Ascension Day

which games, or which week or month — or even year — they were, I’d be lost. Never mind when one particular game was in relation to Jessica Roche’s murder.’

Jac nodded, closing his eyes for a second in acceptance, and could almost feel the shuddering in Durrant’s body pass through him. Seeing Durrant’s eyes dark and haunted, grappling for segments of his life that were out of reach and probably now would forever remain so, Jac felt like running down the corridor to Haveling or getting on the phone to Governor Candaret, screaming: You can’t kill him! Look at him. Look at him!

Jac took a fresh breath. ‘One other thing. On that tape you made for Truelle — do you recall anyone else being around, apart from that woman walking her dog as you ran away, but perhaps forgot to mention?’ Jac said ‘on the tape’ because, outside of that, he doubted Durrant would recall anything.

Durrant pondered for a second. ‘No. Why?’

‘No particular reason.’ Jac shrugged. I was there at the time. Although he’d told Durrant about the e-mails, he’d held back the sender’s claim of actually being there. One more thing Durrant would now never know. ‘Or perhaps even just the sense that someone else was there, either in the house or outside, looking on, that you didn’t mention to Truelle?’

‘No.’ Larry’s eyebrows knitted heavily, and Jac thought that was simply because he found the question odd. But the shadows returned to his eyes then, dragged him away again to that place where he found it hard to picture anything clearly. ‘Though it’s strange you should ask that — because I’ve had this dream a few times where it’s someone else pulling the trigger on Jessica Roche, not me. I’m there just looking on.’

‘Oh? And do you get to see a face in those dreams? Do you see who it is?’

‘Nah.’ Larry shrugged, smiling hesitantly. ‘You know what it’s like with dreams: a tease. When I first had it, it was all tied-in with my mother staring at me in the courtroom. Man, I could feel her eyes like they were boring a hole right through my shoulder. I could feel all her shame and disappointment at me in that stare. And, I thought: if I could just see his face, see that it wasn’t me — I could turn and shout that out to her in the courtroom: “It wasn’t me, Ma… it wasn’t me. I saw him. I saw him!”’ Larry’s last words echoed starkly in the bare concrete room, and again a faint shiver ran through Jac. Larry smiled tightly, the shadows, the lost hope, drifting away again from his eyes. ‘But, you know, it was just a damn fool dream. And, in any case, he never did turn my way in the dreams; always stayed just a hazy shadow turned away from me, pointing the gun.’ Larry gave a half-snort, half-snigger, as if, with that, tossing the image from his mind. ‘But maybe it was just my mind self- protecting, throwing up all this because part of me couldn’t accept that I’d done it.’ Another brief, derisive snort. ‘Though I was way away then from the likes of Truelle and any psychiatrist’s couch. That’s just me self- analysing.’

Jac swallowed hard. Didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, as he felt the guilt weigh him down. Here he was shielding truths or only dealing half-truths with Durrant, while meanwhile Larry was baring his soul to the bone. Almost a complete reversal of their first meeting together. But at least it perhaps answered why, on the key tape from Truelle, Larry never actually described pulling the trigger; even then, his mind was self-protecting, pushing away that he’d done it. Or, the other explanation: he hadn’t done it.

Hadn’t done it? Jac wondered whether he should mention Roche’s henchman, Nelson Malley, trailing him the other day and the photos they’d gained. But, like the mystery e-mailer, it would just torment Durrant all the more, putting substance and a face to someone else who might have been the murderer when they were still a million miles from proving that. The cruellest fate of all, knowing that someone else might well have done what you were about to be executed for, yet with nothing left to stop it. Jac bit at his lip; another secret buried.

There was a gentle thrum in the background, maybe the prison boilers — but Jac could feel its rhythm coursing through him now, along with the dull pounding of his heart, like a distant drumbeat driving him on after all the madness and fallen hurdles of the past days, as if saying, You can’t give up now. You can’t. You’ve gone too far. But Jac felt tired, worn down from it all, and now the few options left appeared even more remote; as hazy and out of reach as the images in Larry Durrant’s fractured mind from twelve years ago.

As the silence became uneasy, Jac said, ‘But, while I’m here…’ And with a fresh, expectant breath, he reached into his briefcase. He’d picked everything up before heading out to the prison, and now probably needed more than ever: clear the air of stale half-truths and half-memories hanging over them. Jac pulled out the two bottles and balloon glasses with a magician’s flourish. ‘Voila! Choose your poison: twelve-year-old malt whisky, or twenty-year-old cognac. Symbols of my two past cultures.’

Larry beamed, shaking his head. ‘Jeezus… you’re a man of many surprises, Jac McElroy. Most people would try and sneak in a file or a gun. You turn up with two bottles of liquor.’ Larry applied brief thought and pointed to the cognac. ‘I hear that’s the new black yuppie drink of choice. Been out of touch for twelve years — might as well be in vogue now.’

‘And I’ll join you in that.’ Jac poured the two glasses and passed Larry’s across. He wanted to feel as close to and in harmony with Durrant as possible; at this moment of all moments.

Jac watched, as with eyes half-closed, Larry took the first sip. Jac remembered as a child going out on a hot day in the woods around the Rochefort farmhouse and getting lost. He’d been gone almost six hours in the hot sun without a drink, and his lips were dry and blistered as he lifted the glass his mother handed him. He remembered still vividly that feeling when the water first touched his lips and trickled down, and knew that it was akin to what Larry Durrant was feeling now.

The first real drink after twelve years. And mellow, twenty-year-old cognac. Pure nectar.

They drank in silence for a moment. A long moment, Larry alternating between closing his eyes as the cognac trickled down and its warmth hit his stomach, as if it was just another dream and not really happening, and smacking his lips, relishing its taste. ‘Man, that’s good… that’s sooooo good.’ Larry leant forward after a moment, peering at the label. ‘What’s this stuff called?’

‘Frapin. It’s one of the best.’

‘Man oooohhh man… I can taste that for myself. Even if you hadn’t told me.’ Larry took another sip, closing his eyes for a second in reverie, then sank back into silence again, smiling.

Jac smiled back. Twelve years without a drink, and suddenly Larry was acting like a connoisseur.

This was one of those moments when they were meant to be silent; after all, they’d done nothing but rake over the coals of old ghosts and old memories the past forty minutes, said everything that needed to be said. But as Larry’s eyes narrowed after a moment, it looked like there was something else on his mind. He took another slug, as if clearing his throat for the words; or perhaps, now they were drinking, that final bit of Dutch courage, licence to become more maudlin.

‘One thing I never did work out about you, Jac. Why you went out on such a limb for me? I mean, it got to the point where your life was in danger, man. Maybe still is.’

‘My girlfriend asked just the same the other day.’

‘Don’t blame her.’ Larry smiled crookedly. ‘She likes you, maybe she’s keen on keeping your ass around a while longer.’

Jac mirrored the smile, took another sip of cognac. ‘I think the first thing was, big case, and wanting to prove myself. But a lot of that was also wrapped up with what happened with my father. He died young, well, not exactly old: he was only fifty-four when he died.’

Larry slanted one eyebrow. ‘So, you got a thing about people dying young? Is that what you’re telling me?’

Jac shrugged. ‘No, well, I suppose that’s a pretty natural instinct for a lot of people. But it had more to do with the circumstances surrounding his death.’ Jac explained about his father’s business collapse and disastrous financial situation when he died, with a lot of people, including Jac’s rich aunt, as a result labelling him a failure. ‘So when anyone gets close to suggesting that I too might fail on something, it’s like a red rag to a bull. I’ll go to all sorts of lengths to prove them wrong. It’s almost like I’m batting too on my father’s behalf, setting the record straight on how people remember him.’ Jac took another slug. ‘That’s how they were painting this case originally at Payne, Beaton and Sawyer: little hope, bound to fail. That’s why they gave it to a young blood like me, rather than one of the senior partners. But what they didn’t know was, because of that fear of failure, how hard I’d fight it.’