The Last Witness

there with the traffic streaming all around her. She slowed, waiting for the car on her inside to pass — its driver fired her a last stony look — then she pulled across and took the first turn on the left, stopping twenty yards in.

She gave into the abyss totally in that moment, sank down into its darkness as if it were a feather-down duvet. The near accident had jolted away her tears; all that remained was her shaking and a tight, aching knot in her stomach, the only sensation left amongst the overwhelming emptiness she felt.

Last night struggling to get back to sleep after her dreams, she’d vowed silently to her father to find Georges to make good on how she’d betrayed his memory all these years — thinking in that moment how she’d never felt closer to her father, and how oddly ironic it was that finally now, after all this time, they’d found some common ground — and already she’d struck out. Pathetic, really; almost as pathetic as the sham that had been her life so far.

‘Are you okay, Elena?’

And now Lorena’s voice heavy with concern to remind her that in a couple of hours she’d phone Gordon and then let her down too. Another failure.

‘It’s okay… I just need a minute. I’ll be fine.’ A minute? She probably needed twice as long in therapy than even poor young Lorena to sort out the mess of her mind. But only after she’d slept for a week to shake off this tiredness sapping every last ounce of energy; that was her first promise to herself.

She stayed head down, eyes shut a moment more, listening to the steady fall of her own breathing against the ebb and flow of city traffic, as if like a metronome rhythm that might tell her when it was alright to start driving again.

She was slow in shaking off her dark mood, finally lifting her head — but the urgency in Lorena’s muttered ‘Ele!.. and her suddenly aware of a figure by the car, made her look up sharper: brown uniform, one hand by the holster, the other reaching out.

The RCMP officer tapped at her window, signalling her to wind it down. Though suddenly she no longer felt afraid, but strangely relieved that it was finally all over. She could get the sleep she needed, and she wouldn’t have to break any bad news to Lorena: they’d both been victims.

‘You just couldn’t wait, could you? Just couldn’t wait!’

‘No, Jean-Paul, I tell you — you got it wrong. What they put on the news about Donatiens has got nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh, yeah. Really?’ Jean-Paul glared back stonily.

Roman flinched under its intensity. Jean-Paul’s jaw was set rigid, and Roman noticed a small muscle pumping repeatedly in his neck. Jean-Paul had started shouting before his study door was barely shut behind them, and for a moment Roman thought he might break with character and start pushing and manhandling for an explanation; what he himself might do if the situation was reversed. Roman could never remember Jean-Paul angrier; and he had to admit the situation looked bad, real bad, whichever way he might try to explain it away. He was still pondering whether to keep protesting or just stay silent and let Jean-Paul burn off steam, when Jean-Paul continued.

‘I mean, we sat in this room not forty-eight hours ago and you swore blind that you had nothing to do with his disappearance, and now this… this!’

‘You gotta believe, Jean-Paul — it wasn’t me. Wasn’t me.’ Roman was shaking his head vigorously. ‘Don’t know shit about it.’

Jean-Paul rolled on as if Roman hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve been assuring Simone all along that you hadn’t done anything… wouldn’t do anything without my sanction. Don’t worry, don’t worry...’ Jean-Paul closed his eyes for a second and appeared to almost shudder. ‘All that time lying to her.’

Roman leant forward and slapped the flat of his palm on the desk. ‘You’re not listening, Jean-Paul. I didn’t do it — know nothing about it.’

Jean-Paul flinched only slightly, then he slapped his own hand twice as hard on the desk-top. ‘You’re right, I’m not listening! Because that’s what I did before — fell for every word and the same fucking outraged act you’re throwing at me now. So this time you’re going to have to explain yourself, Roman, and maybe you can start with just who did this if not you? Who?’

The doubt in Jean-Paul’s voice had now reached incredulity, and Roman had rarely heard him swear. It made him more hesitant about his first and most obvious explanation; the second, and what he thought had really happened, would sound even more incredulous. ‘I… I suppose it must have been the Cacchione’s.’

‘The Cacchione’s… the Cacchione’s,’ Jean-Paul mimicked. ‘To blame for Pascal’s death and now conveniently every family problem since: Leduc, Savard…now Georges. Don’t you think they’d have given on up on us by now? Realized that we’re out of crime and no longer pose a threat to them?'

Roman leapt for the hand-grab to build his case. ‘I think you’re right, they probably do realize that. But this isn’t about us and continuing old vendettas — this is more about Medeiros. The Cacchione’s are still dealing drugs for sure — but Medeiros thinks he’s blocked their supplies and pushed them out for good.’ Roman chose his words carefully. He was skirting uncomfortably close to the truth, and didn’t want to unconsciously give away that he knew more than he should. ‘The other main option for the supplies still getting out there is us — so Cacchione is keen to jump on anything, such as this RCMP investigation right now, to keep us in the frame as still involved in crime and still dealing. It throws Medeiros off of the scent.’

Jean-Paul mulled it over, but looked far from convinced. ‘I suppose there’s some sense to it — but how would they know to pick on Georges? Know that he was our weak spot?’

Roman felt himself getting cornered. ‘They could have known from Savard, or maybe that’s my fault: I have at times complained, to Frank and maybe one or two others, that Georges concerns me. Things like that can too easily get out.’ All he could think of: concede to a lesser crime. Perhaps it would also give Jean-Paul somewhere to direct his anger.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Jean-Paul swayed for a second before doubt again took grip. ‘And the timing too: how would the Cacchione’s know about the problem with the girl — that at this moment of all moments Georges would automatically think that any attempted hit must be down to us, because he feared he was out in the cold?’

Roman’s collar was suddenly tight, and he felt hot. Finding a clear way through Jean-Paul’s maze of doubt was getting more complicated with each step. ‘Maybe the girl. When I called the club last night, Azy said she hadn’t shown. Maybe she knew something had gone down.’ Originally, he was going to keep that under his hat until he’d found out more; of all people she knew too much, could prove a problem. But he’d grabbed at the first thing in desperation: right now he needed everything he could possibly throw across to break down Jean-Paul’s wall of doubt.

Jean-Paul felt himself swaying again. But then Roman had been equally as convincing last time, then only forty-eight hours later he was left feeling like a mug, Simone’s words ringing in his ears — ‘How do you know Roman’s not done something to him already?…’ This time around he’d make Roman sweat every word, and as credible as Roman might be he’d pass it on to Simone dispassionately, with healthy reserved doubt. Safer stance. He studied Roman levelly. ‘A lot of maybes, Roman — but you’re the only one who knew for sure about Georges’ problem with the girl.’

‘Yeah — so why would I go to all the trouble of telling you about it, only to try and take him out myself?’

‘Because you started to worry that I might not deal with it the way you hoped and have Georges hit. That my idea was leaning more towards getting him away to Cuba until things had settled down.’

Roman leant across the desk. His patience was fast thinning: he’d thrown across every good argument he could think of and still Jean-Paul appeared entrenched. ‘I didn’t know that was the way you were thinking until the last time we were in this same fucking room shouting at each other — after Georges had already disappeared.’

That was true, thought Jean-Paul: the only tangible fact Roman had so far thrown across amongst a sea of maybes.

Roman swept one arm away dismissively. ‘Besides, if I was going to take the fucker out — I’d have made sure to do the job properly. Not left him for the RCs just so he could testify against us. The only person that sort of scenario benefits is Cacchione.’