Ascension Day

42

When the call came through to Havana’s Jose Marti airport, it was taken first of all by a young officer named Ruiz.

Quickly realizing that he was out of his depth, he handed over to his Captain, Sebastian Moragues, who’d started looking over inquisitively as he’d repeated segments for clarification.

New Orleans. Suspected false identity. Cubana flight from Nassau. Moragues’ inquisitive frown deepened as the request was repeated.

‘So, let me get this clear. This Mr Ayliss arriving soon — you suspect that it might be someone else posing as him? False identity?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And do you have an official arrest warrant your end for that?’

Brief pause, conferring the other end. ‘No… no we don’t. It’s just a suspicion at this stage. Though a very strong one.’

‘And based just on this suspicion… you want us to stop and detain him?’ Moragues was old school Castro, and for them the unwritten rule book was clear: no favours for Americans, because they’ve done none for us the past forty years. So unless it posed a threat to Cuban national security or involved drug-trafficking, which Cuba was keen to keep itself free of, Moragues was going to take a lot of convincing. And with not even the right paperwork in place their end? Madre de Putas!

Heavier conferring at the other end, Moragues shaking his head with a wry smile towards Ruiz. Americanos!

In New Orleans, Derminget had become increasingly frustrated with the three-way conversation. A young sergeant, Tony Salva, had stepped up to the plate for the call. His family had left Puerto Rico when he was fifteen, and his Spanish, he’d explained to Derminget, was still ‘seventy per cent there.’

‘You tell that stiff-head in Cuba,’ Derminget barked at Salva, one hand stabbing for emphasis, ‘that the guy we believe is posing as Ayliss is actually wanted for murder. And that, we do have a fucking warrant for!’

‘I see. Murder. That is more serious,’ Moragues commented as the translation came over, his smile still there from hearing Derminget’s agitation in the background. ‘But this suspected connection between these two men. Have you taken that before a judge with some sort of proof to get an arrest warrant?’

Heavier background shouting from the other end, almost screaming at one point. Moragues held the receiver a few inches away from his ear, shrugging towards Ruiz before he brought it back again for the translation.

‘No… we haven’t got that particular warrant yet.’

‘Then I would kindly suggest that when you do have that… that would be the time to be troubling us here in Havana. Otherwise we could both find ourselves in an unfortunate mess if it turns out to be a false detention.’ Not good for tourism: complaints about foreign nationals being unnecessarily detained at Havana airport!

The background commotion hit fever pitch this time, with a fair few expletives — the only words in fact that Moragues understood. His smile widened. He couldn’t wait for the translation.

‘My… my boss hears what you say. But he’s still insistent that you stop Mr Ayliss when he arrives at Havana airport in half an hour’s time. In fact — as one recognized police authority to another — he demands it.’

‘He does now, does he?’ Moragues gently licked his top lip. ‘Well, you tell your Jefe from me that he can take his demand and, along with the trade embargoes of the past forty years and the exploding cigar the CIA sent to our dear Fidel — stick it in his culo!’

At the other end, Derminget’s nerves had all but snapped; and as he saw Salva’s face redden as he listened to something more lengthy, he started screaming, ‘What’s he saying! What’s he fucking saying?’

Salva looked up finally as he reached to put the phone down. ‘He says he doesn’t think he can help.’

Last shower… last time he’d feel water against his body. It felt strange, unreal; the same as it did accepting that seeing Fran and Josh earlier that day had been for the last time. And tomorrow, last meal, last time food would touch his lips, then…

Even though he’d had eleven long years to get used to it happening, now the time was finally here, it felt odd, surreal; and so now the only way he could accept it was to numb himself to it, switch off a part of himself. Like one of those machines or computers on sleep-mode. Brain half-switched off, body… soul.

But as part of him switched off, another suddenly became more attuned. He could hear things in the prison he hadn’t heard before: beyond the steady background thrum of its boilers, a faint clicking as pipes contracted; distant voices through the ceiling grill, echoing along the ventilation shaft from guards or prisoners talking; and earlier that night, a steady breeze rustling through the trees outside, and, as it drifted a certain way, some music carrying on it. He’d been told that the protestors beyond the gates were playing music, but hadn’t heard it until that moment.

And now as he felt the water running down his skin, memories that he thought had long ago faded: bathing Joshua as a baby, feeling the water slide like velvet against his soft skin, Josh’s eyes bright and dancing as he looked back up at him, giggling… Fran and himself on the beach one day when they’d gone along the coast to Gulfport, the year before Josh was born, Fran splashing him as she ran in the shallows, and he splashing her back, her looking so bright-eyed and beautiful… so beautiful…

The images now so real that he fancied he could still taste the salt in the water as some of it splashed on his face… before realizing that it was his own tears as they’d touched his lips.

I was only dreaming…

He’d faded out the foreground, there was just the background left; maybe what he should have done all along in Libreville. Faded out the heavy clump of the guards’ boots along the walkways, their shouts and taunts, the night-time weeping of other prisoners, the cacophony of voices now in the showers… faded it all out until there was nothing left but him and Fran and Josh together again, smiling and hugging each other as if the eleven years in between hadn’t really happened… just a dream…

Larry jolted sharply, as if he had suddenly awoken. Cacophony of voices! They had faded, it wasn’t just in his head. It was suddenly quieter in the showers. Roddy!

Larry leapt out and looked towards Roddy. Since the attack three weeks back, he’d made sure to shower at the same time as Roddy every night. He’d said his last goodbyes to Sal, Roddy, BC and Theo just before, then had headed to the showers with Roddy. Last night of protection, BC saying he’d cover Roddy’s back as best he could after Larry was gone.

And so Larry was slightly confused as he saw Tally Shavell emerge through the steam, with Jay-T moving in a few paces behind himself, and Silass to one side. Why didn’t they just wait a day when Roddy would be more vulnerable?

Then, as he saw the focus and intent in their eyes and their angle of movement, he realized that they were moving in on himself! Though it didn’t compute quickly enough given the odd timing, Jay-T taking the last two steps to grip him from behind as the shiv appeared in Tally’s hand and he lunged for Larry.

Larry swung back in reflex with an elbow at Jay-T, twisting his body away at the same time. He managed to shift his abdomen eight inches, but still the shiv caught him on one side, slicing through the soft flesh just above his hip-bone.

Tally pulled back and thrust swiftly again for mid-stomach, but Larry’s second elbow swing caught Jay-T directly in the wind-pipe, and he managed to jerk free and completely side-step Tally’s second lunge as Jay-T fell away, choking. Tally went then for a scything sweep, Larry jumping back clear of it and shifting round so that Silass couldn’t get to him easily, would have had to move through Tally’s path. Roddy had sidled around the back of them, and now, seeing that Larry was more in control, darted off to alert the guards.

Tally’s eyes gleamed wildly, his breath falling short. Larry had the measure of him now, and he could see from Tally’s eyes that a part of him knew it too — though still fighting against it through a fireball mist of adrenalin and hatred — and as Tally lunged again, Larry side-stepped easily and gripped his knife-arm, snapping it at the joint against his thigh.

Larry snatched the shiv and had Tally twisted around in a forearm neck grip, the shiv blade tight at his throat, before Silass could move in. He backed away a step and pressed the blade hard against Tally’s skin, drawing a tear-drop of blood. Silass and Jay-T glared back challengingly, but held back.

Flurry of boot-steps in the background, Warrell and another two guards appearing, Roddy just behind them. Warrell held one hand up towards him.

‘Don’t do it, Larry!’

‘Why not? I’m dying tomorrow — I’ve got fuck-all to lose.’ The alarm bell started jangling then, more guards starting to appear behind Warrell.

‘Because…’ Warrell was lost for a second for an answer. ‘Because, what’s the point?’

Larry glared back defiantly. ‘The point is, getting rid of this slimy fuck once and for all! After I’ve gone tomorrow, how long do you think Roddy’s going to last with Tally still alive?’ He jabbed the shiv tighter against Tally’s neck, drawing another teardrop of blood. ‘I’d be doing not only Roddy a favour, but everyone else around here. One last good deed before I go!’

‘With that busted arm… he’s not going to be able to do much for a while in any case,’ Warrell said.

‘He’s still got one good arm.’ And, impulse reaction, Larry jammed the shiv into Tally’s good arm by his biceps, grinding it around and feeling it tear through muscle, Tally roaring with the pain. Then, as Silass and one of the guards moved half a step closer, he pulled it out and put it tight again to Tally’s throat.

At that moment, he could think of nothing better than slitting Tally’s throat, rid Libreville of him once and for all, but then, as if reading his thoughts, a voice came from the back of the circle of guards.

‘This ain’t you, Larry. Don’t do it. You’re not a killer.’ Torvald Engelson.

Larry’s eyes fixed on Torvald as he came to the forefront to stand by Warrell. ‘Don’t pride yourself, Tor. You don’t know me that well. And that’s not what the State of Louisiana and the judge said.’

Torvald closed his eyes for a second in submission. ‘I didn’t know you then, Larry, so I can’t say what happened. But I think I know you well enough now: you’re not a killer. And if you do this now, you might not get where you want to tomorrow.’ Torvald closed his eyes again fleetingly, hating himself for playing the religious card now on Larry, but not knowing what else to do. ‘Like you said to me the other day — a question of whether God believes in you, Larry. Whether he’s going to accept and understand if you do this now.’

Larry felt himself split like never before in that instant: between what his gut and instinct told him was right, and his heart and conscience said was wrong. Larry felt himself start shaking, his eyes filling as he thought again of the warm reverie of only minutes ago, and him standing here now, cold and shivering, blood streaming down him as he held a shiv to another man’s throat.

‘I don’t know what to think any more, Tor. Long ago given up on what’s right and wrong in here. I…’ But his body language said then what his words were unable to finish. His grip weakened on Tally’s neck.

Sensing his indecision, the guards moved in. And as the last of Larry’s resolve went and the shiv slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, they grabbed him and carried him away, Larry nodding towards Torvald with tight-lipped acceptance; Larry not even sure whether it was in thanks, or simply acknowledgement that Torvald knew him better than most.

Killer? Not killer? Twelve long years Larry had been asking himself that same question, along with a few other people that had got to know him along the way; and still now, in his final hours, the question was being asked.

Alaysha found that whenever she was back at her own apartment or Jac’s next door, every small sound on the corridor outside made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

For that reason, she’d spent as much time as she could at her mother’s place, and when she did need to be back home would grab what she needed from her own apartment, then go quickly next door to Jac’s. With Molly some nights, without when she was working and needed an hour or so to get ready at her own place, Molly already dropped off with Alaysha’s mom.

The first night she’d done that, she’d spent half an hour sorting out her clothes and putting on make-up at her own place — but then a sound outside on the corridor had made her skin bristle. When she looked through the spy-hole, it was nothing, visitors to another apartment three doors down; but it suddenly made her more aware of what would have happened if it had been something. She moved her main clothes and her make-up bag permanently next door to Jac’s.

Secrets. She hadn’t told her mother about robbing Malastra. Didn’t want her to shoulder any burden or guilt over what the money had been for. It was for your dialysis and treatment, Mom. I know it might have been foolish, but we’re talking about your life here!

The only person that knew was Jac. And he wasn’t here for her to talk to any more, tell him that with each passing hour her nerves were mounting, jumping out of her skin at the smallest sound outside. She’d been hoping to see him the next night, but there was a message on her answer-phone when she’d grabbed a couple of things before coming to his place to do her make-up for work.

‘Alaysha. Adam here. I can’t make our meeting tomorrow night, I’m afraid. I’ve had to leave the country unexpectedly. In fact, I’m on my way right now. Something to do with that big deal I mentioned. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.’

Adam. The name he’d chosen, his father’s, in case the police were listening in on her line, Jac changing his accent yet again from his own or Ayliss’s. Big deal: Durrant. A lot of echoing and noise in the background, sounded as if he was actually phoning from the airport.

They’d arranged to meet at nine o’clock, three hours after Durrant’s scheduled execution. It would all be over by then; Jac would have been able to share with her how everything had gone. One way or the other. Tears on her shoulder, or cracking a bottle of champagne together.

Alaysha focused in the mirror as she started applying her eyeliner. Some life they were living: her boyfriend like a chameleon, on the run for murder, and her sneaking around from one place to another, anywhere but -

Her nerves suddenly leapt, her eyeliner pencil dog-legging off a quarter-inch, as she heard her doorbell ring next door. She hadn’t even heard anyone come along the corridor! She padded silently in her stocking-feet to the door, looking to the side through the spy-hole: a messenger. FedEx, complete with buff uniform.

He rang the bell again, and at that moment Mrs Orwin’s door opened behind him. He pointed to Alaysha’s door, saying something about ‘special delivery’, though Alaysha couldn’t see a package in his hand, and then her heart froze as Mrs Orwin’s bony finger lifted and pointed to Jac’s apartment.

She’d noticed Mrs Orwin peering out a couple of times the night before as she’d gone between one apartment and the other, perhaps eager to alert the police in case that ‘killer McElroy’ returned, and obviously she’d done the same tonight.

The messenger nodded his thanks and approached Jac’s door — Alaysha shrinking back a step as the doorbell rang, her heart beating hard and fast. Memories of that black kid with a message, Gerry at her door a second later. The gunshot. Jac running through the night from the police.

She swallowed hard. But that was a street boy; this is a recognized messenger, in a uniform! Get a grip.

He rang the bell again, then four seconds later knocked.

Alaysha moved forward again, risking another glance through the spy-hole: the messenger looking down at his feet for a second, Mrs Orwin still behind him, frowning slightly; an ‘I’m sure she was there’ expression on her face.

Then finally, deciding he’d waited long enough, he wrote something on a card and slipped it through the letter box. And as Alaysha saw it come through, saw the official FedEx logo on its top, she thought: it must be real! Maybe even an urgent message from Jac. And what could possibly happen with Mrs Orwin still looking on?

She quickly slid back the latch and opened the door, caught the messenger as he was only a pace away. He turned back and smiled.

‘Mrs Reyner?’

‘Yes.’ Alaysha watched Mrs Orwin pull back behind her door, close it again. And of all the times she’d found her neighbour’s spying annoying, now she felt like screaming: ‘No, no! Stay here looking until at least this messenger has gone. Be as nosy as you fucking like!’

‘Alaysha Reyner?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have something for you.’

And as the messenger reached his hand toward her and she saw what he held, her breath caught in her throat, and she knew then that she’d made a mistake opening the door. A big mistake.

As Larry Durrant’s death approached, its tentacles reached out like an octopus.

There’d been a steady build up over the past weeks, but now in the last twenty-four hours, those tentacles carrying news of his fate spread deeper and wider than ever before: the night-before vigil was on every news channel, there were evening debates pro and con death-penalty, more again on breakfast TV, Durrant’s last meal, how he’d spend his last minutes, medical details of how he’d be executed, background to the recently-failed clemency plea to the Governor, details of the murder twelve years ago, drama with his last lawyer, his new lawyer Darrell Ayliss apparently no longer available for comment…

Louisiana and half the States beyond, who knew little about Larry Durrant’s life, got to know every last detail of his impending death, as if they were a modern-day Roman amphitheatre crowd blood-lust hungry for it.

Those tentacles reached people they never had before, and some felt deeply touched and saddened by Larry Durrant’s plight, became more anti-death-penalty, while others simply munched their popcorn faster, Come on, get on with it. Give it to the fucker!

But those tentacles gripped tightest around those who knew Larry Durrant. Francine Durrant changed channels or turned off the TV every time it came on, couldn’t watch it any more. Mike Coultaine found himself tapping his fingers anxiously on tables and counter tops, increasingly looking towards the phone, praying that Jac had managed to run the gauntlet through customs and would be in Cuba by now, that any minute the phone would ring with good news. And Mack Elliott stared absently out of the window at Henny’s on to a bright winter’s day, street bustling with life, as he bit into a Debris po-boy and tried desperately to remember what he’d seen on TV twelve years ago.

And as those news broadcasts talked more and more about time — time of last meal, time for the final medical examination, time Durrant would walk to the death chamber, time of execution — those tentacles pulled everyone’s eyes repeatedly to the clock; half the state, two million people or more, watching the hours and minutes tick down to his death.

Roland Cole was no exception. Over the past two hours, his eyes had lifted twenty times or more to the clock in the Algiers fish warehouse where he and a colleague were busily shifting that day’s shipments onto the right pallets.

‘What’s wrong wit’ you?’ the colleague said. ‘Yo’ got a hot date tonight or somethin’ — can’t wait to leave today?’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Cole’s hand went to his stomach where his mounting anxiety had settled like a bucket of eels writhing in acid. ‘Somethin’ I ate last night — it’s half killing me.’ With a meek smile, he rushed to the washroom at the back again; his fourth visit that morning.

‘You timin’ to make sure you don’ shit yo’self?’ his friend shouted after him, chuckling.

Cole closed his eyes and shuddered as he sat on the toilet.

Stealing away the time alone was the main thing. Time alone with his own thoughts, but most of all away from TV, news broadcasts and clocks.

Durrant’s face had been on news broadcasts twice the night before, but even though Cole had made sure not to turn on breakfast news and had rushed past every newsstand on the way in, that image was still with him practically everywhere he looked: around the warehouse, at his friend… at the clock!

Not me, not me… not me! I’m not the man you saw that night!

A thousand times he’d replayed that night in his head: hot-wiring the Mercedes in the driveway as he saw a man run round the corner from Coliseum Street: six-foot, stocky, skin-colour and tone not much different to his own, breathless and jaded as he stared back momentarily. Cole sunk down even lower beneath the dashboard, praying that he hadn’t been seen. And four minutes later, when he was sure the guy was long-gone, he started up the Mercedes and drove off.

Then when Durrant was first arrested, he saw from the news that it wasn’t the man he’d seen that night. He read as much as he could about the background to the case, but there was no possible doubt: the other eye-witness had only seen one man leaving the scene, and the timing matched exactly with the guy he’d seen run past. It wasn’t Durrant!

But the problem was, he couldn’t see a way of coming forward without also holding his hands up to the grand-theft auto. Five to seven years, maybe more if they linked the MO back to other luxury auto-thefts over the past few years.

Cole managed finally to push it to the back of his mind; but then when Durrant’s execution date was set, it was back at the forefront, with a vengeance! And so he sent the e-mails; as far as he felt he could go without putting his own head in the noose.

Cole shook his head, a shiver running through him as he felt his stomach cramp and tighten again. Surely they couldn’t go through with killing Durrant? He’d told them in those e-mails that it wasn’t him! What the fuck more did they want: five to seven years of his own life?