Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

“He wrecked my boat!”

“Don’t be tedious! He was assured that it was abandoned!” I was beginning to see that this slender and beautiful creature had the sting of a scorpion. She looked at me with derision. “Your wife assured Tony it was abandoned. She assured him personally. Very personally.”

Sod you too, I thought, but didn’t say it. I wondered how Melissa and Bannister had met, then supposed it must have been when Bannister wanted to rent the wharf. And how Melissa would have loved to add a celebrity like Bannister to her conquests.

“Well?” Angela asked coldly.

“Well what?”

“What’s your answer, Nick?” She used my first name, not in friendliness, but with condescension. When I didn’t answer she went back to the table and took a cigarette from Matthew’s packet.

He lit it for her, and she blew smoke towards me. “We want to make a film, Nick. It will be a very truthful and very meaningful film. It will tell the story of a man who achieved something quite remarkable. It will also tell of triumph over pain, of ambition over despair.

It will give new hope to other people who are suffering.” Her voice was now sweet reason itself. “At the same time it will give you a peaceful convalescence and a beautifully rebuilt boat. I assume you do want Sycorax rebuilt?”

“You know damn well I do.”

“Then you should understand that none of the necessary materials for the repair will be delivered until you sign the contract.” She stared at me in cool challenge.

“And we’ll pay you an appearance fee,” Matthew said encouragingly.

“Shut up, Matthew.” Angela kept her eyes on me.

I turned and looked at Sycorax . I hated to see her out of the water.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “Bannister took my boat out of the water because he thought it was abandoned?”

“He was told it was abandoned, yes,” Angela said.

“And Melissa rented him the wharf, even though it wasn’t hers to rent?”

“So you say.” Angela was guarded.

“And it was Bannister’s thug who beat the crap out of me.”

“That was not on Tony’s orders. Fanny believed you were stealing the powerboat, but we agree that he over-reacted.”

“I’d call two fractured ribs an over-reaction, too.” My irony was lost on her. “And where is Mulder, anyway?”

“We really don’t know,” Angela said. Bannister had promised me he would try and find Mulder, then persuade the South African to return the medal, but there had been no news. Bannister had also tried to persuade me to drop my charges against Mulder, arguing that Fanny would be more likely to reappear if no legal threat loomed, but I had refused. Mulder had wounded Sycorax and myself, and I wanted him nailed.

But nailing Mulder was a separate business from restoring Sycorax and it seemed, whether I liked it or not, that the only way to achieve that was to co-operate with Angela’s bloody film. I said as much, which irritated Angela. “I wouldn’t describe it as a bloody film,” she said tartly. “It will be a very truthful and very moving human story.”

“What control do I have?”

She frowned. “Control?”

“Over untruths. I can’t have you saying that I want to go back to the Falklands. It’s not that I’m frightened of going, it just doesn’t happen to be one of my ambitions. I want to sail to New Zealand.”

“You mean editorial control?” Angela said calmly. “Let me explain.

You were clearly a very good soldier, Nick, but you’re hardly a trained television producer. You’ll have to understand that our skill lies in the shaping and transmission of information. We’re very good at it, and we don’t surrender the control of those skills to anyone. If we did, then we’d be forced to bend to the whim of any politician or public-relations man who wanted to conceal the truth. And that’s what we tell, the truth. So you get no editorial control. You tell us your truth, and we tell it to the world.”

There did not seem to be much to say to that. “I see.” Angela stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette. “So perhaps you’ll sign the contracts?” She opened her bag and took out a thick wad of documents. “Head contract.” She separated and dropped three copies of each document on to the table as she spoke. “The subcontract with Bannister Productions Ltd, who will actually make the film. An insurance indemnity form. Your undertaking not to talk with any other television company or newspaper while the film’s being made. And a medical form.” She dropped the last pieces of paper, then held a pen towards me. “Sign wherever I’ve pencilled a cross, then please initial every separate page of the two contracts.” I took the pen and sat. I tried to follow the good advice to read whatever I was signing, but the contracts were dense with sub-paragraphs about syndication rights and credits.

“They’re standard contracts.” Angela seemed frustrated by my hesitation. “And I’ll leave you copies.”

“Of course,” I said. The truth is that I’ve always found it embarrassing to keep people waiting while I read the small print. It seems so untrusting, and I never understand the legal language anyway. I signed in triplicate, then scribbled my initials on all the separate pages. “Now do I get the timber for Sycorax ’s hull?”

“It will come next week.” Angela pushed the documents to Matthew, who witnessed them. “Your first call,” she said to me, “is next Tuesday, mid-day. The location will be the town marina. Do you know it?”

“I grew up in it.”

“And you do understand what you’ve signed, Captain Sandman?”

“To make your film,” I said.

“To make yourself available and co-operative for the successful completion of the film.” She separated my copies of the documents and handed them to me. “That means I’d appreciate it if you were to always let me know where you are.”

“I’ll be in London tomorrow,” I said, “to see my children. Is that permitted, ma’am?”

She ignored my clumsy sarcasm. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” she said instead, “when we’ll be going to sea. Do you need us to provide waterproofs?”

“I have my own.”

“I hope our co-operation will be very constructive,” she said coldly, “and might I recommend that you watch Tony’s show tonight? Matthew and I will see ourselves out. Till Tuesday, Captain Sandman.”

“It’s Mister,” I said. “I left the Army.”

She paused. Her blue eyes appraised me for a second and did not seem to like what they saw. “Till Tuesday, Nick. Are you ready, Matthew?”

They left, and I began to understand how General Menendez must have felt in Port Stanley; slashed to bloody ribbons and with nowhere to turn.

And it was all my own fault.

I watched The Tony Bannister Show that night. I was hurting. For some reason the pain in my back had decided to tighten and flare, while my right leg, which I kept telling myself was almost healed, felt numb and flaccid. Alone in the lavish house, I felt the temptation of despair; of accepting that I would never walk properly.

I swallowed four aspirins that I helped down with two large glasses of Irish whiskey, none of which helped, then I diverted my self-pity by switching on Bannister’s programme.

It was a nightly programme, shown from autumn until spring, and transmitted after the late news. I’d watched more than a few of the programmes since I’d been a guest in Bannister’s house, and I hadn’t much enjoyed them.

That night’s show was the final programme in the present series.

It kept to Bannister’s usual formula: a handful of celebrity guests, a rock group and an excited audience. I watched the programme in Bannister’s big living-room where I lay on a sofa trying to persuade myself that the weakness of my right leg was only imaginary. I’d left the windows open to air the room of the lingering smell of cigarettes.