John Matthews - Ascension Day

With the jolt, Jac instinctively stole another glance at his watch — the umpteenth time he’d done so since leaving Aunt Camille’s. Why hadn’t Stratton called yet? He’d expected his call to say he’d arrived at the hospital over an hour ago now.

‘Is it the same thing you were worried about earlier?’ Jean-Marie asked. ‘You know, the murder case you called about when we were at Camille’s.’

‘Yeah, the same.’

‘And is it just an also-ran case, like you said?’

Jean-Marie knew him better than most, and from her tone he could tell that she’d read the earlier lie. No point in continuing it.

‘No, it’s quite a big case. But it’s only a clemency plea, and looks bound to fail. That’s why the senior partners have given it to me. So that when it goes down in flames, their reputations are well clear of any heat.’

‘And, as Aunt Camille asked — is it a case that anyone might know?’

‘Yes, it’s the Lawrence Durrant case.’ Jac said the words flatly, plainly, belying the gravity and intent they deserved. Perhaps because, by now, he’d become used to repeating them. Or due to the pervasive feeling that had swept over him as the evening progressed: a sense of guilt clinking glasses and chatting aimlessly while Durrant lay in his cell at Libreville, the clock fast ticking against him. Was that what it was going to be like for the forty-four days: guilt at every moment that breathed freedom and life, or was it just the sense of time being wasted that jarred?

‘Oh, I see.’ Equally flatly, plainly. Even within her own little world of studies, computer games, pop posters, starting to look at boys differently and coping with the transition from French to American culture — the increasing media barrage of the Durrant case had managed to penetrate.

‘But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone — not even Mum. If she’s pushed by Camille, she’ll find it hard to keep it under wraps.’

Jean-Marie hastily shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I promise. I’ll…’ She quickly side-tracked as she saw their mother walking back in with the coffee. ‘I was just saying to Jac that he shouldn’t worry about the date with Jennifer. She seems very nice.’

‘Yes, she does — as I already told Jac.’ Catherine set the coffee tray down. ‘No need to worry at all.’

But from his mother’s forced smile, Jac could tell that the thought of her son having to go on an arranged date because of the situation they were in was troubling her more than any of them.

Bob Stratton’s journey out to St Tereseville was marked by stages in the Saints-Cardinals game on his car radio.

As he started on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, they’d managed to claw back three points with a field-goal. But only four miles in, as the first swirls of mist started to hit his windscreen, they fell back eight points from a touch-down that was converted. And as the mist became heavier, as if mirroring the cloud of doom fast descending over his team, they fell back another three points.

Stratton switched off when the next touch-down against came. It was becoming too painful, and no way were they going to be able to play their way out of this particular hole. Immediately the radio commentary died, he heard the sirens from behind and saw brake lights through the mist ahead.

He tapped his brakes and followed behind a slow crawling tail-back for three minutes before it ground to a complete halt.

More sirens — two police cars and an ambulance twenty seconds behind — screamed past him.

Obviously a collision ahead. Stratton looked at his watch. Could be a long one. He toyed with the idea of tuning back into the game, but the combination of the Saints’ doomed performance and the traffic jam would probably be too much for his blood pressure.

He tuned into an easy-listening station, KMEZ, and started humming along to Glen Campbell’s Witchita Lineman .

Jac had heard the boyfriend’s voice next door only two nights after the big argument, but for the last three nights she seemed to have been alone. Or at least he hadn’t been able to discern any other voices from next door.

After the night of the argument — ‘I just don’t like other guys looking at you like that’ — Jac had become curious to see her, and he’d started working on a plan.

She probably headed for the stairs at the other end of the apartment complex — he never recalled hearing her pass his door after leaving. If it was at night, she’d put on the timed hallway lights, and if he left instantly and rushed towards the L-bend where the corridor turned towards the far stairway, he might catch a glimpse of her before she headed down. The corridor was carpeted, but if he kept his shoes off as an extra precaution, hopefully she wouldn’t hear him approaching.

Having devised a plan, Jac found himself listening out more acutely for movement and voices from next door, trying to gauge when she would be leaving so that he could accurately time his own exit. The first occasion, by the time he’d heard her door shut, it was practically too late for him to bother running out. The second, the only other opportunity so far, by the time he’d reached the corner of the L, she’d already started down the stairs the far side. She didn’t glance round in that fleeting second before disappearing from view, and he was no nearer knowing what she looked like.

When he’d first returned from his mother’s, he hadn’t heard any noises from next door. Just after midnight, she was either still out or already in bed.

But having still not heard from Stratton, Jac wasn’t ready for bed yet. And, sitting there with the TV on low and not really paying attention to Bloomberg’s financial forecasts and next day’s weather, suddenly he heard movement from next door. Sounded like the bedroom — cupboard doors and drawers being opened and closed. There’d been the sound of another door opening and closing just before — but it hadn’t been the front door. So probably she’d been in the bathroom furthest away from him. Sounds from there barely reached him.

He moved closer to the wall, ear nestled against it and strained for the minutest sound from next door — a familiar position for many of the past few nights now — and for a moment a picture of her fresh from the bath or shower, hair still wet, hit him. But still he had no face to match to that misty image.

He stayed there listening longer than he realized, his legs starting to have a few cramp twinges, and for a while the sounds became more muted and indiscernible. Probably she was getting ready for bed.

And so when he heard more strident opening and closing of cupboard doors, and then suddenly the front door slamming, he was caught by surprise.

Shoes off and thrown brusquely aside, he managed to reach his own front door in just two strides. Out and running, breathless. He tried as best he could to suppress it so that she didn’t hear him approaching like some rampant buffalo. Soft and swift strides too, stocking-feet on carpet.

He could hear the steady pad of her footsteps fifteen yards the other side of the corner, and prayed that it masked his own rapid stride.

And this time he did reach the corner before she headed down the stairs — just as his cell-phone rang.

She wheeled around, and he ducked back round the corner equally as sharply and hit the button to put the call into message service.

He could hear that she wasn’t moving, was still rooted to the same spot, and could almost feel her eyes boring through the bit of corner wall shielding him. He kept perfectly still, struggling to swallow back the weight of his breathing from his brief madcap run. He feared for a moment that she was going to head back towards him. He looked at the number calling: Bob Stratton! He was desperate to get to it before Stratton rang off — but couldn’t risk moving or making any sound.