John Matthews - Ascension Day

She stayed in the same position a moment longer, undecided, though to Jac it felt like a lifetime with his back pressed hard against the wall, breath held, staring helplessly at Stratton’s number on his cell-phone as the vital seconds ticked by. Finally she turned and headed down the stairs.

He waited for her to get a few paces down before he raced back to his own apartment, and as soon as the door was shut he pressed to take the call.

‘Hello, hello! Bob! Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I… I was just leaving a message. I didn’t think you were answering.’

‘I was tied up for a moment. Sorry.’ Jac fought to regain his breath. ‘But I’m here now. So, tell me. How did it go?’

‘I was held up on the Causeway due to an accident — that’s why I haven’t been able to call ’till now. I was late getting there. But no worries — Marmont is still spark out.’ Stratton’s tone dropped. ‘The only thing was that one of Marmont’s prison guard buddies was already there when I arrived. Some guy called Miles Elden.’

‘Oh.’ Jac felt a twinge of concern. Elden? The name didn’t strike a chord. He had no idea if he was part of Bateson’s clique or not. Could be just innocent.

‘It was okay. I flashed my badge, and said no visitors unless first cleared with your office. Or, if anyone had a problem with that, the D.A. He didn’t look about to argue with the bluff, said he was simply looking in ‘cause he was Marmont’s best friend. And he left him a book to read for when he wakes up. Stephen King’s Pet Sematary .’ Stratton chuckled. ‘Probably takes a while for books to reach the comatose reading lists.’

‘At least we know one thing about this Elden: he’s an optimist.’ But Elden wasn’t the only one praying that Marmont wouldn’t die, Jac reminded himself.

Jac spent a moment confirming with Stratton how they were going to keep up the vigil on Marmont’s bedside before ringing off, then once again he was with his back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to wind down from the evening. Only a glimpse, but she was gorgeous: a coffee-cream mixture of African and Caucasian, with a hint of something else from the faint slant at the corner of her eyes: Malaysian? Philippino? He let his breathing fall steadily as he tried to bring her clearly into focus again in his mind.

But the rush to see her and almost getting caught, like some pathetic voyeur, only served to remind him of the sorry state of his love life. How lonely and desperate he’d become. It was probably best that he was going on an arranged date. He could hardly be trusted anymore to arrange anything for himself.

‘Why do you want to die? Why is it you don’t want me to try and save you?’

Jac went straight in with the key question. No point in beating around the bush. He might have got over most of the first hurdle with the attempted prison break, if Marmont survived, but unless he tackled this, they were all wasting their time. He could prepare the most marvellous clemency plea for the Governor’s office, but Durrant had to agree to its contents and sign the plea petition.

Durrant shuffled uncomfortably, shrugged. He looked like he’d have preferred some delay, as if a question of such purport deserved reasonable preamble. He looked almost offended to be hit with it straightaway.

‘I don’t know. Tired, first and foremost. Tired of the appeals and empty promises, tired of waiting. Tired of false hope. Tired of life .’ Durrant looked up with a steady gaze as he hit the last words, as if he’d only at that moment finally discovered what, most of all, he was tired of.

‘You’re tired, and so you want out. Is that about it?’ Jac said it offhandly, disdainfully, and Durrant’s stare became icy. Jac fully expected some confrontation if he was to stand a chance of shifting Durrant’s stance. It wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Yeah, that’s about it.’ Equally offhandly, disdainfully.

Jac stood up and took a couple of paces away from the interview table before turning to look back again. ‘That may be okay for you. But have you given a thought to those you’re leaving behind. Your wife. Your son. How old is he now?’ Jac remembered the age from Durrant’s file, but he wanted Durrant to say it, be reminded.

‘Twelve. Had his first birthday just a month before Christmas while I was held for trial.’

Jac considered Durrant dolefully for a second. ‘Maybe your wife will come to terms with you dying, has had a fair time to prepare herself. But do you really think your son will at that age?’ And as he saw Durrant flinch and look away, he knew he’d struck a chord. The first chink in Durrant’s armour, built-up hard these past eleven years.

Durrant knew he was being worked, but it was difficult to get angry. This new lawyer was young, still wet behind the ears, was probably not yet seasoned and world-weary enough to know that he was a hopeless case. But in a way that was also strangely gratifying. Most other lawyers wouldn’t have bothered to put in the time at this stage, would already have been signalling the guards to be let out. ‘ Okay, so you want to die. I’ll file accordingly: no clemency petition to be made .’ It was gratifying to know that someone still cared.

Durrant snorted derisively. ‘You just don’t understand. The first five years I was here, my wife and son didn’t come to see me once. Too annoyed, too angry with what I’d done, she explained when she finally even took the time to send me a letter. Then when the visits did finally start, they were just token look-sees, at most once or twice a year: my birthday and sometimes just before Christmas as well. Never Christmas itself.’ Durrant snorted again. ‘She was always too busy with her other life and family outside.’

‘ Her family and relations?’ Jac pressed to clarify. ‘Because I didn’t notice anything on the file about a divorce. You’re still married?’

‘Yeah, if you could call it that. Francine met someone new eighteen months after I was inside, and they started a relationship. Planned to marry too, if he’d been able to get his divorce papers through cleanly and on time from his ex. But by the time they looked ready to come through three years later, their relationship was already cooling off. When they finally split was the first time Francine started visiting me here with Josh. Then just over two years ago, she meets a new guy, and after ten months with him, once again the visits stop. And again there’s wedding plans. Next June, if I remember right, six months after I’ve gone. Suitable mourning and breathing space. Just wouldn’t be right to mess up such plans with complications like, say, me stayin’ alive.’ This time the derisive smile became quickly lopsided and that cool stare was back again. ‘So you see, Mr McElroy, my family deserted me long before I ever thought of deserting them.’

Jac took a long breath. It was going to be harder than he had realized. The only way he was going to prise Durrant from his death-wish was with a crowbar.

‘So, you feel sorry for yourself because you think your family has deserted you. So now it’s payback time: deserting them in the most dramatic way possible. No way they’re ever going to forget that action — especially young Joshua.’

Durrant tensed as if he was about to get to his feet, but then his shoulders relaxed again. Deserted ? Except, that is, for the regular e-mails of the past year — though now it had been almost two months since the last one. Had Francine found out and stopped Josh? Or maybe Frank, her new partner, had put his spoke in.

Durrant’s wry, lopsided smile resurfaced. ‘You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about them, it’s about me. Oh sure, they deserted me. But then that was no less than I deserved. And Francine, she’s a good woman — still attractive, too. She deserves a good and full life out there.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘Who am I to deny that — especially after all I put her through. So it all comes back down to what I want and expect. Me .’ Durrant tapped his chest. ‘And, as I said, Mr McElroy, I’m tired. Tired of the appeals and promises. Tired of the false hope. Because, let’s face it — you’re not going to be able to get Governor Candaret to set me free with a full pardon. That just ain’t going to happen. The best that you can hope for is a commute to life imprisonment — another twelve to fifteen years in here, maybe more. And so that makes my mind turn to what else I’m tired of. Tired of the heat and sweat of this hell-hole, tired of the guards clanking keys and stomping their boots along the walkways in the dead of night just to ensure we never get a full night’s sleep. Tired of the weeping of prisoners when they first come in, or sometimes much later, when they finally break and can’t stand it anymore. Tired of the brutality of the guards and prisoners, mental and physical, constantly watching out for a shiv aimed for mine or Roddy’s back. Tired of the corruption and drugs and stench of it all. And I don’t just mean the stench of near-on four thousand caged and sweaty men, or the smell of their urine, or the smell of bleach that never quite manages to smother the sweat and urine. I’m talking about a stench of loneliness, fear and sheer hopelessness that don’t just hit your nose and synapses — it reaches right down to grip your heart and soul like an icy claw. Leaves you completely empty. And hardly a day has passed over the past long years that I haven’t prayed for a light to shine through the gloom and shift that emptiness. But the light that finally reached me, kept me going, wasn’t for hope in this lifetime, Mr McElroy.’