Ascension Day

6

‘Why do you want to die? Why is it you don’t want me to try and save you?’

Jac went straight in with the key question. No point in beating around the bush. He might have got over most of the first hurdle with the attempted prison break, if Marmont survived, but unless he tackled this, they were all wasting their time. He could prepare the most marvellous clemency plea for the Governor’s office, but Durrant had to agree to its contents and sign the plea petition.

Durrant shuffled uncomfortably, shrugged. He looked like he’d have preferred some delay, as if a question of such purport deserved reasonable preamble. He looked almost offended to be hit with it straightaway.

‘I don’t know. Tired, first and foremost. Tired of the appeals and empty promises, tired of waiting. Tired of false hope. Tired of life.’ Durrant looked up with a steady gaze as he hit the last words, as if he’d only at that moment finally discovered what, most of all, he was tired of.

‘You’re tired, and so you want out. Is that about it?’ Jac said it offhandly, disdainfully, and Durrant’s stare became icy. Jac fully expected some confrontation if he was to stand a chance of shifting Durrant’s stance. It wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Yeah, that’s about it.’ Equally offhandly, disdainfully.

Jac stood up and took a couple of paces away from the interview table before turning to look back again. ‘That may be okay for you. But have you given a thought to those you’re leaving behind. Your wife. Your son. How old is he now?’ Jac remembered the age from Durrant’s file, but he wanted Durrant to say it, be reminded.

‘Twelve. Had his first birthday just a month before Christmas while I was held for trial.’

Jac considered Durrant dolefully for a second. ‘Maybe your wife will come to terms with you dying, has had a fair time to prepare herself. But do you really think your son will at that age?’ And as he saw Durrant flinch and look away, he knew he’d struck a chord. The first chink in Durrant’s armour, built-up hard these past eleven years.

Durrant knew he was being worked, but it was difficult to get angry. This new lawyer was young, still wet behind the ears, was probably not yet seasoned and world-weary enough to know that he was a hopeless case. But in a way that was also strangely gratifying. Most other lawyers wouldn’t have bothered to put in the time at this stage, would already have been signalling the guards to be let out. ‘Okay, so you want to die. I’ll file accordingly: no clemency petition to be made.’ It was gratifying to know that someone still cared.

Durrant snorted derisively. ‘You just don’t understand. The first five years I was here, my wife and son didn’t come to see me once. Too annoyed, too angry with what I’d done, she explained when she finally even took the time to send me a letter. Then when the visits did finally start, they were just token look-sees, at most once or twice a year: my birthday and sometimes just before Christmas as well. Never Christmas itself.’ Durrant snorted again. ‘She was always too busy with her other life and family outside.’

‘Her family and relations?’ Jac pressed to clarify. ‘Because I didn’t notice anything on the file about a divorce. You’re still married?’

‘Yeah, if you could call it that. Francine met someone new eighteen months after I was inside, and they started a relationship. Planned to marry too, if he’d been able to get his divorce papers through cleanly and on time from his ex. But by the time they looked ready to come through three years later, their relationship was already cooling off. When they finally split was the first time Francine started visiting me here with Josh. Then just over two years ago, she meets a new guy, and after ten months with him, once again the visits stop. And again there’s wedding plans. Next June, if I remember right, six months after I’ve gone. Suitable mourning and breathing space. Just wouldn’t be right to mess up such plans with complications like, say, me stayin’ alive.’ This time the derisive smile became quickly lopsided and that cool stare was back again. ‘So you see, Mr McElroy, my family deserted me long before I ever thought of deserting them.’

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…’

‘Conundrum… as in puzzle, enigma,’ Durrant interjected.

Jac continued unabated. ‘You’ve spent much of your time in here making your life more worthwhile: reading, organizing the library, getting a degree in literature, helping with the prison magazine. But then in the same breath, you tell me that everything here all around you is dire, worthless. So dire and worthless that you can’t wait to die. And so keen on dying are you, so disinterested in continued life — that you and your prison pals have spent the last year planning to escape.’ Jac leant forward over the interview table. ‘You’re well read, Mr Durrant, so you’ll probably know your Plato: That a man is judged by his actions, not his words. And while you might tell me that you want to die and have thrown at me all sorts of reasoning to support that — your actions tell me otherwise. They tell me — correction, shout — that you want to live.’

Durrant’s sly smile had started rising again — perceived challenge this time rather than annoyance — but halfway through it died with a flinch that brought something harder to his eyes. ‘That’s because you don’t fully pay attention, Mr McElroy. What me and my buddies were aiming for was freedom. Not a continued clinging to what passes for life in this rat-hole — but full-blown freedom. And if you’re offering me that — then I’d gladly grasp it with both hands, and say “Thank-you”. But you’re not, and we both know damn well that that isn’t even likely to happen. The best that you’re offering is another ten to fifteen in here, and that being the case, I’d rather say “Thank you, but no thank you. I’ll pass”.’ Durrant leant forward to emphasize his point. ‘That being okay with you.’

‘No, that’s not okay with me,’ Jac fired back. Durrant’s face was only eighteen inches away, his heavy-hooded eyes drilling home his message, and he recoiled back slightly in surprise. ‘I’m not offering an absolute by pleading to Candaret: freedom or even continued well-being in here for you. I’m even far from convinced that Candaret is going to offer anything. But what I am offering is hope. Hope that he might commute and that in a few years you might be eligible for release. Or that meanwhile something else might come out of the hat.’ As close as Jac dared get to hinting at the e-mail. ‘And for that alone, it’s worth a try. Because even if you weren’t well read, Mr Durrant, you’d remember from your Bible alone that when all the evils of the world were let loose from Pandora’s Box — all that was left was hope.’

‘Greek mythology again, as it happens. Hesiod’s Theogony, if I remember right.’

‘The point I’m trying to make,’ Jac rolled on impatiently, ‘is that you claim you’ve seen all manner of dark things in here over the years, all manner of evil — so maybe that hope at the end of the tunnel is somehow fitting. And that’s what I’m offering. That’s all I’m offering.’ Jac held out one hand in a helpless gesture. ‘But, fine, if you can look me straight in the eye and tell me there’s nothing in life you want to hang on for, no possible hope around the corner in a few months or years — then I’ll walk out of here now and not look back.’

Durrant’s eyes had flickered uncertainly towards the end, as if Jac had hit a raw nerve; but it was only for a couple of seconds, as if what was troubling Durrant was too elusive, pushed quickly away.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Mr McElroy,’ Durrant said at length, shaking his head. ‘But there’s nothing I’m hanging on for. And certainly not hope. I’ve been thinking things through for some while now — probably too long.’

‘Then that makes you a somewhat unique human being, Larry Durrant. Unlike the rest of us. Because you’ll also know from your reading that one of the most basic human desires is the need to know what happens next.’ Jac kept his gaze steadily on Durrant. ‘And do you mean to tell me that there’s not a single thing left you want to live for or are curious about knowing what happens next?’

This time Durrant was quick to hide the flinch by looking down at the table, or maybe it was the intensity of Jac’s gaze, possibly seeing things which Durrant was keen to shield. The private demons of eleven years in Libreville.

‘Unique human being. Been called a few things in my time, but that’s a new one.’ Durrant smiled crookedly, but kept his eyes averted until he hit his last words. ‘But the trouble with that theory, Mr McElroy, is that what happens next in here becomes somewhat predictable.’

Jac absorbed what he saw in Durrant’s eyes for a moment before conceding that there was probably nowhere left for him to go. Whatever was niggling at Durrant in the background, in the end eleven years in Libreville had won out. Made him not wish to endure it a day longer.

‘Well, did my best,’ Jac said, shuffling his papers back together from the table. ‘But one thing I don’t think you’ve thought about fully is Roddy. Seems to me that if you hadn’t reached him when you did in the boiler room the other day — Tally would have had his way with him and he’d now be in a body bag. How long do you think he’s going to last with you no longer there to watch his back? Three months, six?’

For the first time, Durrant reluctantly granted a more open smile. ‘I’ve got to admit, you’re good.’

‘What you mean is, I’m not the hopeless, weak-assed rookie lawyer you thought I was when I first walked in here.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘More importantly, does that mean I might have finally convinced you to pitch for some hope with our dear Governor Candaret?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, either. It might just mean that you’re too young and foolish to know when to quit.’

‘I think you’ve given me a pretty good object lesson on that score, Mr Durrant,’ Jac said, putting the last of his papers in his case and snapping it shut.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry if I went a bit hard on you.’ Durrant grimaced. ‘Because I know you’ve gone to some trouble on this.’

‘Even sent a detective out to St Tereseville General in case Bateson and his cronies got to Marmont before he woke up. And a supposed friend of Marmont’s, Elden, was already out there — though thankfully Marmont was still out. Even left him a book to read for when he woke up: Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, if you will.’

Durrant smiled. ‘Elden is okay. Not particularly one of Bateson’s tight circle. But I appreciate it: if not directly for me, then for how Roddy will be dealt with after I’m gone.’

‘That’s okay.’ Jac proffered his hand and Durrant took it into a shake. ‘I just wish you’d change your mind. Because I think Roddy’s going to miss you — even if he does manage to survive in here with you gone. And your son. Twelve. Vulnerable age.’ That uncertain flinch again, which if he’d been able to read, he might have been able to prise Durrant open more and convince him. But Durrant just nodded dolefully as Jac handed over his card. ‘Call me, please, if you do have a change of heart.’

That look of uncertainty — that deep down there was something that Durrant wanted to live for — was the only hope Jac clung to as he paced back through the prison: ‘Will call, won’t call. Will call, won’t call.’ But with each echoing step and gate clanked shut behind him through the cavernous extremities of Libreville, that hope began to fade.