When he’d first returned from his mother’s, he hadn’t heard any noises from next door. Just after midnight, she was either still out or already in bed.
But having still not heard from Stratton, Jac wasn’t ready for bed yet. And, sitting there with the TV on low and not really paying attention to Bloomberg’s financial forecasts and next day’s weather, suddenly he heard movement from next door. Sounded like the bedroom – cupboard doors and drawers being opened and closed. There’d been the sound of another door opening and closing just before – but it hadn’t been the front door. So probably she’d been in the bathroom furthest away from him. Sounds from there barely reached him.
He moved closer to the wall, ear nestled against it and strained for the minutest sound from next door – a familiar position for many of the past few nights now – and for a moment a picture of her fresh from the bath or shower, hair still wet, hit him. But still he had no face to match to that misty image.
He stayed there listening longer than he realized, his legs starting to have a few cramp twinges, and for a while the sounds became more muted and indiscernible. Probably she was getting ready for bed.
And so when he heard more strident opening and closing of cupboard doors, and then suddenly the front door slamming, he was caught by surprise.
Shoes off and thrown brusquely aside, he managed to reach his own front door in just two strides. Out and running, breathless. He tried as best he could to suppress it so that she didn’t hear him approaching like some rampant buffalo. Soft and swift strides too, stocking-feet on carpet.
He could hear the steady pad of her footsteps fifteen yards the other side of the corner, and prayed that it masked his own rapid stride.
And this time he did reach the corner before she headed down the stairs – just as his cell-phone rang.
She wheeled around, and he ducked back round the corner equally as sharply and hit the button to put the call into message service.
He could hear that she wasn’t moving, was still rooted to the same spot, and could almost feel her eyes boring through the bit of corner wall shielding him. He kept perfectly still, struggling to swallow back the weight of his breathing from his brief madcap run. He feared for a moment that she was going to head back towards him. He looked at the number calling: Bob Stratton! He was desperate to get to it before Stratton rang off – but couldn’t risk moving or making any sound.
She stayed in the same position a moment longer, undecided, though to Jac it felt like a lifetime with his back pressed hard against the wall, breath held, staring helplessly at Stratton’s number on his cell-phone as the vital seconds ticked by. Finally she turned and headed down the stairs.
He waited for her to get a few paces down before he raced back to his own apartment, and as soon as the door was shut he pressed to take the call.
‘Hello, hello! Bob! Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I… I was just leaving a message. I didn’t think you were answering.’
‘I was tied up for a moment. Sorry.’ Jac fought to regain his breath. ‘But I’m here now. So, tell me. How did it go?’
‘I was held up on the Causeway due to an accident – that’s why I haven’t been able to call ’till now. I was late getting there. But no worries – Marmont is still spark out.’ Stratton’s tone dropped. ‘The only thing was that one of Marmont’s prison guard buddies was already there when I arrived. Some guy called Miles Elden.’
‘Oh.’ Jac felt a twinge of concern. Elden? The name didn’t strike a chord. He had no idea if he was part of Bateson’s clique or not. Could be just innocent.
‘It was okay. I flashed my badge, and said no visitors unless first cleared with your office. Or, if anyone had a problem with that, the D.A. He didn’t look about to argue with the bluff, said he was simply looking in ‘cause he was Marmont’s best friend. And he left him a book to read for when he wakes up. Stephen King’s Pet Sematary.’ Stratton chuckled. ‘Probably takes a while for books to reach the comatose reading lists.’
‘At least we know one thing about this Elden: he’s an optimist.’ But Elden wasn’t the only one praying that Marmont wouldn’t die, Jac reminded himself.
Jac spent a moment confirming with Stratton how they were going to keep up the vigil on Marmont’s bedside before ringing off, then once again he was with his back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to wind down from the evening. Only a glimpse, but she was gorgeous: a coffee-cream mixture of African and Caucasian, with a hint of something else from the faint slant at the corner of her eyes: Malaysian? Philippino? He let his breathing fall steadily as he tried to bring her clearly into focus again in his mind.
But the rush to see her and almost getting caught, like some pathetic voyeur, only served to remind him of the sorry state of his love life. How lonely and desperate he’d become. It was probably best that he was going on an arranged date. He could hardly be trusted anymore to arrange anything for himself.
6
‘Why do you want to die? Why is it you don’t want me to try and save you?’
Jac went straight in with the key question. No point in beating around the bush. He might have got over most of the first hurdle with the attempted prison break, if Marmont survived, but unless he tackled this, they were all wasting their time. He could prepare the most marvellous clemency plea for the Governor’s office, but Durrant had to agree to its contents and sign the plea petition.
Durrant shuffled uncomfortably, shrugged. He looked like he’d have preferred some delay, as if a question of such purport deserved reasonable preamble. He looked almost offended to be hit with it straightaway.
‘I don’t know. Tired, first and foremost. Tired of the appeals and empty promises, tired of waiting. Tired of false hope. Tired of life.’ Durrant looked up with a steady gaze as he hit the last words, as if he’d only at that moment finally discovered what, most of all, he was tired of.
‘You’re tired, and so you want out. Is that about it?’ Jac said it offhandly, disdainfully, and Durrant’s stare became icy. Jac fully expected some confrontation if he was to stand a chance of shifting Durrant’s stance. It wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Yeah, that’s about it.’ Equally offhandly, disdainfully.
Jac stood up and took a couple of paces away from the interview table before turning to look back again. ‘That may be okay for you. But have you given a thought to those you’re leaving behind. Your wife. Your son. How old is he now?’ Jac remembered the age from Durrant’s file, but he wanted Durrant to say it, be reminded.
‘Twelve. Had his first birthday just a month before Christmas while I was held for trial.’
Jac considered Durrant dolefully for a second. ‘Maybe your wife will come to terms with you dying, has had a fair time to prepare herself. But do you really think your son will at that age?’ And as he saw Durrant flinch and look away, he knew he’d struck a chord. The first chink in Durrant’s armour, built-up hard these past eleven years.
Durrant knew he was being worked, but it was difficult to get angry. This new lawyer was young, still wet behind the ears, was probably not yet seasoned and world-weary enough to know that he was a hopeless case. But in a way that was also strangely gratifying. Most other lawyers wouldn’t have bothered to put in the time at this stage, would already have been signalling the guards to be let out. ‘Okay, so you want to die. I’ll file accordingly: no clemency petition to be made.’ It was gratifying to know that someone still cared.
Durrant snorted derisively. ‘You just don’t understand. The first five years I was here, my wife and son didn’t come to see me once. Too annoyed, too angry with what I’d done, she explained when she finally even took the time to send me a letter. Then when the visits did finally start, they were just token look-sees, at most once or twice a year: my birthday and sometimes just before Christmas as well. Never Christmas itself.’ Durrant snorted again. ‘She was always too busy with her other life and family outside.’
‘Her family and relations?
’ Jac pressed to clarify. ‘Because I didn’t notice anything on the file about a divorce. You’re still married?’
‘Yeah, if you could call it that. Francine met someone new eighteen months after I was inside, and they started a relationship. Planned to marry too, if he’d been able to get his divorce papers through cleanly and on time from his ex. But by the time they looked ready to come through three years later, their relationship was already cooling off. When they finally split was the first time Francine started visiting me here with Josh. Then just over two years ago, she meets a new guy, and after ten months with him, once again the visits stop. And again there’s wedding plans. Next June, if I remember right, six months after I’ve gone. Suitable mourning and breathing space. Just wouldn’t be right to mess up such plans with complications like, say, me stayin’ alive.’ This time the derisive smile became quickly lopsided and that cool stare was back again. ‘So you see, Mr McElroy, my family deserted me long before I ever thought of deserting them.’
Jac took a long breath. It was going to be harder than he had realized. The only way he was going to prise Durrant from his death-wish was with a crowbar.
‘So, you feel sorry for yourself because you think your family has deserted you. So now it’s payback time: deserting them in the most dramatic way possible. No way they’re ever going to forget that action – especially young Joshua.’
Durrant tensed as if he was about to get to his feet, but then his shoulders relaxed again. Deserted? Except, that is, for the regular e-mails of the past year – though now it had been almost two months since the last one. Had Francine found out and stopped Josh? Or maybe Frank, her new partner, had put his spoke in.
Durrant’s wry, lopsided smile resurfaced. ‘You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about them, it’s about me. Oh sure, they deserted me. But then that was no less than I deserved. And Francine, she’s a good woman – still attractive, too. She deserves a good and full life out there.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘Who am I to deny that – especially after all I put her through. So it all comes back down to what I want and expect. Me.’ Durrant tapped his chest. ‘And, as I said, Mr McElroy, I’m tired. Tired of the appeals and promises. Tired of the false hope. Because, let’s face it – you’re not going to be able to get Governor Candaret to set me free with a full pardon. That just ain’t going to happen. The best that you can hope for is a commute to life imprisonment – another twelve to fifteen years in here, maybe more. And so that makes my mind turn to what else I’m tired of. Tired of the heat and sweat of this hell-hole, tired of the guards clanking keys and stomping their boots along the walkways in the dead of night just to ensure we never get a full night’s sleep. Tired of the weeping of prisoners when they first come in, or sometimes much later, when they finally break and can’t stand it anymore. Tired of the brutality of the guards and prisoners, mental and physical, constantly watching out for a shiv aimed for mine or Roddy’s back. Tired of the corruption and drugs and stench of it all. And I don’t just mean the stench of near-on four thousand caged and sweaty men, or the smell of their urine, or the smell of bleach that never quite manages to smother the sweat and urine. I’m talking about a stench of loneliness, fear and sheer hopelessness that don’t just hit your nose and synapses – it reaches right down to grip your heart and soul like an icy claw. Leaves you completely empty. And hardly a day has passed over the past long years that I haven’t prayed for a light to shine through the gloom and shift that emptiness. But the light that finally reached me, kept me going, wasn’t for hope in this lifetime, Mr McElroy.’
Durrant fixed Jac with a steady gaze again, but this time the iciness had gone, his eyes little more than hollow orbs, weary and pitiful. ‘You see, when they finally execute me, they’re not really killing me. Because I died the day I came in here. When they finally do that deed, they’ll be releasing me. I’ll finally be going where I’ve wanted to be now for a long, long time. That’ll be my freedom. My Ascension Day.’
‘It all went well. Cleanly.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘No possible comeback. Just like the others.’
‘That’s good to hear, too,’ Roche said. ‘Except for the one that didn’t go so cleanly, started all this. We should never forget that.’
As if Roche was ever likely to allow him to, Nel-M thought, but said nothing. If he’d responded to every one of Roche’s jibes and put-downs over the years – his way of compensating for the fact that he was only five-two, podgy, balding, lizard-eyed, and had emphysema, being the second richest man in the State wasn’t enough – they’d have spent all their time arguing. But he was sure Roche kept him around not only for safeties sake – his darkest secrets held close under his wing – but so that he could keep reminding him of the main shadow that had hung over them the past long years. Meter out punishment like a slow-drip torture: a jibe or snide remark every three months, at most six months without one if he was lucky.
‘Got a bit more background too on that lawyer you mentioned,’ Nel-M deftly shifted the subject. ‘Jacques McElroy. Lives in an apartment in the Warehouse District, mom lives out in Hammond with his younger sister. All of them fresh over from France just three years ago, shortly after his father’s death – though they’re originally from Scotland. And you were right about him being a greenhorn. Although he’s thirty-two, he’s been doing criminal law less than a year. His bag before that was corporate law, and French corporate law at that. Beaton couldn’t have passed it lower down the rungs if he’d tried – which I think is an indication of what little weight the firm’s attaching to this. They don’t think he’s got a chance of convincing Candaret to commute.’
‘Pretty much what I heard initially. But it’s good to get the detail and the confirmation.’
‘But that’s not the best part,’ Nel-M continued. ‘Apparently this McElroy’s striking out before he’s even started. It seems that Durrant and some buddies were trying for a prison break – which is gonna make any possible clemency from Candaret highly unlikely.’
Roche eased a muted chuckle. ‘Always did have the knack of doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, our Mr Durrant.’ He took a laboured fresh breath. ‘Who was this from?’
‘My prison contact, Bateson.’ But with the mention of Bateson, Nel-M thought he'd better give Roche the full story. Unlikely that it would develop into anything; but if it did, Roche would question why he wasn’t told earlier. ‘The only small fly in the ointment is that this McElroy isn’t accepting the prison break account for what it is – he’s making out that Durrant was in fact trying to save the neck of a friend under attack.’
‘Do you think he’ll get anywhere with that?’
‘No, don’t think so. Guards’ word against the prisoners – looks like a non-starter. But you never know.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Roche agreed, his breathing suddenly heavier, more troubled. ‘But one thing we do know is that this young lawyer, despite his inexperience, doesn’t look like he’s going to be the type to simply roll over and die at the first obstacle. And that’s just what we don’t need – some young Turk eager to make a name for himself.’
Nel-M left an appropriate pause. ‘What do you want me to do with him?
Roche’s breathing was now rattling heavily at the other end, and Nel-M wasn’t sure if he was mulling over the situation or having trouble catching his breath to form the words.
After a second, Nel-M prompted, ‘I mean, do you just want me to warn him off at this stage, or, as you say, if he’s so eager to make a name for himself – perhaps a few column inches arranged alongside Raoul Ferrer?’
Roche’s breathing continued to rise and fall heavily for moment, like a tide over rough shale, before he finally spoke again.
Ascension Day? So, Durrant’s cell altar hadn’t just been an escape-route cover. His religious conviction was real. That might at least appease Haveling that his trust hadn’t been totally abused; but then given Haveling’s firebrand religious bent, that might act
ually work against getting his support. ‘If Durrant truly believes that that’s his calling – to be with God – then who are we to stand in his way?’
But it was one hell of a speech from Durrant. One that Jac couldn’t immediately fathom out a way of countering. Jac was suddenly more conscious of the one-way mirrored screen, the guard the other side probably wondering what Durrant had said at such length that made his lawyer look so perplexed and lost for words. The sound link wouldn’t be on: client confidentiality.
Jac had been scrambling from day one with Durrant – the attempted escape, Marmont in hospital, Durrant’s apparent death-wish and appeasing Haveling – but now it was crunch time. It all ended here and now if he didn’t think of something quickly. No point, though, in mentioning that mystery e-mail, at least not until he knew more: some anonymous crazy who thought he might be innocent? At best it would cruelly build up Durrant’s hopes; at worst he’d simply sneer at Jac all the more, would underline just how desperately Jac was clutching at any last straw.
And he obviously wasn’t going to get far simply trying to cajole and bully Durrant, push him in a corner. Eleven long years in Libreville had toughened his hide too much for that, and he’d used much of that time to educate himself. He was no longer the same man depicted in his initial arrest and trial folders. He was mentally tougher and far more astute. Maybe that was the key; or, at least, a useful conversational side-turn to diffuse things.
‘Well, one compensation, I suppose: not all your time in here’s been wasted,’ Jac commented.
‘In what way?’ Durrant eyed him warily.
‘The studying and literary degree you gained. Quite an achievement. Couldn’t have been easy.’
No answer from Durrant, simply a wry smile of acknowledgement, as if he could see already where Jac was heading and wasn’t about to be drawn in.
Ascension Day Page 7