trade press, was in excess of £6 million and in the light of their previous relationship Llewelyn saw no reason why some of it shouldn’t come his way. He had the ideas. He had the track record. All Pegley had to do was say yes.
He watched Pegley’s eyes straying back to the pad. Beside each of Llewelyn’s programme suggestions was a tiny pencil mark. These marks, as far as Llewelyn could judge, were identical. So if Hiroshima wouldn’t fly, it was logical to assume that the others were equally doomed. Llewelyn reached for his glass, deciding to try a new tack.
‘You’re forty-seven years old …’ he mused, ‘you’re married, nicely set up, still good-looking in a vulnerable sort of way. You have a son. An only son. He’s the apple of your eye. He goes off to Africa. He’s working for an aid charity. He’s digging wells, piping water, saving lives, all that. This makes you even more proud of him. Then he steps on a land mine. Bang. And suddenly he’s dead.’
Llewelyn leaned back, sipping at the Chianti, pleased with himself. Pegley was still winding lengths of spaghetti round his fork. He glanced up. For the first time, he looked genuinely interested.
‘Fact or fiction?’ He picked a sliver of crab shell from his tongue and laid it carefully on the side of his plate.
‘Fact. As of yesterday.’
‘Been in the papers? Anyone else know?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Tell me more.’
Llewelyn took his time, making the most of what little extra he’d managed to prise out of Robbie Cunningham. He’d phoned the young press officer before leaving for the restaurant, telling him they both needed to go back to the dead boy’s mother, but Cunningham had refused to playball. He worked for the Director. Any assignments should come from him. Now, Llewelyn began to mop his plate with a crescent of bread roll.
‘Africa’s sexy just now …’ he began. ‘Rwanda, Mandela, you name it. But how much do we really know about the place? The way it works? The chaos? The killing? The risks these young guys take?’
Pegley interrupted.
‘Which country are we talking about?’
‘Angola.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Exactly.’ Llewelyn leaned forward, tapping the table. ‘Unknown Angola. The forgotten war. Refugees. Famine. Drought. Disease. A tragedy in the making and no one’s even heard of it. Believe me, it’s the perfect focus …’
‘For what?’
‘For this film of mine.’
‘But what about the woman? Where does she come in?’
‘She goes out there. To Angola. To find her son.’
‘I thought he was dead.’
‘He is. That’s the whole point. Another white life. Another sacrifice. For Africa.’
‘So she goes out there to bring him back? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, but first she has to find him.’ Llewelyn had picked up the butter knife now, waving it around, warming to his theme. ‘She’s blonde. She’s pretty. She’s middle class. And she’s white. But we’re with her. Through it all.’
‘Who’s with her?’
‘I am.’
‘So you and she go to …’ Pegley frowned, finding another splinter of crab leg on the end of his finger.
‘Angola.’
‘Yeah, sure. You and she fly out to find the son?’ Llewelyn shook his head.
‘The truth,’ he said, ‘we go out there to find the truth. About what really happened. Then we come home with the body. Film-wise, final cut, we probably start with the funeral, back over here. She lives out in the country, Essex somewhere. There’ll be a church, a graveyard, lots of mourners. The mother’s obviously there, and the father too.’
‘And you?’
‘Maybe, maybe not, depends. Could be tacky …’ Llewelyn paused, his eyes narrowing, trying to visualise the next sequence. ‘Flashback might be nice, little dollops of Africa intercut with the funeral, in and out, just a taste, just a glimpse, the filth, the noise, the squalor, the kids, bang, then back to the funeral, bang, close-up coffin, bang, more Africa, bang, coffin
He watched Pegley’s eyes straying back to the pad. Beside each of Llewelyn’s programme suggestions was a tiny pencil mark. These marks, as far as Llewelyn could judge, were identical. So if Hiroshima wouldn’t fly, it was logical to assume that the others were equally doomed. Llewelyn reached for his glass, deciding to try a new tack.
‘You’re forty-seven years old …’ he mused, ‘you’re married, nicely set up, still good-looking in a vulnerable sort of way. You have a son. An only son. He’s the apple of your eye. He goes off to Africa. He’s working for an aid charity. He’s digging wells, piping water, saving lives, all that. This makes you even more proud of him. Then he steps on a land mine. Bang. And suddenly he’s dead.’
Llewelyn leaned back, sipping at the Chianti, pleased with himself. Pegley was still winding lengths of spaghetti round his fork. He glanced up. For the first time, he looked genuinely interested.
‘Fact or fiction?’ He picked a sliver of crab shell from his tongue and laid it carefully on the side of his plate.
‘Fact. As of yesterday.’
‘Been in the papers? Anyone else know?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Tell me more.’
Llewelyn took his time, making the most of what little extra he’d managed to prise out of Robbie Cunningham. He’d phoned the young press officer before leaving for the restaurant, telling him they both needed to go back to the dead boy’s mother, but Cunningham had refused to playball. He worked for the Director. Any assignments should come from him. Now, Llewelyn began to mop his plate with a crescent of bread roll.
‘Africa’s sexy just now …’ he began. ‘Rwanda, Mandela, you name it. But how much do we really know about the place? The way it works? The chaos? The killing? The risks these young guys take?’
Pegley interrupted.
‘Which country are we talking about?’
‘Angola.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Exactly.’ Llewelyn leaned forward, tapping the table. ‘Unknown Angola. The forgotten war. Refugees. Famine. Drought. Disease. A tragedy in the making and no one’s even heard of it. Believe me, it’s the perfect focus …’
‘For what?’
‘For this film of mine.’
‘But what about the woman? Where does she come in?’
‘She goes out there. To Angola. To find her son.’
‘I thought he was dead.’
‘He is. That’s the whole point. Another white life. Another sacrifice. For Africa.’
‘So she goes out there to bring him back? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, but first she has to find him.’ Llewelyn had picked up the butter knife now, waving it around, warming to his theme. ‘She’s blonde. She’s pretty. She’s middle class. And she’s white. But we’re with her. Through it all.’
‘Who’s with her?’
‘I am.’
‘So you and she go to …’ Pegley frowned, finding another splinter of crab leg on the end of his finger.
‘Angola.’
‘Yeah, sure. You and she fly out to find the son?’ Llewelyn shook his head.
‘The truth,’ he said, ‘we go out there to find the truth. About what really happened. Then we come home with the body. Film-wise, final cut, we probably start with the funeral, back over here. She lives out in the country, Essex somewhere. There’ll be a church, a graveyard, lots of mourners. The mother’s obviously there, and the father too.’
‘And you?’
‘Maybe, maybe not, depends. Could be tacky …’ Llewelyn paused, his eyes narrowing, trying to visualise the next sequence. ‘Flashback might be nice, little dollops of Africa intercut with the funeral, in and out, just a taste, just a glimpse, the filth, the noise, the squalor, the kids, bang, then back to the funeral, bang, close-up coffin, bang, more Africa, bang, coffin
Similar Books
