John Matthews - Ascension Day

So he tucked himself away at the back of the Greyhound where nobody would notice him and, more importantly, he wouldn’t notice them — more faces that might remind him of Durrant — and waited for that moment to come. Like Rizzo in the last scene of Midnight Cowboy , he thought as he closed his eyes.

And after a while curled up at the back of the bus, as if in support of that image, he found that he was trembling; although, unlike Rizzo, in his case it was from the tension still writhing in his stomach and the shame of what he’d done, rather than pneumonia.

Truelle called a halt after three brandies.

Cuban measures were generous, a third of a balloon, and the road to the villa was new to him; he didn’t want to risk wrapping Brent’s prize Corvette round a lamppost.

He’d phoned Cynthia for the DHL reference number soon after she’d sent the package, then when he’d phoned to track its progress that morning was told that it was scheduled to be delivered to the Sancti Spiritus correos before midday. He didn’t want to leave the package there any length of time, and, while Brent’s casita fridge was generously stocked, there were a few essential favourites he wanted to pick up: Earl Grey tea, anchovy-stuffed olives and salted almonds. He decided to pick them up first, then head to the post office; he didn’t want to risk leaving the package in his car.

The Earl Grey tea proved impossible to get, he gave up after the third store visited, and the place where he bought the salted almonds told him of a shop halfway across town where they might have the olives. When Truelle got there, half of it was a deli with shelves jammed ceiling high with produce from Spain and Latin America, the other half a cafe where he ordered a coffee and brandy while he perused what else they had, ending up also buying some salami and spicy chorizo.

As he knocked back the last of his brandy, he tried his office number again; still no answer. Then Cynthia’s home number; the same. He’d tried both numbers earlier to find out if anyone had called by the office after he’d left, but with the same result. Maybe with little for Cynthia to be there for, she’d decided to take a break at the same time too.

When he’d first arrived at Brent’s after the long journey, Brent had given him an anxious sideways glance as he opened up the casita for him. ‘You okay, buddy? Something troubling you?’

‘No, fine… fine . Just overwork. Burning the midnight oil on too many patient histories.’

He no doubt looked at that moment how he felt, a total wreck, but he hadn’t got half his own mind around what had happened, let alone to explain it to someone else: I did something with a patient twelve years ago that I shouldn’t have, and as I became worried about the people I’d done it for, I took out a couple of insurance policies — but when I phoned the other day, both of those policy holders had been killed, and now …

Truelle ordered another brandy. He couldn’t get Maggie Steiner’s voice out of his head, cracking pitifully as she told him that Alan was dead. Then that Vancouver policewoman telling him about Chris and Brenda, that … Put the phone down. Shut it out of your head. Have another drink. Push it away, push it away… push it away …

He knocked back the brandy in three quick slugs, raised his hand for another. The shop keeper eyed him with concern as he poured.

‘Are you okay, senor?’

Again, ‘Fine… fine. Bueno. Muy bueno .’ Just don’t get too close to me, that’s all. Everyone who gets close to me gets killed .

Half the world asking if he was okay. The stewardess too on his last leg from Nassau to Havana. For the first legs of the flight, he’d kept to soft drinks, his stomach still churning from a volatile acid-bile mix of last night’s drinks and wire-edge tension. But by the time he came to the last leg, his hands were shaking so heavily that he felt he just had to have a drink to get them steady and try to dull the nightmare images burning hour by hour stronger through his head… push them away … push them away …

He knocked back a quick malt whisky at Nassau airport, ordered another as soon as he was airborne, and as he took his third in-flight whisky from the stewardess, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed, hand shaking on the glass, she asked if he was okay.

Fine. Fine . And even if people didn’t ask, it was there in their eyes. That look of concern. On the faces of the people as he now stepped outside the shop, squinting and swaying slightly as the bright sunshine again hit him. On the face of the woman at the post office as he handed across the note from Brent and collected his package. A young couple heading into the correos as he went back down its steps, unsure whether to side-step him or help him down.

Truelle closed his eyes as he got back into Brent’s car, taking slow, deep breaths to try and get his nerves calm. And, as he opened them again and started up, he checked his watch: four more hours . Then perhaps finally it would all be over, the nightmare of the past twelve years ended. Maybe then at last it would all be fine, fine. Bueno, bueno .

Jac was sitting with Larry having a brandy, both of them looking anxiously at the clock. As Jac passed across Larry’s glass, Larry said:

‘Tell my mother, Jac. Tell her it wasn’t me, before it’s too late.’

‘But I can’t see her, Larry.’ Jac, looking over Larry’s shoulder, suddenly realizing that this time they were in the courtroom. He couldn’t see anything, in fact; it was just mist and shadow beyond Larry. Vague shapes, none of them clear.

‘But she’s there , Jac. I know it. I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my right shoulder. Tell her, Jac, please… please , before it’s too late.’

‘I… I can’t see anything any more, Larry.’ Jac perplexed why it had all suddenly become misty. ‘There’s nothing there but hazy shadows. I’ve… I’ve become like you, Larry. Can’t see anything clearly any more.’

‘ Please , Jac… don’t do this!’ Tears streaming down his face as he clasped Jac’s hand. ‘Please don’t let me die without her knowing that it wasn’t me!’

Ringing in his pocket .

The tears welling too in Jac’s eyes as he clasped back. ‘But now that I can’t see anything clearly, Larry… what do I even tell her? If you’d been able to see things clearly, you’d have been able to tell her yourself long before now, before…’

Telephone ! As the dream fell away, Jac shuddered awake and answered the call.

Bob Stratton’s voice competing against Justo Betancourt on the radio. Jac reached out and turned it down, blinking heavily, fading afternoon light, approaching dusk. As Jac looked at his watch, 5.52 p.m., he jolted to suddenly, fearing in that second that’s why Stratton was calling: only an hour till Durrant’s execution !

Then he remembered the one-hour time difference, his caught breath and his pulse settling back as Stratton told him about his efforts with Roland Cole. Close, very close , but in the end no cigar.

‘And don’t look like he’s planning to return any time soon. Not in the next few hours, at least. That’s it.’

‘Yeah, looks like it.’ Soft, resigned exhalation. ‘Thanks. You tried your best.’

That’s it . Jac, surveying again the white villa, casita and road ahead, now knowing with certainty that his very last chance rested with Truelle.

Almost two hours asleep? Still no sign of a white Corvette. But what if Truelle had returned in the meantime and headed off again? If he’d seen the Audi up the road and had come close enough to see him inside asleep — no doubt the first thing he’d have done!