as a result, no money to buy stuff from the West. So we turned our backs. Sir Bob the Knob and Bono the Dog Biscuit did their bit, but they were pissing into a force ten.

But that wasn’t what made me uncomfortable. I closed the paper, sat back and shut my eyes.

Sometimes, if a child caught my gaze and stared at me, the way kids do, I saw that little boy’s eyes – scared and wide, desperate for me to lift him up as if he were air. I’d wanted that to happen just as much as he had. I didn’t realize it until maybe ten years later, but it was as if saving him would have made up for all the others.

And that was nothing compared with what I felt about leaving Sam and the rest of them to the fuck-up that was spread all over the scrubland that day.

My cappuccino turned up and we went through the being-served routine.

‘
Grazie mille
.’ It was nice to be nice.

He smiled back at me. ‘
Prego
.’

My thanks weren’t so much for the coffee, as for helping me cut away from the look in the boy’s eyes as he’d slipped from my grasp. The image had burned into my brain, and haunted me whenever I was stupid enough to let myself remember him. The waiter had helped me do what I always did when thinking about the shit end of my life – cut away and get back to the more practical parts of it.

It had been a hot refuel. Both helis had kept their rotors spinning, and marines ran up to us with the hose from the Sea Knight and shoved the nozzle into our tank. By then I had settled myself against the boxes, watching Standish and the general continue to congratulate each other on a job well done.

Once we were safely on board the carrier fleet I’d been separated from the other two, and eventually flown to Nigeria. From there, armed with a new passport by the embassy, I was sent back to Hereford.

I never saw Sam again. The moment he’d got back to Kinshasa, he’d thrown his hand in and left the Regiment. After that, he disappeared off the radar.

Annabel had landed head first and broken her neck. She’d died immediately. The boy had managed to stay alive somehow, but he wasn’t expected to see his next birthday. That was if he knew when it was.

All in all, a shit job. But fuck it, that was a long time ago. Now there wasn’t any scrubland, dead kids or Milo. There was a beautiful lake, a beautiful girl and the best cappuccino in five hundred miles.

But still I couldn’t get the boy’s pleading stare out of my head. I hated it when this happened. I knew what was coming next.

I leaned forward over the table to sip my brew, feeling as if it was wrong, somehow, to be enjoying the view. I couldn’t help but think about Sam. I knew it wasn’t my fault that I had been stranded on board when the heli took off. I knew I’d done my best to save the boy. But did Sam? Did he know how much I’d wanted to be back on the ground with him and the team?

It wasn’t the only thing that kept me awake at night, but it had a nasty habit of sneaking under the wire when I was least prepared.

Fuck it, so what? Next time, I’d stop at the headlines. I made myself sit back and soak up the surroundings as I checked my watch again. It was a cheapie from Australia, but it always made me smile. Silky had given it to me because I was always asking her the time. The dial was black and a kangaroo‘s paws were the hands. It didn’t have a strap. It hung off a small karabiner key-ring that I hooked on to one of my belt loops. It was well after one. Normally she’d have called by now.

My mobile vibrated. I smiled as I saw the number. I still had her +41 country prefix in my address book. I stopped smiling when I opened up the text.

Can’t make lunch. Sorry. x

I folded up my paper, paid the bill, and went over to the desk to apologize. Could they make it dinner instead? No problem. They knew us. Or, rather, they knew her stepfather.

My mobile kicked off again:
And I’m sorry about this morning. xx

I was sorry about this morning too, but I was fucked if I’d dwell on it. She’d been acting a bit strange these last couple of weeks, but it was a small cross to bear.

I jumped on my borrowed moped and headed up to the high ground where the really stinking money hung out.

2

The soles of my trainers squeaked on the marble floor like some sort of intruder alarm.
Watch this fucker: he’s not in Gucci loafers
 . . .

The sun was low, about to disappear over the mountains. It was half six, and Silky should have been home a good hour ago. She never stuffed envelopes for the do-gooders much past five, or signed begging letters or whatever it was she did. I hadn’t quite got round to asking: I was just happy that this beautiful woman still didn’t mind being seen around with me and that her stepdad’s fridge was full of cold Peroni.

Ten-foot-tall statues of Greek gods filled recesses on either side of the hall, each one bathed in its own pool of moody downlighting. Between the recesses, small mahogany tables displayed gem-encrusted ornaments and photographs in crystal frames. When Stefan had furnished this place, the Louis XIV repro department at Harrods must have emptied overnight.

I reached the staircase that swept down to the kitchens. Stefan’s palace was more like a five-star hotel than a home, teeming with staff ready to cook me dinner or polish my shoes and press my suit, if only I’d had one. Even so, I wanted to make my own sandwich if I could get away with it. It felt too weird picking up a phone and having Giuseppe ask the chef to stick a slice of cheese between two hunks of bread.

A lad hurried up the stairs on his way to the front door. I turned and waited in case he was opening it for Silky. That was the sort of thing they did round here.

Just about the whole front of the house was glass, and all I could see to either side of the solid front door was mountains, and at the bottom of the valley, the lake and the financial district. I sometimes wondered if the only reason Stefan had chosen this house was because his money lined a bank vault down the road and he could sit at a window all night and watch it piling up the interest.

The lad opened the door and I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. The big wrought-iron gates had opened automatically. The radiator grille and solid gold Flying Lady on Stefan’s Rolls-Royce were nosing through.

Now I really was worried. Not only was my girl late home and I had a ring to give away, but I was going to have to spend time with this shit-head. Stefan wasn’t renowned for his small-talk at the best of times, unless it involved leveraged buyouts and P/E ratios, which wasn’t my strong suit. And whenever he spent more than five seconds with me, the look on his face said loud and clear that he wished he was anywhere else.

The highly polished Roller with darkened windows swept up to the house and the lad ran across to open the passenger door.

Out he stepped, olive-skinned and grey-haired, hands like shovels even though they’d never held one. He wasn’t fat, but definitely well-dined. His dark features betrayed his Lebanese roots, but otherwise he looked every inch the European tycoon in his navy blazer and yellow tie.

I took my chance and disappeared downstairs.

‘Yes, Mr Nick, can I help you?’

Shit – I wasn’t going to get away with slicing my own bread. Giuseppe, the butler, was waiting, arms folded. He was the big cheese round here. Well, sort of. He was five foot five on tiptoe. His soles never squeaked on any surface: he sort of glided around the place and materialized wherever he was needed.

‘Hello, mate.’ I hated this Mr Nick business. ‘I’m only after a cheese sandwich. I didn’t want to bother anyone.’

This was his domain, and I was trespassing. ‘It’s no bother, Mr Nick. It’s what we’re here for.’

‘I know, it’s just—’

‘Let me show you something, Mr Nick. Come.’

A mischievous grin spread across his face as he led me to a table loaded with groceries. With his long thin nose above a greying moustache, and large brown eyes, which crinkled up with the rest of his face when he laughed, he reminded me of a cartoon Italian papa in a TV advert for pasta sauce I’d seen over the past couple of months. He should have been playing Papa on TV for real.

‘I ordered a special delivery from Fortnum & Mason. Look.’ He rummaged in an immaculately packed and padded box and pulled out a small jar.

‘Branston Pickle!’ I slapped his shoulder. ‘You’re a great man, Giuseppe. So – has the time come for me to show you how to make a cheese sandwich my way?’ I’d asked him for the stuff every time I’d come down here. It was the highlight of my day, watching him not having a clue what I was asking for, but turning up his nose at it anyway.

I still remembered the mozzarella masterpiece the chef had run up last time, and how Giuseppe had shaken his head in disbelief as I picked out all the green stuff, then looked at me like I was talking Swahili when I asked for pickle. But that was before I overheard Stefan bawling him out yet again a couple of nights ago.

It was par for the course around here for the staff to be treated like dirt. A day or two back, Stefan was kicking off because he’d caught Giuseppe mimicking him. He took off the boss so well – the rest of the staff had almost had a heart-attack when they’d congregated below stairs to honk about him, and Giuseppe boomed at them from the hallway. I was down there myself at the time, making some toast. I’d been so sure it was Stefan that I’d thrown the toast in the bin before he accused me of thieving. This time, Stefan was going ape-shit that the thirty-year-old malt in the decanter seemed to be evaporating and he was pointing the finger. I went in, told the stupid fucker it was my fault, and said I’d be happy to replace what I’d drunk, if it was a problem. I was Giuseppe’s new best mate overnight, and I hadn’t even had to tell him what I’d done. He’d had his ear to the door. Nothing went on in this house without him knowing about it.

‘Why do you stay and take his crap? Why don’t you just hose down all the whisky and walk out the gate?’

Giuseppe pulled a bag of sliced white bread and a packet of processed cheese from the box. The people at Fortnum & Mason must have cringed. ‘I have my reasons. But I’m going home to Lazio soon, Mr Nick.’ He allowed himself the kind of smile that meant there was a lot more going on in that head of his than his eyes were prepared to give away. ‘Very soon. But, please, do not tell Mr Stefan.’

I peeled off a couple of slices of processed cheese and put them on a slice of dry bread – no butter or spread.

‘Miss Silke seems happier than she’s been for a very long time.’ Giuseppe seemed disgusted by my culinary efforts. ‘And she’s stayed here much longer than usual.’

I opened the Branston and spread a thick layer over the cheese. ‘How long is that?’

He closed his eyes, as if he was doing mental arithmetic – or maybe he didn’t want to see any more food massacres in that kitchen. ‘She comes back maybe once a year, and stays only a week or two. She and Mr Stefan, well – let’s say she’s travelled a lot since her mother died.’

I added another slice of dry bread to the sandwich. ‘How long ago was that?’

I knew Stefan had married her mother in 1976. Silky had been an only child, just two, when her father’s car had wrapped itself round a lamppost in West Berlin. Her mother had moved back to her native Zürich and opened a bookshop. Stefan went in one day to buy a business book – ‘Probably
Swimming With Sharks
,’ Silky laughed – and came out with her phone number. They had married, and she gave up the bookshop because Stefan couldn’t stand the thought of his wife working. All in all, she’d suffered twenty years of loveless marriage with him in Lugano before she detected a lump in her breast. Two years later, despite the best medical treatment Stefan’s wealth could provide, she was history.