Ascension Day (13 page)

‘Tab-it, Benny. I’ll catch you next time.’

It was worse outside. A confusion of traffic noise, horns beeping, people rushing by and calling out – the height of the rush hour and happy hour on Chartres Street. All of it seemed amplified in his head along with the buzzing, and he felt himself swaying more – or was it the street and all the people around tilting? He bumped into a woman with her shopping bags, and reached out to steady himself on the man just behind – who pushed the arm brusquely away with a sneer. Another horn blaring, sharper, more immediate, the sudden flare of headlamps making him realize he’d staggered into the road.

He jumped back and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and his nerves. Maybe he was panicking for nothing. In Ferrer’s line of work, it was only a matter of time before he was found in an empty car lot or ditch. But it was the timing in the run-up to Durrant’s execution that made it ominous. Nel-M pays himself a visit to make sure that everything is ‘cool’ – then next on the list is Raoul Ferrer. This time, though, Nel-M had obviously decided that everything wasn’t so cool.

The only way he could know for sure was by calling Nel-M. Nel-M probably wouldn’t admit it outright, but he’d glean enough from the cadence and inflection of what was said. The trained psychiatrist’s ear. But the call in itself might be the one thing to alert Nel-M that things might not be so cool with himself either, would make him next on the list.

Cool
. It was a warm and sultry night, but Truelle felt ice-cold, his whole body starting to tremble and shiver. Rooted to the spot amongst the milling throng, his stance underlined how isolated he felt at that moment, with nobody he felt he could turn to. Advising thousands through the years – but who had ever been there for him when he most needed it? And his burden had been far, far beyond that of any of those he’d had to sit patiently listening to through the years.

Perhaps it was time to tell Nel-M and Adelay Roche about his insurance policies. No point in them finding out after the event that killing him was the one thing that would throw everything into the open.

Jac was waiting in the ante-room to the Payne, Beaton and Sawyer boardroom along with seventeen other lawyers and paralegals for the company’s regular Wednesday morning progress meeting, when the call came through on his cell-phone.

The ritual meetings were presided over by either Jeremiah Payne or Clive Beaton – Dougy Sawyer would take the role of company secretary, saying little but making furious notes throughout – and order of importance in the company was all but determined by time of arrival. Junior lawyers and paralegals were expected at
8.20 a.m.
sharp, senior lawyers at 8.25, and, finally, the presiding partners at 8.30.

The message was patently clear: when the company gods arrived, woe betide any laggers that might hold up proceedings, even for a second.

The ten-minute wait for the juniors, though, was often insufferable. It was intended to give them more time to prepare their notes or get comments clearer in their minds – but more often than not it just gave them more time to dwell and become increasingly anxious. 

Jac was no exception, particularly this morning. He’d been turning over and over in his mind just how much to show and tell about Durrant. If he told about the attempted prison break, Beaton might well axe the case; but then if Haveling decided finally to go with the guards’ account of events, the whole thing would come out later. How was he going to cover for that? And he certainly couldn’t reveal that Durrant wanted to die – didn’t want a plea made on his behalf. For sure, Beaton would axe the whole case instantly. 

His cell-phone ringing broke his train of thought. He looked at the number: same area code as Libreville prison, but it wasn’t Haveling’s direct number.
Durrant
!

Jac quickly answered. Perhaps Durrant had had a change of heart, and he wouldn’t have to go through any subterfuge now at Beaton’s meeting.

‘Mr McElroy. It’s about something you said the other day.’

‘Yes.’ Jac felt his hopes rise.

‘About the book that Elden left at the hospital for Marmont.’

‘
Pet Sematary
?’ Jac subdued his voice to a mumble. He could feel a few eyes on him, particularly Kyle Everett. No calls during the meeting, obviously, but even those prior to it were frowned upon, might disturb the thoughts and note-making of others.

‘Yeah. Well, thing is, Marmont has already read that book – several times. In fact, it’s his favourite book, and he’ll readily quote from it to anyone who’s got the time and inclination to listen. Particularly the scene where the dog’s brought back to life. Apparently, Marmont lost a much-loved pet dog years back, a Golden Retriever – and he’s read and re-read that passage as if wishing the same might happen with his own dog.’ Durrant sniggered lightly. ‘Of course, on the way completely missing King’s underlying message with what eventually happens with the dog.’

‘I see.’ Jac saw quickly where Durrant was heading. ‘You mean there’d be absolutely no point in giving that book to Marmont – unless of course there was an ulterior motive. Such as, say, getting some sort of message to him?’

‘Got it in one, Counselor. Like I said the other day, you’re brighter than I thought.’

‘You’re so kind. But you know, when I first took the call I was hoping it might have been about…’ In his side vision, Jac could now see Clive Beaton and the other partners approaching the ante-room. He broke off from saying more.

After a second, Durrant prompted. ‘About what, Mr McElroy?’

‘You know, about…’ After a peremptory survey of the room, Beaton’s eagle eye settled on him. Jac nodded and held one hand up to indicate he’d be finished post haste. ‘About what we were discussing the other day.’

‘About me wanting to die, Mr McElroy… is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s right – about that. I thought you might have had a change of heart.’ After a quick aside to a colleague, Beaton’s eyes were back on him, keenly. Jac felt himself flush and a tingle rise at the back of his neck. If he was feeling uncomfortable after just a quick glance, how on earth was he going to carry off the subterfuge through the entire meeting?

‘Afraid of saying it, are we Mr McElroy?’ Durrant’s voice was jocular, taunting. ‘Don’t want to face it, so maybe if you don’t even say it – you can push the spectre further away. Like it was a dirty word.’

‘No, it’s not that… it’s…’

Durrant rolled straight over him. ‘Well, I’ve done nothing but face death these past years, Mr McElroy, had precious little else worth thinking about – so it don’t hold any fears for me any more. So that’s why I’m not afraid to say it, use the word.’

‘I understand.’ All Jac could think of was getting off the line. Half the assembled group had already filed through to the boardroom, and Beaton’s stare towards him was now penetrating, bordering on hostile.

‘Yeah, you understand,’ Durrant mocked. ‘So you’ll understand too that having thought about it for that long – it ain’t exactly the sort of thing I’m going to change my mind about overnight.’

‘No, really. I
do
understand. And I’ll get somebody onto that book thing with Marmont straightaway. But if you’ll excuse me now, I’ve got to go. I’m already late for a meeting.’ Jac rang off and followed Beaton and the last few into the boardroom.

Probably sounded more flippant than he’d intended.
I’ve got a meeting to attend, so if you want to die – you just go right ahead
. But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to mislead Durrant that he didn’t care that much after all. If as a result Durrant dropped his defences, he might see a clearer way through. 

Jac checked his e-mails as soon as he got out of the meeting. Still no reply as yet. He checked first thing every morning and kept half an eye on it through each day, but now four days had passed with nothing, it was starting to look more and more like a prank or hoax. Or a friend or relative of Durrant’s that couldn’t reveal themselves. If it was real, then why not say who they were or somehow back up their claim?

In the end, Jac hadn’t said anything about the dramas with Durrant in the meeting; hopefully there’d be some clearer resolve on both fronts over the coming days, and
then
he could say something.

Jac didn’t want to call Stratton from inside the office, so told Penny Vance that he was going to grab a coffee. He hit the buttons of his cell-phone as his feet hit the pavement outside.

There’d been a heavy storm overnight, and with the sun burning off the last of the cloud and haze, humidity was high. Early November, but it was still in the seventies. Jac could feel his shirt sticking to his back after only a few paces.

Bob Stratton answered quickly, but there was a confusion of noise in the background from a busy shopping mall or store, and Jac had to raise his voice above the passing traffic as he explained about Marmont and
Pet Sematary
.

‘So if you think it might be some sort of message, did Durrant give any hint as to what form it might take?’ Stratton pressed. ‘Do we know what we might be looking for?’

‘No, that’s it. All we know is that Marmont has these favourite scenes in the book due to his own dog dying years back, and that it’s odd he should be given a book he’s already read several times…’

‘Especially when he’s still in a coma.’

‘That aside.’ Jac joined Stratton briefly in a muted chuckle. ‘We’re assuming that if he doesn’t wake up – whatever problem exists goes with him. It’s only if and when he
does
come to… so perhaps there’s a note with the book. Or maybe something inside the book itself. Outside of that, we’re fishing.’

‘And you want yours truly, the fisherman, to head out there and start reading Stephen King?’

‘Yeah.’ Jac stopped by the deli window, held back from going inside. He didn’t want to add to the noise coming from Stratton’s end.  ‘As soon as.’

‘The only problem is, I’m not due out there until nine this evening – and I’ve got one of those days ahead of me. The earliest I could rearrange things to get out there is late afternoon: four or five.’

‘Okay.’ Jac recalled that Stratton had an arrangement running with a couple of shift nurses to block any visitors and phone him the minute there were signs of Marmont awakening. ‘But could you meanwhile phone your friendly nurses and ask them to remove any cards and packages from Marmont’s room for you to inspect when you arrive? He’s not under any circumstances to see them.’

‘Will do. And I’ll phone as soon as I have news.’

Jac stepped inside the deli as he wished Stratton luck and rang off. With a busy mid-morning crowd and the steam from the espresso machine, it seemed even hotter than outside.

Shirt sticking to his back
; the last time he recalled that was when he’d first walked through
Libreville
prison. Not just from nerves, but as the heat, stench and oppression – the staleness of thousands of caged hopes and emotions – sank through his skin. He felt as if he was still sticky and unclean hours later, even after showering as soon as he got home. That was how he felt after only minutes inside
Libreville
: Durrant had been there eleven years.

‘Latte and a Danish, Mr Jac?’

‘Yeah, Joe. Thanks.’ His usual daily take-out.

For the first time Jac began to question his own motives. Probably Durrant had every right to want to die; he himself might well feel the same after all those years inside somewhere like
Libreville
. Was he hoping to save Durrant’s life for Durrant’s benefit, or merely for his own reputation, to stop his first significant case collapsing at the first hurdle?

Bob Stratton found the note straightaway, but it was brief, told him nothing:

Thought you might like to read again your favourite scene.

Remember how the locks and light switches were tagged for your shift? Seek and ye shall find
!