‘And we certainly don’t want Durrant getting frisky, starting to remember things he shouldn’t.’
‘Certainly don’t.’ He’d noticed Roche flinch at that juncture on the tape: ‘…
Roche was anxious now as it hit him for the first time that he wasn’t getting much feedback. He looked at Nel-M expectantly, as if hoping he’d elaborate, but Nel-M just kept the same cool stare straight through Roche.
‘And… uh, well… looks like we can’t hold back any longer from taking action.’
‘Looks like it.’ Nel-M relishing Roche’s discomfort as he noticed some sweat beads break out above his top lip.
‘Though it appears we’re spoilt for choice there.’ Small chuckle from Roche that fought for bravado, but failed. His breathing suddenly more laboured. ‘Destroy his career, or, as you so aptly put it, a few column inches alongside Raoul Ferrer.’
Nel-M didn’t say anything, simply shrugged.
One hand of Roche’s clutched at his thigh as he struggled with the decision, faint sweat-beads now on his forehead too. ‘Which route do you think we should go?’ he pressed.
‘You know I always leave those sort of decisions to you.’ Nel-M smiled tightly, refusing to be drawn. This time he didn’t need to say anything; the tapes had done it all for him. Hardly any options left now for Roche.
The silence heavy, palpable, Nel-M suddenly aware of something he hadn’t noticed before: gently playing in the background, like the soft, non-descript piped music in an elevator, an instrumental version of ‘Fernando’s Hideaway’.
‘Weighing up not just the best option, but one which will ensure no possible links back.’
‘Obviously.’ Nel-M shrugged.
Roche’s hand rose briefly to rub at his temple before returning to his lap, a small nervous tic appearing at the corner of his mouth. His breathing rattled faintly as it rose and fell.
‘And of course, the best timing…’
Another shrug from Nel-M.
Roche’s mouth dry, his fat pink tongue snaking out to moisten it, his hand clenched back on his knee starting to tremble slightly.
But Nel-M just held the same stare steadily on Roche, wallowing in every small nuance of his discomfort, while on his own knee he started to drum a steady rhythm with his fingers as he waited impatiently on Roche’s final pearls of wisdom.
18
As Frank Sinatra invited Libreville’s inmates to come fly with him and try some exotic booze in far Bombay, Rodriguez might have swayed to it if he hadn’t heard it a hundred times before.
Now with all privileges returned, Rodriguez had his daily 90-minutes back on the prison radio, alternating between a 7 a.m. and a 6 p.m. slot with another prisoner, Tyrone Sommer — or Tired-Drone Insomnia, as he’d been nicknamed — an ex-part-time DJ from a small station in Shreveport who played far too much country music for the inmates’ liking. Sad and lamenting at the best of times — the crops have all failed, my wife’s done left me and my dog just died — it was noticed that the prison suicide rate was far higher during and just after Sommer’s slots.
Rodriguez’ sessions were decidedly more upbeat: Latin, reggae, calypso, rock, latin-jazz, with Carlos Santana his all-time favourite. But over sixty per cent of their respective programmes and playlists were controlled by Haveling: prison activity announcements for the day and evening — which had been the original purpose of setting up the radio slots — followed by ‘uplifting’ religious music, then, interspersed with their own playlist choices, Haveling’s favourite music: swing, songs from musicals and Bacharach.
Within Rodriguez’ and Sommer’s respective playlist choices, Haveling also wielded a heavy guiding hand: no heavy rock, nothing too aggressive and rousing, which left only Santana’s lighter instrumental tracks; and nothing which might have sexual, violent or drugs connotations — which discounted most of the rest of rock music.
With swing, songs from musicals and Bacharach, Rodriguez had a far freer hand — yet even there Haveling had presented them with a list of preferred tunes he wanted playing X-number of times a week, of which Sinatra’s ‘Come Fly With Me’ was one. And when Rodriguez had studied the list in more detail one day — ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, ‘Girl from Ipanema’, ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’, ‘Bali Hai’, ‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose’, ‘Beyond the Sea’ (Darren’s ‘Mack the Knife’ was banned) — he couldn’t help noticing that many of them had overt themes of freedom or far-away places, places that most of the Libreville inmates would never get to see.
Perhaps they were indeed Haveling’s favourite tunes, or perhaps he was slyly rubbing salt in the wounds of their incarceration; like most things with Haveling, you never knew. But you stepped outside of Haveling’s recommended playlist at your peril.
‘He even stopped me playin’ “MoonRiver” for fuck’s sake,’ Rodriguez once complained to Larry. ‘Thought the line “I’ll be crossing you in style tonight” might give people the idea of escapin’ across the river.’
It was great to have all privileges back, but now that he and Larry were again in general circulation, the risks from Tally and his crew were far greater. The initial guarded, warning looks had now become icy and openly hostile, as if saying, ‘You got lucky a couple of times. But that ain’t gonna be the case for much longer.’ On one occasion, Tally had even tapped his watch to make the message clear. Tally had been thwarted, made to look a fool, and that was something Rodriguez could barely remember happening before, let alone
Rodriguez leant forward to the mike as Sinatra came to an end.
‘And that’s Ol’ Blue Eyes there, croonin’ about places that’ll be all too familiar to all you well-heeled jet- setters here at Libreville. Just lay back on your bunk and fly, fly away. But now it’s time for a touch of my main man, Carlos Santana.’ Rodriguez reached for the record and cued it. ‘Samba… Pa… ti. Played today for a very special lady. And not to be confused with
As risque as Rodriguez dared get, he sat back and closed his eyes, letting the softly soaring guitar and mellow background bongo suffuse through him. He was ten days late playing the tune, but then he’d been in the infirmary at the time. Better late than never, he thought, wiping a gentle tear from the corner of one eye.
While Carlos Santana’s guitar sailed and cried through the concrete caverns of Libreville prison, Larry Durrant sat up on his bed.
He knew what the tune meant to Rodriguez. He’d played it at his mother’s funeral — along with her own favourite, ‘Besame Mucho’ — four years ago now, late fall, not far from this date, and every year since on the same day. Rodriguez had also played the tune various other times over the prison radio, but with the mention of ‘for a very special lady’, Larry knew that today was significant.
Rodriguez had taken his mother’s death hard. Coming just fifteen months after his incarceration, he’d partly blamed himself. Larry could imagine Rodriguez in the radio room now, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. Then, as soon as it finished playing, he’d be back to his lively, bubbly self again, lifting everyone’s spirits, if not his own.
Larry wondered what Francine and Josh would play at his own funeral: Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s going on’, Sly Stone’s ‘Family Affair’? Both songs a decade ahead of his teens, and so long past now, he doubted that Franny even remembered his favourite tunes any more.
Although he had no idea what Josh’s tastes in music were either — maybe something he could broach in future e-mails. But the thought had already mugged him deep inside without warning,
Nobody rushing to work that morning paid much attention to the man in a lightweight grey suit entering the car park on St Charles Street and exiting ten minutes later. He appeared just one of many hurrying to work having
