More Than You Can Say (31 page)

Maybe I should make an effort to get my life back, I thought. Maybe the scars – the psychic wounds of war – were fading. You never know. It could happen. Maybe I was going to be normal again one day. People got over things. If that was the case, then it was time to try to make something of my life instead of just drifting in and out on the tide.

One day a wholly unsurprising idea came into my head: ‘Why not call Emma?’

What harm could there be in that?

At least then I could deal with all these images – Emma with a husband, Emma with a baby. I would know whether they were true or not. I might call her, just to find out how
she was. Of course, once she knew who it was on the line she would probably refuse to take the call, or hang up. But we might speak for a moment. She would tell me about her new job, or the new man in her life. It would be painful at first but after a while I would become used to the fact that Emma had found a life without me. Once we had spoken, I too could move on.

That was what I told myself.

When I rang Emma’s old number at her flat in Parliament Hill, there was of course no trace of her. The person who answered the phone had neither a forwarding address nor a phone number to give me. In the end I dug out her parents’ number from an old address book. I didn’t know whether her parents would even speak to me, let alone tell me how to get hold of Emma, but I couldn’t think what else to do. It was Emma herself who answered the phone.

‘Hello?’

Her voice was cool and distant: but the moment I heard it a picture of Em formed in my mind, as vivid as if she had been standing in front of me.

‘It’s me,’ I told her; then realising it had been two years since she last heard my voice, I explained: ‘It’s Richard.’

There was an intake of breath, and then a silence.

‘Don’t hang up,’ I said urgently. ‘I just wanted to find out how you are.’

After a moment she said in a low voice: ‘You ring up after two years to find out how I am? Why now? I can’t believe you’re doing this.’

‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to pick up the phone and make sure you’re all right.’

Another long silence, then: ‘I’m all right. But I don’t really want to talk to you.’

Then I said something that was quite unscripted: where the words came from I don’t know, but they were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

‘Emma, I really want to see you again. Even if it’s just for a cup of coffee.’

She thought about that for a while.

‘I don’t know how you dare say that. You betrayed me two years ago. I had to close the restaurant and I had to sell my flat to pay off the bank. Now I’m at home, living with Mummy and Daddy like some pathetic spinster. The best part of my life has gone by. Then you ring up out of the blue and invite me for a cup of coffee as if nothing had happened.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking about this call for weeks.’

‘Well, the answer is no: I don’t want to see
you
again, not even for a cup of coffee.’

So that was that. I thought she would hang up then, but she didn’t. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line.

‘Em … I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I’ve never stopped regretting what I did, and how I behaved towards you. I was off my head in those days, but I’m better now. I have a steady job. Don’t ask me what it is: you’d laugh if I told you. But I’m working. I’m trying to live like any normal person does. I guess that’s all I’ve got to say: I’m sorry.’

Once again there was no answer, so I filled the silence.

‘I’ll hang up now. I can see how distressing this must be. I didn’t want to upset you.’

Then a muffled voice: ‘Richard – you can ring me again, if you like. Only not now: in a day or two.’

She sounded as if she was in tears, so I hung up. I stared at the phone, wondering whether she would ring back, but she
didn’t. Suddenly I was full of energy. I stood up and walked around the flat. What had I learned from the phone call? That she wasn’t married, she wasn’t engaged, she probably wasn’t even seeing anyone. Her parents lived in a remote part of Dumfriesshire. She must be bored and lonely as hell. I wanted to see her again. This time I would get it right. I would see her again and we would talk.

Maybe there was a chance. There had to be a chance that she still felt something for me. I could hear it in her voice. And if there was a second chance, this time I wouldn’t make such a mess of things.

The phone rang again and I picked it up almost before the second ring.

‘Emma.’

‘It’s not Emma,’ replied a familiar voice. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Leader. It’s only me, Ed Hartlepool.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘How are you, Ed?’

‘Bored shitless. I’m in London for a few days. I’m thinking about going to the Diplomatic tonight, for a few hands of cards. Want to come?’

There were a thousand reasons why I didn’t want to go to the Diplomatic. I disliked the memory of that smoky, dark and inauspicious room, full of the mingled odour of perspiration and cigar smoke. I didn’t want to see the misanthropic Eric again, with his potato face and potato eyes. I didn’t want to see Bernie, or Willi Falkenstein. I didn’t really want to see Ed. I didn’t have any money to spare, especially for gambling. I had turned away from that world for ever and the thought of going back to it filled me with revulsion. That was all part of my old existence, the life I had put behind me.

On the other hand … I was bored. The phone call with Emma had left me feeling restless and I needed to get out of
the flat. I couldn’t remember when I had last gone anywhere, or seen anyone outside work.

‘Do you want to come?’ repeated Ed.

‘Why not?’

During my research for this book I read a number of books and in particular I would like to acknowledge the help I had from reading
Task Force Black
by Mark Urban, published by Little, Brown. I am also indebted to
The Circuit
by Bob Shepherd, published by Pan Macmillan.

I also had help from talking to a number of former serving soldiers in the British Army. I won’t embarrass them by naming them, but would like to emphasise that any mistakes in this novel are all mine, and not the result of any advice I received.

A Weidenfeld & Nicolson ebook

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson

This ebook first published in 2011 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson

Copyright © 2011 Paul Torday

The right of Paul Torday to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978 0 297 85826 3

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

London, WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK company

www.orionbooks.co.uk