Ascension Day (33 page)

‘And… uh, well… looks like we can’t hold back any longer from taking action.’

‘Looks like it.’ Nel-M relishing Roche’s discomfort as he noticed some sweat beads break out above his top lip.

‘Though it appears we’re spoilt for choice there.’ Small chuckle from Roche that fought for bravado, but failed. His breathing suddenly more laboured. ‘Destroy his career, or, as you so aptly put it, a few column inches alongside Raoul Ferrer.’

Nel-M didn’t say anything, simply shrugged.

One hand of Roche’s clutched at his thigh as he struggled with the decision, faint sweat-beads now on his forehead too. ‘Which route do you think we should go?’ he pressed.

‘You know I always leave those sort of decisions to you.’ Nel-M smiled tightly, refusing to be drawn. This time he didn’t need to say anything; the tapes had done it all for him. Hardly any options left now for Roche.

The silence heavy, palpable, Nel-M suddenly aware of something he hadn’t noticed before: gently playing in the background, like the soft, non-descript piped music in an elevator, an instrumental version of ‘Fernando’s Hideaway’.

‘Weighing up not just the best option, but one which will ensure no possible links back.’

‘Obviously.’ Nel-M shrugged.

Roche’s hand rose briefly to rub at his temple before returning to his lap, a small nervous tic appearing at the corner of his mouth. His breathing rattled faintly as it rose and fell.

‘And of course, the best timing…’

Another shrug from Nel-M.

Roche’s mouth dry, his fat pink tongue snaking out to moisten it, his hand clenched back on his knee starting to tremble slightly.

But Nel-M just held the same stare steadily on Roche, wallowing in every small nuance of his discomfort, while on his own knee he started to drum a steady rhythm with his fingers as he waited impatiently on Roche’s final pearls of wisdom.

18

As Frank Sinatra invited
Libreville
’s inmates to come fly with him and try some exotic booze in far
Bombay
, Rodriguez might have swayed to it if he hadn’t heard it a hundred times before.

Now with all privileges returned, Rodriguez had his daily 90-minutes back on the prison radio, alternating between a 7 a.m. and a 6 p.m. slot with another prisoner, Tyrone Sommer – or Tired-Drone Insomnia, as he’d been nicknamed – an ex-part-time DJ from a small station in Shreveport who played far too much country music for the inmates’ liking. Sad and lamenting at the best of times – the crops have all failed, my wife’s done left me and my dog just died – it was noticed that the prison suicide rate was far higher during and just after Sommer’s slots.

Rodriguez’ sessions were decidedly more upbeat: Latin, reggae, calypso, rock, latin-jazz, with Carlos Santana his all-time favourite. But over sixty per cent of their respective programmes and playlists were controlled by Haveling: prison activity announcements for the day and evening – which had been the original purpose of setting up the radio slots – followed by ‘uplifting’ religious music, then, interspersed with their own playlist choices, Haveling’s favourite music: swing, songs from musicals and Bacharach.

Within Rodriguez’ and Sommer’s respective playlist choices, Haveling also wielded a heavy guiding hand: no heavy rock, nothing too aggressive and rousing, which left only Santana’s lighter instrumental tracks; and nothing which might have sexual, violent or drugs connotations – which discounted most of the rest of rock music. 

With swing, songs from musicals and Bacharach, Rodriguez had a far freer hand – yet even there Haveling had presented them with a list of preferred tunes he wanted playing X-number of times a week, of which Sinatra’s ‘Come Fly With Me’ was one. And when Rodriguez had studied the list in more detail one day – ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, ‘Girl from Ipanema’, ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’, ‘Bali Hai’, ‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose’, ‘Beyond the Sea’ (Darren’s ‘Mack the Knife’ was banned) – he couldn’t help noticing that many of them had overt themes of freedom or far-away places, places that most of the Libreville inmates would never get to see.

Perhaps they were indeed Haveling’s favourite tunes, or perhaps he was slyly rubbing salt in the wounds of their incarceration; like most things with Haveling, you never knew. But you stepped outside of Haveling’s recommended playlist at your peril.

‘He even stopped me playin’ “
Moon
River
” for fuck’s sake,’ Rodriguez once complained to Larry. ‘Thought the line “I’ll be crossing you in style tonight” might give people the idea of escapin’ across the river.’

It was great to have all privileges back, but now that he and Larry were again in general circulation, the risks from Tally and his crew were far greater. The initial guarded, warning looks had now become icy and openly hostile, as if saying, ‘You got lucky a couple of times. But that ain’t gonna be the case for much longer.’ On one occasion, Tally had even tapped his watch to make the message clear. Tally had been thwarted, made to look a fool, and that was something Rodriguez could barely remember happening before, let alone
twice
.
Libreville
’s corridors and shower rooms – or even open areas with the right distraction, like the canteen or TV room – were going to be far more dangerous places from here on in. He and Larry were going to have to be extra-vigilant watching their backs.

Rodriguez leant forward to the mike as Sinatra came to an end.

‘And that’s Ol’ Blue Eyes there, croonin’ about places that’ll be all too familiar to all you well-heeled jet-setters here at
Libreville
. Just lay back on your bunk and fly, fly away. But now it’s time for a touch of my main man, Carlos Santana.’ Rodriguez reached for the record and cued it. ‘Samba… Pa… ti. Played today for a very special lady. And not to be confused with
Samba Party
, a Swedish film which was tradin’ at some high prices a few months back.’

As risqué as Rodriguez dared get, he sat back and closed his eyes, letting the softly soaring guitar and mellow background bongo suffuse through him. He was ten days late playing the tune, but then he’d been in the infirmary at the time. Better late than never, he thought, wiping a gentle tear from the corner of one eye.

While Carlos Santana’s guitar sailed and cried through the concrete caverns of
Libreville
prison, Larry Durrant sat up on his bed.

He knew what the tune meant to Rodriguez. He’d played it at his mother’s funeral – along with her own favourite, ‘Besame Mucho’ – four years ago now, late fall, not far from this date, and every year since on the same day. Rodriguez had also played the tune various other times over the prison radio, but with the mention of ‘for a very special lady’, Larry knew that today was significant.

Rodriguez had taken his mother’s death hard. Coming just fifteen months after his incarceration, he’d partly blamed himself. Larry could imagine Rodriguez in the radio room now, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. Then, as soon as it finished playing, he’d be back to his lively, bubbly self again, lifting everyone’s spirits, if not his own.

Larry wondered what Francine and Josh would play at his own funeral: Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s going on’, Sly Stone’s ‘Family Affair’? Both songs a decade ahead of his teens, and so long past now, he doubted that Franny even remembered his favourite tunes any more.

Although he had no idea what Josh’s tastes in music were either – maybe something he could broach in future e-mails. But the thought had already mugged him deep inside without warning,
too long apart
, and a single tear rolled down one cheek at the lost years.

Nobody rushing to work that morning paid much attention to the man in a lightweight grey suit entering the car park on
St Charles Street
and exiting ten minutes later. He appeared just one of many hurrying to work having parked their cars.

Except the man didn’t head towards an office, he went fifty yards along the street to the nearest kiosk to make a call.

‘It’s all done.’  

‘Great. And what’s the best point?’

‘Eight to eleven miles in. But I wouldn’t leave it beyond that.’

‘Okay, got it. Eight to eleven.’ Nel-M clicked off and dialled straight out again.

With another anxious check of his watch, Jac started reading through draft five – six? he’d lost count – of Durrant’s clemency plea.
Please
, no more changes.
No time
! And Coultaine’s support letter, which had arrived forty minutes earlier by messenger, he’d managed to give only a light skim, though the postscript had leapt out at him:

Thought you might find the enclosed of interest, found it amongst my old papers. It’ll save you asking Truelle for a copy. Remember, everything started with this
.

Jac twirled the cassette tape briefly in one hand before bringing his attention back to Durrant’s plea on his computer screen, but found his eyes drifting back to the tape at intervals.

Finally, the distraction too much, halfway through reading what he hoped was the final, definitive version, he leapt up, grabbed a cassette player from a nearby shelf, slotted it in, and resumed reading again as soon as he pressed play.

‘
Session fourteen. Seventeenth of August, Nineteen-ninety-two. Subject:
Lawrence
Tyler
Durrant…
’

One of Truelle’s sessions with Durrant. There was a minute’s preamble, settling Durrant down before Truelle hit any real topic: Durrant’s heavy drinking the night of the accident.

‘You mentioned feeling guilty about that. Was that because of what resulted – the accident – or the drinking itself
?’

‘
Mainly the drinking… because I’d promised Franny, yer know, to stop
.’

‘
And do you remember drinking other times after you’d promised to stop, or was it just this one time?
’

‘
There were a fair few other times I recall – all around that same time. I was goin’ through a real bad cycle, man… didn’t know what I was doing half the time
.’

‘
And why was that? Or didn’t you know that, either
?’

‘
Oh, I knew all right – knew all too well. That’s why I tried to bury it… burn it from my mind with as much rum and whisky as I could lay my hands on. But however hard I tried, it stayed with me. I jus’ couldn’t shake it.
’

‘
Shake what, Lawrence
?’

‘
More guilt, that’s what.
’ Durrant’s breathing suddenly more laboured. ‘
More guilt because that wasn’t the only promise I’d broken to Franny
.’

‘
Guilt over what, Lawrence. What other promise
?’

‘
I…. I… It’s difficult
.’ Durrant’s breathing hissing hard.

‘
I know. But perhaps if you unburden whatever it is, you’ll be able to break the cycle.
’

Listening to Durrant’s fractured and uncertain breathing, Jac realized that this was one of the sessions where Truelle had used hypnosis to draw out his buried memory. As Durrant struggled with the decision – whether to take the leap or step back – Jac felt as if he was suddenly there with him in the moment, suspended.

He snapped out of it quickly,
no time now
, stopping the tape and reading the last few paragraphs of the plea. Okay,
okay
. Plea, Coultaine’s letter, and get there fifteen minutes early to read Haveling’s support letter. He slid the papers into his briefcase, grabbed the tape recorder, and, with a quick wave to John Langfranc who mouthed ‘Good luck’ through his glass screen, skipped down the stairs two at a time.