Authors: John Matthews
‘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.
7
If nothing else, Dr Leonard Truelle was a creature of habit. He read the daily newspapers every morning in his favourite café on Iberville Street over coffee and croissants, except when he had outside assessments or clinical notes to review for patients that day, in which case he’d use his morning coffee break for that and delay catching up on the troubles of the world outside until he left work.
But on some occasions, like tonight, those assessment reviews also coincided with his Tuesday and Friday single drink rituals – so he’d then spread out with his papers at a corner table rather than sit up at the bar. But the order of reading, day or night, was always the same: first the majors, the
NYT
,
Washington Post
and
Chicago Tribune
, twelve to fifteen minutes on each, then finally the
Times-Picayune
, which held his attention for no more than six or eight minutes.
Truelle always felt more connected to the country at large than locally, possibly through having graduated from Cornell and spent his first eight years of practice in New York. He’d only gone to New Orleans when his mother became ill. She’d long since died, but through circumstance, the drink and a mess of other problems, he’d never managed to grasp a time when he was organized or brave enough to return.
He still felt, twenty years on from his last days of practice in the Big Apple, that he was in New Orleans through duty rather than choice. The only things he found solace in were the warmer climes and the seafood. The rest of it – the petty wrangling and corruption of city officials, the environmentalists fighting a losing battle against the oil refineries along the coast – constantly grated, and so he always gave the
Picayune
short shrift as he flicked through.
He was flicking through so rapidly, skimming half-blindly, that he could have easily missed the entry, tucked in the bottom left-hand corner of page fifteen:
Raoul Ferrer, 36, financier and businessman, was found dead in an Algiers car lot in the early hours of Friday morning. Early police reports cite the cause as two gunshot wounds from a 9mm calibre weapon to the head. On occasion linked to the Malastra organization, Ferrer…
The noise and activity of the bar around him suddenly became more distant, muted. He wasn’t sure if the barman, Benny, had heard him above the drone from the sudden blood-rush to his head as he called out for another drink.
But Benny was certainly looking his way, having paused mid-wipe of the bar counter as he saw Truelle suddenly transfixed by the paper as if he’d seen a ghost, one hand gripping tight to the page as he read and re-read, the other reaching absently to knock back in one the bourbon that he’d usually nurse for another half hour.
‘Are you sure?’ Benny asked, eyeing him with concern. Four months into the ritual, Benny felt that enough rapport existed between them for him to breach barman’s protocol and ask why always only the one drink? From that point on, Benny had become a silent conspirator in keeping him clean.
‘Yeah, Benny, never been surer. Bring it on.’ He beckoned elaborately, but was careful not to meet Benny’s eye. Shield the demons. Then, as he watched Benny pouring, ‘In fact, bring over the whole bottle.’ This time he looked even further aslant – somewhere between New York and New Orleans, to avoid Ben’s withering gaze, only looking up with a tight smile as Benny came over and set the glass and bottle down.
‘Your funeral,’ Benny said resignedly. The tired tone of a barman who’d seen more than he dared count finally slip off the wagon.
Truelle knocked the drink down in two slugs as soon as Benny turned away. Poured, drank; poured, drank; poured, drank… but it did little to quell his panic or give him any clarity of thought. His head was still buzzing and his hands still shaking.
He pushed the bottle abruptly away, suddenly picturing the months ahead of trying to push away more and more bottles, but never quite succeeding… the lost hours and days and mental lapses, the patients neglected, the sickness and depression, friends patting his shoulder concernedly, ‘Are you okay, Len?’… the steady downward spiral that he knew so well.
Truelle’s eyes darted around the table. There was even a small article on Durrant on page nine of the
NYT
, obviously the first to hit the national press: ‘
Anti capital punishment campaigners, both local and from out-of-state, are planning a vigil in front of Libreville’s prison gates in the run-up to the execution…
’
Maybe that was it, Truelle thought. Surrounded by too many demons: the bottle, Durrant, Raoul Ferrer, the bar where Nel-M had paid him a visit just a week ago. He had to get out!
He pushed the table back, its legs grating roughly and turning a few heads from the bar. He felt himself sway uncertainly as he took the first few steps – he
had
been off the wagon a long while. In the good old days, he’d have put away a few stiff ones like that without hardly blinking. He waved briefly towards Benny as he passed, again careful not to meet his eye, or for that matter those at the bar who were now watching his exit with curious smiles.