Ascension Day (51 page)

‘Archie had just had a heart attack, and had been diagnosed by his doctor with congestive heart disease. He might last a year or two, he might last six or seven – but the thing was, like my father, he wasn’t going to make old bones. I remember vividly the two of them sitting on the back terrace at Rochefort, with Archie raising a glass and smiling dryly. “It’s going to be a race between you and I, Adam, to see who goes first.” But what stood out most in my mind was what Archie said a bit later, after the coffees had turned to whiskies and they’d finished most of a bottle between them and reminisced and put half the world to rights. Archie leant forward at one point, gripping my father’s arm across the table as my father became more maudlin, lamenting about the mess he’d made of things. “Don’t you ever think that way!
Ever
! Because that’s the one difference between what’s happening to you and to me, Adam – you’ve
lived
before you died!”

‘And as my father’s eyebrows knitted, over another half-tumblerful of scotch each, Archie explained: he himself had been careful all his life, counted his pennies, but in the end, what good had that done him? He reminded my father that each time he’d come down to see him, they’d gone out to the marina at Arcachon and looked at the sail boats there. That had been Archie’s dream: retire, get a place not far from my father’s, and spend the rest of his days sailing. Now, even with his retirement pulled forward to fifty-five, it looked touch-and-go whether he’d make it. And even if he did, how many years sailing would he have? Maybe only a year or two, three if he was lucky. Whereas, he said to my father – you’ve
lived
your life, done what you want from age thirty and bollocks to the rest. Given your wife and son and little girl a damn good life at the same time. Watched them grow good and straight and tall amongst the sunshine and vines. “So don’t you ever regret any of that, Adam. Because, unlike me, you’ve
lived
your life. You’ve lived before you died.”’

Jac bit at his bottom lip, the tears closer then, Alaysha saw; but he seemed eager to continue, as if afraid that he might break down before he got it all out.

‘Archie lasted only a year after my father.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second, shaking his head. ‘But when you asked the other day, what made me fight so hard on Durrant’s behalf – not long after, that’s what finally hit me, those words: “Lived before he died”…’ Jac shrugged, grimacing tautly. ‘Because if you think about Larry Durrant’s life, such as it is: his boxing career going down in flames before it hardly started, turning to petty crime to supplement his income; then just when he’s newly married and got a son on the way – just when his life looks like it might be back on track for once – he lands himself on Libreville’s death row. And on top a car accident that’s scrambled his brain, so that he can’t even remember half his life from back then – can’t say with any certainty whether he actually committed the murder or not.’ Jac’s voice had risen with anger and exasperation, and he took a quick breath, calming himself again. ‘If you think about all of that – if the term “not living before you died” fitted anyone, it fits Larry Durrant. And the fact that he might be innocent makes it all the harder to take. Almost unbearable.’

‘I know.
I know
.’ Alaysha reached out and gently touched one of Jac’s hands on the table. With the talk about his father, the pain and loss she’d seen in his eyes when they first met she now better understood. But then an awkward silence fell, a pregnant pause that felt as if perhaps she should fill it with her own story. And the signals were all there –
illness, sacrifice and risk-taking for family
– of what that story should be.

Alaysha swallowed hard, wondering if the time was finally right to tell Jac. If she didn’t, it would become like an ever-growing boulder between them, get in the way, weigh them down. But then Jac started speaking again.

‘That thought, that realization, had hit me before I saw Durrant the other day. But when he asked me the same question as you – what had made me go out on such a limb for him – and I looked at him: life to date pretty well worthless and in ruins, last eleven years spent in hell without a single touch of warmth and closeness from his family, hardly even
knowing
what that was like from his own son, and only days left now until his execution – the fact that he’d probably now
never
get the chance to make good on all of that – I  just couldn’t come flat out and tell him the truth.’ Jac shook his head, his eyes moistening again. ‘Tell him that I’d done it all because his life so far had been so worthless. That I couldn’t bear the thought of him not being able to live some before he died.’

Jac’s eyes closed for a second in submission, or perhaps to blot out the images of Durrant in his cell, a single tear rolling down one of Jac’s cheeks which he wiped away hastily, and Alaysha had never felt closer to him than in that moment – now that he’d bared his soul. All the warmth, softness and vulnerability she’d never known in the men so far in her life – and probably looked for all the more as a result. But with what Jac had now added to the pot,
holding back secrets
, his emotions raw and close to the surface with the guilt of it, she felt her bottom lip trembling, the lump in her throat now almost impossible to swallow past.

‘Jac… there’s something–’ Alaysha broke off, looking past Jac’s shoulder. Faint noise outside on the corridor.

Jac didn’t seem to have picked up on it – but then she
had
become more tuned in to sounds outside her door these past days – in fact he hardly seemed to have noticed either that she’d started to say something as he continued.

‘…So I did what people often do when they’re hiding something: I brought a couple of props along for distraction.’

‘That was a nice touch though, Jac. And by the sound of it, much appreciated.’ Jac had told her about sneaking in the bottles, and Durrant the cognac connoisseur, at the start of dinner. She looked briefly past his shoulder again. Nothing there now. Probably just someone passing on the corridor. She reached across the table to his hand again, gently pressed. ‘The thing is Jac, I –’

Her doorbell rang.

Then, seconds later, a high-pitched voice, sounded like a young boy.

‘I’m looking for Jac McElroy… Got a message to pass to Jac McElroy.’

They exchanged glances for a second before Alaysha went to the door and, sure enough, about a foot below the spy-hole was a young boy holding out a folded piece of paper. Stories abounded of attacks from young gang boyz, but this lad was too young, no more than twelve, and besides, this wasn’t the neighbourhood for that. Probably was just what it appeared.

‘Message for Jac McElroy,’ he repeated.

Alaysha flipped back the latch, unhooked the chain, and had barely got the door a few inches open when it was barged hard into her, swinging wide as she was flung back. She pushed back against the door, reflex reaction, but Gerry was already through it, eyes wild and glaring, as the kid scampered off along the corridor.

Jac was only a couple of paces behind Alaysha. His eyes locked with Gerry’s in recognition, assessing, weighing-up through the red mist of Gerry’s rage.

‘You must be…’ Gerry swung his punch on his last word, and Jac, only managing to get his arms up in partial defence, caught it as a glancing blow on his left cheekbone, knocking him back half a step.

But he had his guard up better for Gerry’s next punches, one blocked fully and the other deflected into his shoulder. They clinched and started to grapple, with Alaysha now raining punches on Gerry’s shoulder and back, screaming, ‘No…
No
!...
Stop!
–’ before, wide-eyed, as if she’d suddenly remembered something, she ran into the bedroom.

Alaysha swung the wardrobe door wide and ran one hand along the top shelf for the gun.
What
? She ran it back and forth a couple more times, not believing that it wasn’t there. She raised up and looked just to make sure, then, breathless now, frantic, quickly searched in the drawer, in case unconsciously she’d put it back there.
Nothing
.

Heavier tussling now from her hallway, a low groan. She ran back, relieved to see that the groan was from Gerry, not Jac.

It had taken Jac a moment to focus and realize just how wild and misjudged Gerry’s punches were in his surging anger. He found the next two easy to dodge, and the one following no trouble to block and swing beneath it a solid punch to Gerry’s stomach. Gerry buckled, and Jac got in another good one, this time square to Gerry’s face, knocking him back against the wall by the door.

Jac seized the advantage, bringing his left hand tight to Gerry’s throat, pinning him back against the wall, his right fist cocked only inches from Gerry’s face. He felt Gerry’s body move, saw one arm rising up again, and pressed harder against his throat, tensing his cocked arm – but Gerry just wiped the bit of blood from beneath his nose with the back of one hand.

‘It ain’t the end of this, my friend… by a long fucking way.’

‘It is for now,’ Jac said flatly, pushing Gerry back through the door. ‘And if you come round here again bothering Alaysha, I’ll –’ Jac broke off, noticing for the first time Mrs Orwin looking through the gap in her door, eyes wide as she watched Jac, hand gripped around Gerry’s throat, frogmarch him into the corridor. She hastily closed her door as Jac looked her way.

‘You’ll what, Mr – get a restraining order so I can fuck the girlfriend – McElroy?’ Gerry taunted, smiling. ‘You’ll
what
?’

Jac glared back long and hard. Finally, ‘You’re not worth it!’ And, with one hard push against Gerry’s throat – Gerry falling back a step and almost stumbling over – Jac turned and slammed the door behind him.

A moment’s breathless pause with his back against the door, taking stock, letting the adrenalin rush settle, with Alaysha’ eyes on him somewhere between relief, apology and surprised admiration that he’d actually been able to see Gerry off – then a bang against the door, a punch or kick, and Gerry’s voice again:

‘Your new girlfriend… I’ll bet you one thing. I’ll bet you she hasn’t told you what we did together. Our dirty, sordid little secret. Because…
well
, because, clean-collar lawyer like you – you’re just too goody-two-shoes to know that kinda shit.’

Another punch or kick of frustration against the door, then silence.

Jac kept his gaze steadily, expectantly on Alaysha, and Alaysha held the look back, both of them knowing in that moment that as soon as they were sure Gerry had gone, the question would come. And Alaysha, perversely, for the first time wishing that Gerry wouldn’t go, so that she wouldn’t have to answer.

But at that moment came another voice on the corridor, muffled, indistinct, with a brief, surprised exclamation from Gerry halfway through – then a gunshot.

Nel-M had finger-tapped against his steering-wheel while waiting on Gerry Strelloff. After a while the sound felt stark, uncomfortable in the silence, so he started pushing buttons on the radio to find some music. Classic soul, jazz and Latin samba were his favourites, and he finally settled on Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’ on an easy listening jazz channel. Two songs later, though, it was playing Louis Armstrong’s ‘Wonderful World’, less conducive to finger-tapping or his mood at that moment, so he stabbed some buttons again, after a moment finding Stevie Wonder’s ‘Superstition’.

As Gerry Strelloff swung his car in, Nel-M checked his watch: nineteen minutes. Not bad. He watched Gerry run into the building, then exit again only twenty seconds later, looking up and down the street as if he’d forgotten something. His eyes settled on a young black boy thirty yards along, and Nel-M watched as he talked for a minute with the boy, the boy nodding finally as Gerry handed over a piece of paper and ten-dollar bill from his wallet. The boy went into the building, Gerry waiting anxiously for thirty seconds or so, pacing up and down, before heading in after him.

Nel-M, too, was starting to get anxious; he didn’t like sudden changes, and if the boy stayed in there, it was going to kill his entire plan. As Stevie Wonder wailed about thirteen-month-old babies, broken looking glasses and seven years of bad luck
,
Nel-M’s finger-tapping stopped, his hand gripping tight to the steering wheel.

It felt like a lifetime that the boy was in the building, but was probably less than a minute. Nel-M eased out his breath in relief as he saw the boy run out. He slipped on his latex gloves and got out of the car. The gun was already in his pocket, and he gave it a reassuring pat halfway towards the building entrance.

The boy had by then disappeared into the first turning forty yards away, but still Nel-M gave a quick each-way glance to make sure nobody was paying him too much attention as he went into the building.