John Matthews - Ascension Day

‘Four or five hours ahead, you reckon?’

‘Yeah. But if Ayliss got the flight I think he did, we might have shaved some back. He had a longer wait than me for the next flight there.’

At the other end of the line, the steady cadence of Roche’s breathing measuring options. Though for once Nel-M found it strangely soothing, like the gentle fall of surf. He could easily drift off to it: he hadn’t slept much on the flight from Vancouver, and no doubt more fitful hours lay ahead. He checked his watch: thirty-five minutes till boarding.

‘And getting a gun there?’

‘No problem. Dollars talk loud down there. Within a half-hour I’ll have found a guy in a Havana back street to sell me one, along with his sister thrown in as part of the deal.’

‘Okay.’ The breathing settling, accepting. ‘But we might have to face that if this Ayliss gets to Truelle first, he could break him before you even get there. It might be time to put our contingency plans into play.’

‘Suppose so.’ If they didn’t play those cards now, they never would.

‘Which means you and I have each got a call to make.’

Derminget’s APB announcement had gone out almost three hours after Jac went through the check-out at New Orleans Airport.

The passport officer there, Paul Styman, had found his eye drawn to Ayliss because of his crumpled cream suit and perspiring, anxious appearance — but he’d have nevertheless quickly waved him through; until, that is, he looked at his passport and flight destination. Seven years in Mexico, now heading to Nassau.

Styman decided to have his colleague check him against a list of suspected drug runners, just in case.

Nothing came up. He waved Ayliss through, and an hour after that he handed over his shift.

But when he returned eight hours later, within fifteen minutes he spotted the APB alert on screen when he leant over to check something else.

‘This is the guy we checked out early afternoon,’ he said to his colleague, still on from the earlier shift. ‘How long has this been through?’

His partner shrugged. ‘Five hours or so.’

‘And didn’t you recognize him?’

His partner shrugged again. He wasn’t sure he’d even looked at the man or the passport photo, had probably just tapped in the name for a match. And he’d done eighteen or twenty name checks since.

Styman looked at the contact details: Lieutenant Derminget. Eighth District. He called the number and explained what had happened.

‘ Nassau ?’ Derminget confirmed. ‘Eight or nine hours ago, you say?’

‘Yeah. But I remember it was a pretty roundabout route on the ticket. Stop-offs in Atlanta and Miami. He might not have arrived yet.’

‘Thanks.’ Derminget called out to one of his team to get through to Miami International while he phoned Nassau.

Both airports said that they’d get back directly with information.

Derminget tapped his fingers anxiously against one thigh as he paced up and down a tight four-yard run, waiting. As the hours of the day had ticked by without anything happening, no news or sightings of Ayliss, he’d feared he was in for another long haul. McElroy somehow alerted and gone to ground again.

Miami phoned back after nine minutes, Nassau after fourteen.

But with Miami informing them that Ayliss’s flight to Nassau had left over three hours ago, they knew that he’d have probably long since passed through Nassau customs. They weren’t holding their breath when Nassau’s call came through.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Derminget said almost disinterestedly. ‘Pretty much what we’d already guessed from the call we just had from Miami.’ Derminget checked his watch. Not that large an island. He’d just have to get the Bahamian police to try and track Ayliss down.

‘But then we have him catching a later flight to Havana with Cubana Airlines. Left not that long ago, by the looks of it.’

‘How long ago? How long ?’ Derminget realizing that he was practically shouting as half the squad room looked over. The past week of McElroy giving him the run-around with Broughlan snapping at his heels had worn his nerves thin.

‘Just over forty minutes ago.’

‘And what’s the flight time from Nassau to Cuba?’

‘Uuuh…’ Sound of keyboard tapping. ‘An hour and a half.’

‘Thanks.’ Fucking yes… yes ! It looked like they were still in time to have Ayliss stopped at Havana customs.

Derminget called across the squad room for someone who might have good Spanish.

Priest? ‘Yeah. As long as it’s Father Kennard and not that asshole Chaplain Foster. I think that Stephen King line — the important thing is whether God believes in you — went straight over his head.’

Torvald smiled as he got back to the rest of his check-list. Haveling holding his hand at the last minute ? No. Larry could get to God on his own, thanks, didn’t need Haveling’s help. Last meal ? Beef Po-Boy. Reminded him of his childhood and good ol’ days in the Ninth. Family and friends to be present at the execution, observing ?

‘No… None. That’s why my family came today.’ Fran and Josh had trouble enough accepting his death, let alone watching it. ‘And Roddy and Sal and the rest here, I’ll say my goodbyes to tonight.’

‘Okay. But before ten, Larry — because that’s when you have to go through to the night-before cell. And if you want a shower, last chance is tonight, too. There’s a sink in tomorrow’s cell, but no access back to the showers or anything else this side.’

Larry nodded pensively. It was almost as if as soon as he went through that last gate at the end, he’d already died. No access back to the rest of the world. But perhaps that was just a natural continuance of his life for the past eleven years: gradually diminishing as he was shuffled from one box to another, access denied to family and friends, love and life , until there was only one box left.

Torvald felt his chest tighten as he watched the emotions on Larry’s face. Another part of his duty as death custodian: observe how the prisoner was coping with the situation. Last hours counsellor.

He’d started the meeting with a shrug and an apology. ‘Sorry about this, Larry. Few things to go through… some of them maybe seeming stupid.’ They knew each other too well to try and hide behind bullshit or formality. ‘But, you know, it’s gotta be done.’

‘That’s okay, Tor. Glad it’s you rather than some of those other oafs out there.’

Oafs . Torvald shared with Larry the guards he’d nominated for the execution team, Larry appreciative that he’d been careful to avoid any of Bateson’s clique. ‘Thanks.’

But from then on, Torvald had gone through the rest of his check-list mechanically to help shield his emotions; and he noticed too that Larry answered quickly, offhand, even when talking about his family visiting, who he hadn’t seen for a while.

And he wondered whether Larry too was trying to distance himself from what was happening, and was treating him coolly because, despite their past closeness, Larry now saw Torvald as part of the machinery of his death.

But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.

Because as much as Larry knew how the life had been crushed out of him these past long years, so that now there was only a faint vestige left — he’d also seen it crushing his wife and son that day. The years for it to take its toll on him, he’d seen oppressing them in only a few minutes as they faced what was happening to him the next day, that terrible weight slumping their shoulders. And at the last second, as they realized he might see the last hope dying in their eyes, they made sure to avert them, wouldn’t look at him directly.