Ascension Day

‘Looks like I got the right man, then.’ Larry raised his glass, smiling tightly, his expression faintly quizzical as he thought about the skewed logic of what Jac had just said. ‘I think.’

A bit more truth, Jac thought, but again he still held back. He’d come here intending to be brutally honest, lay every possible card on the table, because it might be his very last chance. But once he was actually in front of Durrant, his resolve had melted and he’d only told half the truth. The real reason he’d gone out on such a limb for Durrant had hit him in the dead of night the day after Alaysha had asked him, awoken him in a cold, shivering sweat. At the same time it was strangely calming, settling: at least now I know. Now I know. And there’d been a moment now, a natural conversational lead-on, when he could have said it. Dying young? Lived before he died. But as he looked at Durrant, saw the eleven years of pain and loneliness in his eyes, he’d once again balked; felt it might be too harsh for Durrant to take with only days left now until his execution.

Jac shrugged. ‘Or maybe it’s just that I don’t agree with the state killing people. Anti-capitalist punishment thing.’ Jac took a quick slug, grimacing. ‘Almost required thinking for a European.’

Larry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I know. You don’t have it over there.’

Jac nodded back. Easy to forget at times that Durrant wasn’t just another homey, how well-read he was. ‘There hasn’t been anyone executed in over thirty years in most of Europe. And it doesn’t seem to have affected the murder rate. Still a quarter of that in the States.’

‘Pretty much the same here. States with no death penalty don’t have higher murder rates. In fact, in most cases, lower.’

Jac lifted his glass towards Larry. ‘In a way, you’re proof of that.’ Jac made sure not to say ‘living’. ‘Wasn’t too long ago that I asked you which might be preferable, death or another ten or fifteen in here, and…well, we both know what you said.’ Death possibly so near now that Jac found himself tip-toeing around the word. ‘Often a long sentence is as much a deterrent.’

Larry nodded again, this time more slowly, his eyes shifting uncertainly, as if, if asked the same question now, he wasn’t sure any more what he’d answer. ‘You miss your father, don’t you?’ he said after a moment.

‘Yeah.’ Jac looked down at the table and the bottle as his eyes moistened. ‘And hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about him.’

‘I understand.’ Larry contemplated Jac steadily, warmly. ‘Same here too with my mother.’ Then he closed his eyes for a second, though this time in acceptance rather than savouring the cognac. They drank in silence a moment more, and something crossed Larry’s eyes then, something darker, more worrying. His eyes went between his glass, the bottle and Jac, as if he was struggling to fully fathom what it was, and the rest hit him in a rush then: Jac pushing so hard for a possible breakthrough, the drink, the maudlin, philosophical conversation. He nodded at his glass and blinked slowly. ‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate this, Jac. ‘Cause I do. I really do. But this is a dying man’s drink, isn’t it? You don’t see much hope left, do you?’

‘No, no… of course not. Like I said, there’s still some leads left, we’ve got a strong plea in with Candaret… and we’ll kick the BOP’s ass like you wouldn’t believe the day after next. And I’m sure that — ’ Jac stopped himself then, felt himself sag under Larry’s steady, withering gaze, under that weight of half-truths he’d fed Larry since walking in the room; sag quickly becoming crumble as, with a heavy exhalation, he met Larry’s gaze more directly, calmly. ‘Sorry, Larry… sorry. It’s not looking that good. I’m going to do my best with the BOP and Candaret, and with the few leads remaining — but it would be wrong of me to kid you.’

Larry nodded, and suddenly Jac didn’t need to say any more, as if Larry had understood perfectly well all along. Had seen through the subterfuge right from the start.

Jac’s eyes watered, the tears hitting him then without warning. Perhaps because of Larry’s quiet acceptance, or his last words, dying man’s drink, the sudden realization that this might be one of the last times he’d see Larry and there probably wasn’t much more he could do for him.

Larry leant forward, putting one hand on Jac’s shoulder, gently shaking. ‘It’s okay… okay. You did your best.’

But that physical contact made it all the worse, the tears flowing more freely. And then they were on their feet, hugging, Larry patting Jac’s back, consoling, ‘You couldn’t do more, Jac… couldn’t do more. Don’t beat yourself up so.’ Then, after a pause, Larry saying he’d be fine and don’t worry about him; and Jac, biting back the tears, saying that he wasn’t giving up on him and there was still a lot to do. Still strong hope. Both of them knowing in that moment that what they were saying was more wishful thinking than truth, and Jac thinking it was strange that they were standing now in this tableau, because in his mind driving to the prison, if the emotions had become too much, it had been Larry tearful and Jac consoling. ‘And thanks for the cognac, Jac,’ Larry said as, with a last few back-pats, they parted and sat back down. ‘It’s made my day… my year.’

They sat drinking in silence again, like two old friends who knew each other so well that often words weren’t needed, the warmth of the shared drink and their companionship enough. And when Jac looked in Larry’s eyes, he could see that the shadows had gone, no longer haunted by chasing distant, out-of-reach memories. He was calm again. At peace.

27

‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as can be,’ Nel-M said. That laboured, unsettling breathing from the other end. Darth Vader watching porno. ‘I don’t know what other explanation there can be for him leaving his phone bug in after telling Truelle he was sure it was bugged. Then all that crap with him saying he’s dropped the case and that false lead the other day. McElroy’s been playing us for mugs.’

Breathing heavier, more perturbed, as if it was a Geiger counter for Roche’s thoughts. ‘Looks like you could well be right. Did you notice anyone following you the other day?’

‘No. But then I wasn’t particularly looking out for them, because I didn’t know then what I know now from Truelle. I think it might be time to — ’

‘I know. I know what it might be time to do,’ Roche cut in. He swallowed, struggling to get his breathing back under control. ‘Let me think on this a while. I’ll phone you back.’

Roche’s call came thirty-five minutes later, but in that time Nel-M was calm, relaxed — making a pot of fresh coffee, whistling softly to himself, watching some breakfast TV — because he knew already what the answer would be. He wondered what Roche had done in that same time: played some Vivaldi or Wagner, or sat silently with only the sound of his own breathing rising and falling, looking at his cherubs and red brocade, his swimming pool surrounded by Roman statues — the precious gilded world he’d made for himself — contemplating just how fragile it all might be.

‘Okay. Do it. But make sure it’s clean. No messy loose ends.’

‘It’ll be soooo clean, you’ll be able to eat your dinner off it.’

An hour later Nel-M was inside McElroy’s apartment, latex gloves on his hands as he delicately lifted what he’d need from countertops and doors, and searched through cupboards and drawers for any vital papers Jac might have hidden. Nothing. He went over to the phone and removed the bug, then listened out for a moment: no sounds from next door, she’d probably gone shopping.

Nel-M decided to search there too, in case, knowing that he’d been targeted, McElroy had decided to hide anything at his girlfriend’s apartment. And only minutes into his search, running one hand along a high wardrobe shelf, he found the gun.

Nel-M took it down, turning it slowly, deliberately, examining. An out of issue Colt, but looked in perfect working order. His plan was shaping up better by the minute.

Jac could feel even stronger the thrumming of the prison boilers almost in time with his pounding heart as he walked away from seeing Durrant, with the steady clip of his footsteps keeping rhythm too; the same distinctive but strangely hollow sound — as if echoing the lost hope of all Libreville’s prisoners — he recalled from his first day going to see Durrant, now joining that dull, driving drumbeat: You can’t give up now. You