Ascension Day

why I tried to avoid seeing it. Because I couldn’t believe I’d done it… and once I’d seen it on the news, then it was suddenly real. Official. I had done it.’

And now Jac would have to tell Larry, as he’d promised to when the next day he got Ormdern’s report: ‘Sorry, Larry… looks like you did do it.’ At least one consolation: when he was executed in a few days time, in his last moments he wouldn’t be left with that crushing sense of injustice that it was for something he hadn’t done.

TV! The thought suddenly flared from the back of Jac’s brain.

Sitting there watching the last minutes of the session tick away, that final thought about Larry’s guilt just hadn’t sat comfortably, and everything suddenly came flooding back — Gasping for air as he fought back up through the dark lake… Running from the lights of the police helicopter… Walking back into Libreville disguised as Ayliss… Surely all of that hadn’t been for nothing. Surely? Could he possibly have read it all so wrong? Put his life on the line and…

And suddenly the thought had flashed like a supernova to the forefront: TV! If Mack Elliott had asked the chicken guy to pipe down because he couldn’t hear what was on the TV, then whatever was on must have been important!

Jac leant over and shared the thought with Ormdern through the mike. Ormdern nodded slowly, Larry’s eyelids gently pulsing as his mind questioned what was happening, why the sudden pause?

‘Okay, Larry. Sorry. I want to take you back again to the Bayou Brew and the pool game. Specifically that moment you mentioned when Mack Elliott told off the chicken guy because he couldn’t concentrate on what was on the TV.’

‘Yeah… yeah.’ The pulsing slowly settling as Larry got the memory back again.

‘Now, what was it Mack Elliott was watching? Why was it so important that he had to tell the chicken guy to shut up?’

‘I… I’m not sure.’ The eyelid-pulsing increasing again. ‘The TV’s turned away from me… I can’t see what he’s watching.’

‘And did he tell you? Something important perhaps that he wanted to watch that night?’

‘No…no. He didn’t mention anything.’

Slow sigh from Ormdern, the disappointment evident in his voice. ‘Okay… from where you are, what can you hear coming over the TV?’

Marked pause from Larry as he applied more thought. ‘Some cheering and clapping… a commentator’s voice in between. A few shouts and jeers at some points.’

‘What’s the commentator saying?’

‘I… I can’t tell from where we are… it’s too faint. Just a mumble. The cheering, clapping and shouting comes over stronger.’

‘Okay. Cheering and clapping… some shouts. Any laughter?’

‘No… no. Just the cheering and clapping.’

So obviously not a sitcom or even a variety or chat show, Jac thought. They would normally have some laughter.

‘And how long did it go on for… how long was Mack Elliott watching?’

‘Maybe twenty minutes or so… half-hour, max.’

That ruled out a sporting fixture, too.

‘And anything else you might recall about what Mack was watching then? Anything you might have heard or he mentioned?’

‘No… that’s it. Just remember some cheering and shouting… and him telling off the chicken guy.’

Already two minutes over the session time. Nothing else that Ormdern was going to find out. But if Larry couldn’t remember what Mack Elliott was watching that night, maybe Mack himself could. Although it was twelve years ago, they now had some strong guideposts: cheering and shouting, guy in a chicken suit that he threatened with a Billy-club.

Having thanked Ormdern, ‘I’ll look forward to reading your final report tomorrow,’ Jac paced back through the endless corridors with that cauldron of conflicting thoughts from the session still burning through his head. He opened his car window and breathed deeply of the outside night air, trying to lose the heat and claustrophobia of the prison, and the second he was clear of the final guard-post, took out his cell-phone and dialled Mack Elliott’s number.

Outside the prison gates, the crowd had swelled to eighty strong. One group, with long hair and long white flowing robes, as if they were a flock of angels or modern-day Messiahs, held up a large placard:

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

Go Larry, go…

Then you can get your own back on Candaret!

Don’t let him in when he shows there!

…Though unlikely that’s where he’s headed.

The Devil claimed his soul years ago!

To one side they’d set up large speakers blasting the song out, the display no doubt inspired by Larry’s strong religious beliefs.

‘Come on…’ Jac muttered impatiently as he sped away from the prison. Last chance… last chance.

But as Mack Elliott’s line continued ringing emptily in Jac’s ear, all that reached him was Robert Plant’s voice sailing hauntingly on the night air, singing about the feeling he got when he looked to the west, his spirit crying for leaving.

36

‘Have you heard from Jac at all?’

‘No, not a thing,’ Catherine McElroy said. The truth, but even if she had heard from her son, the last person she’d tell was her sister Camille. Family allegiances would hold for no more than twenty-four hours before Camille’s ‘Citizen’s duty’ wrestled advantage and she phoned the police.

‘Terrible business… terrible,’ Camille aired, though she was probably thinking more of the shock impact to her society set than to family, Catherine thought. ‘It would probably be a lot better if the police had found him. At least then you’d know where he was, know that he was safe… and be able to see him and talk to him. Find out what happened.’

‘Yes… I suppose so.’ Some sense in that, Catherine supposed; but still she remained guarded, unsure whether Camille was just fishing to see whether she might know more than she was letting on.

‘God knows what I’m going to say to Tobias Bromwell… if I ever speak to the man again. His number has come up twice now on my call minder, but I just don’t have the stomach to phone him back. Don’t know what to say. Too embarrassed.’

Now they were getting to it, Catherine thought; the condolences and niceties out of the way, now they were getting to what really made Camille’s world turn. ‘I understand,’ Catherine said numbly. That’s practically all she’d felt since hearing the news about Jac: numb.

‘And you had absolutely no inkling of what was going on, what might be about to happen?’

‘No, of course not.’ The first edge to Catherine’s voice; a ridiculous suggestion even by Camille’s normal thick-skinned, lame-brained standards: “Mom, I’m going out with a lap-dancer and we’re planning to murder her ex-boyfriend.”

‘So you didn’t even know about this other girlfriend? This… this lap-dancer?’

Catherine half-smiled to herself at Camille’s difficulty in even saying the word. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said, hoping