Ascension Day (11 page)

Jac took a long breath. It was going to be harder than he had realized. The only way he was going to prise Durrant from his death-wish was with a crowbar.

‘So, you feel sorry for yourself because you think your family has deserted you. So now it’s payback time: deserting them in the most dramatic way possible. No way they’re ever going to forget that action – especially young Joshua.’

Durrant tensed as if he was about to get to his feet, but then his shoulders relaxed again.
Deserted
? Except, that is, for the regular e-mails of the past year – though now it had been almost two months since the last one. Had Francine found out and stopped Josh? Or maybe Frank, her new partner, had put his spoke in.

Durrant’s wry, lopsided smile resurfaced. ‘You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about them, it’s about me. Oh sure, they deserted me. But then that was no less than I deserved. And Francine, she’s a good woman – still attractive, too. She deserves a good and full life out there.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘Who am I to deny that – especially after all I put her through. So it all comes back down to what
I
want and expect.
Me
.’ Durrant tapped his chest. ‘And, as I said, Mr McElroy, I’m tired. Tired of the appeals and promises. Tired of the false hope. Because, let’s face it – you’re not going to be able to get Governor Candaret to set me free with a full pardon. That just ain’t going to happen. The best that you can hope for is a commute to life imprisonment – another twelve to fifteen years in here, maybe more. And so that makes my mind turn to what else I’m tired of. Tired of the heat and sweat of this hell-hole, tired of the guards clanking keys and stomping their boots along the walkways in the dead of night just to ensure we never get a full night’s sleep. Tired of the weeping of prisoners when they first come in, or sometimes much later, when they finally break and can’t stand it anymore. Tired of the brutality of the guards and prisoners, mental and physical, constantly watching out for a shiv aimed for mine or Roddy’s back. Tired of the corruption and drugs and stench of it all. And I don’t just mean the stench of near-on four thousand caged and sweaty men, or the smell of their urine, or the smell of bleach that never quite manages to smother the sweat and urine. I’m talking about a stench of loneliness, fear and sheer hopelessness that don’t just hit your nose and synapses – it reaches right down to grip your heart and soul like an icy claw. Leaves you completely empty. And hardly a day has passed over the past long years that I haven’t prayed for a light to shine through the gloom and shift that emptiness. But the light that finally reached me, kept me going, wasn’t for hope in
this
lifetime, Mr McElroy.’

Durrant fixed Jac with a steady gaze again, but this time the iciness had gone, his eyes little more than hollow orbs, weary and pitiful. ‘You see, when they finally execute me, they’re not really killing me. Because I died the day I came in here. When they finally do that deed, they’ll be releasing me. I’ll finally be going where I’ve wanted to be now for a long, long time. That’ll be my freedom. My Ascension Day.’

‘It all went well. Cleanly.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘No possible comeback. Just like the others.’

‘That’s good to hear, too,’ Roche said. ‘Except for the one that didn’t go so cleanly, started all this. We should never forget that.’

As if Roche was ever likely to allow him to, Nel-M thought, but said nothing. If he’d responded to every one of Roche’s jibes and put-downs over the years – his way of compensating for the fact that he was only five-two, podgy, balding, lizard-eyed, and had emphysema, being the second richest man in the State wasn’t enough – they’d have spent all their time arguing. But he was sure Roche kept him around not only for safeties sake – his darkest secrets held close under his wing – but so that he could keep reminding him of the main shadow that had hung over them the past long years. Meter out punishment like a slow-drip torture: a jibe or snide remark every three months, at most six months without one if he was lucky.

‘Got a bit more background too on that lawyer you mentioned,’ Nel-M deftly shifted the subject. ‘Jacques McElroy. Lives in an apartment in the Warehouse District, mom lives out in
Hammond
with his younger sister. All of them fresh over from
France
just three years ago, shortly after his father’s death – though they’re originally from
Scotland
. And you were right about him being a greenhorn. Although he’s thirty-two, he’s been doing criminal law less than a year. His bag before that was corporate law, and French corporate law at that. Beaton couldn’t have passed it lower down the rungs if he’d tried – which I think is an indication of what little weight the firm’s attaching to this. They don’t think he’s got a chance of convincing Candaret to commute.’

 ‘Pretty much what I heard initially. But it’s good to get the detail and the confirmation.’

‘But that’s not the best part,’ Nel-M continued. ‘Apparently this McElroy’s striking out before he’s even started. It seems that Durrant and some buddies were trying for a prison break – which is gonna make any possible clemency from Candaret highly unlikely.’

Roche eased a muted chuckle. ‘Always did have the knack of doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, our Mr Durrant.’ He took a laboured fresh breath. ‘Who was this from?’

‘My prison contact, Bateson.’ But with the mention of Bateson, Nel-M thought he'd better give Roche the full story. Unlikely that it would develop into anything; but if it did, Roche would question why he wasn’t told earlier. ‘The only small fly in the ointment is that this McElroy isn’t accepting the prison break account for what it is – he’s making out that Durrant was in fact trying to save the neck of a friend under attack.’

‘Do you think he’ll get anywhere with that?’

‘No, don’t think so. Guards’ word against the prisoners – looks like a non-starter. But you never know.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Roche agreed, his breathing suddenly heavier, more troubled. ‘But one thing we do know is that this young lawyer, despite his inexperience, doesn’t look like he’s going to be the type to simply roll over and die at the first obstacle. And that’s just what we don’t need – some young Turk eager to make a name for himself.’

Nel-M left an appropriate pause. ‘What do you want me to do with him?

Roche’s breathing was now rattling heavily at the other end, and Nel-M wasn’t sure if he was mulling over the situation or having trouble catching his breath to form the words.

After a second, Nel-M prompted, ‘I mean, do you just want me to warn him off at this stage, or, as you say, if he’s so eager to make a name for himself – perhaps a few column inches arranged alongside Raoul Ferrer?’

Roche’s breathing continued to rise and fall heavily for moment, like a tide over rough shale, before he finally spoke again.

Ascension Day
? So, Durrant’s cell altar hadn’t just been an escape-route cover. His religious conviction was real. That might at least appease Haveling that his trust hadn’t been
totally
abused; but then given Haveling’s firebrand religious bent, that might actually work against getting his support. ‘
If Durrant truly believes that that’s his calling – to be with God – then who are we to stand in his way
?’

But it was one hell of a speech from Durrant. One that Jac couldn’t immediately fathom out a way of countering. Jac was suddenly more conscious of the one-way mirrored screen, the guard the other side probably wondering what Durrant had said at such length that made his lawyer look so perplexed and lost for words. The sound link wouldn’t be on: client confidentiality.  

Jac had been scrambling from day one with Durrant – the attempted escape, Marmont in hospital, Durrant’s apparent death-wish and appeasing Haveling – but now it was crunch time. It all ended here and now if he didn’t think of something quickly. No point, though, in mentioning that mystery e-mail, at least not until he knew more: some anonymous crazy who thought he might be innocent? At best it would cruelly build up Durrant’s hopes; at worst he’d simply sneer at Jac all the more, would underline just how desperately Jac was clutching at any last straw.

And he obviously wasn’t going to get far simply trying to cajole and bully Durrant, push him in a corner. Eleven long years in Libreville had toughened his hide too much for that, and he’d used much of that time to educate himself. He was no longer the same man depicted in his initial arrest and trial folders. He was mentally tougher and far more astute. Maybe that was the key; or, at least, a useful conversational side-turn to diffuse things.

‘Well, one compensation, I suppose: not all your time in here’s been wasted,’ Jac commented.

‘In what way?’ Durrant eyed him warily.

‘The studying and literary degree you gained. Quite an achievement. Couldn’t have been easy.’

No answer from Durrant, simply a wry smile of acknowledgement, as if he could see already where Jac was heading and wasn’t about to be drawn in.

‘Then helping run the prison library. Couldn’t have been easy either, and quite a challenge to organize,’ Jac continued. ‘Must have kept you busy.’

Still no answer from Durrant, only a gentle nod of the head and an impatient, weary gaze, as if to say, ‘
Tell me when you get to something important, won’t you
?’

‘The other inmates are going to miss you.’ Still that impatient, steady gaze, so Jac clarified: ‘You know, your organizational abilities in the library. How you’ve arranged everything now. No guarantee that whoever takes over from you will keep it the same. And, by the way, do you know who that will be?’

‘Roddy,’ Durrant said flatly, disinterestedly. ‘Or maybe they’ll stretch Peretti’s duties.’

‘Oh.’ Roddy was Durrant’s closest friend in Libreville, and, although Jac didn’t know Peretti, obviously he handled the other two-hour shift of the four the library was open each day, barring Sundays. Durrant would probably have already talked to one or both of them about the continued smooth running of the library after he’d gone. Another dead-end. ‘By the way, how did you get the nickname “Thes”?’ Jac asked, eager to keep the conversation rolling.

‘Short for Thesaurus.’

‘Oh, right. Because of your literary expertise?’

‘No, from crosswords.’

Durrant had retreated into a pattern of answers between nil and three words, seemed determined not to make things easy on Jac. He was going to have to work for it. ‘From crosswords?’

‘Yeah, ‘cause if you think about it – apart from a few cryptics, most crosswords are built around alternative word choices. Another word for dumb: stupid. Another word for faltering: floundering. Like in a thesaurus.’

Some more words at least, but they were delivered with a tired, laboured tone, as if Durrant was enlightening an irksome, mentally challenged child. Jac couldn’t help wondering whether stupid and floundering mirrored how Durrant felt about his lawyer at that moment.

Jac introduced a brisker tone. ‘So did the reading and interest in literature come later, or about the same time as the crosswords?’

‘Mostly later.’

Jac stayed silent, held a steady gaze on Durrant that made it clear he expected more. He was determined not to be taken for a fool, and probably the best way was to work Durrant equally as hard.

As the silence became uncomfortable and the muted clatter and murmur of the prison beyond reached them, Durrant looked at his shoes briefly before looking back up. ‘Oh, sure, early on I was reading some light stuff now and then: Grisham, Patterson, Elmore Leonard. But then as I got deep into the crosswords and progressed from doing the local
Advocate
and
USA Today
to the
Washington Post
and
New York Times
cryptics – sometimes as many as three or four a day – my reading also became deeper and more involved: Steinbeck, Melville, Dostoyevsky, the Bible.’ 

Full circle back to Durrant’s religion. And although he was finally starting to open up more, it was delivered begrudgingly, as if Durrant resented having to explain or saw little purpose to it. After all, he was going to die soon.

But for the first time Jac felt more in control of the situation, felt he’d pieced together enough to be able to fight back. He shook his head. ‘You know, you’re a real conundrum, Mr Durrant…’