John Matthews - Ascension Day

‘More importantly, does that mean I might have finally convinced you to pitch for some hope with our dear Governor Candaret?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, either. It might just mean that you’re too young and foolish to know when to quit.’

‘I think you’ve given me a pretty good object lesson on that score, Mr Durrant,’ Jac said, putting the last of his papers in his case and snapping it shut.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry if I went a bit hard on you.’ Durrant grimaced. ‘Because I know you’ve gone to some trouble on this.’

‘Even sent a detective out to St Tereseville General in case Bateson and his cronies got to Marmont before he woke up. And a supposed friend of Marmont’s, Elden, was already out there — though thankfully Marmont was still out. Even left him a book to read for when he woke up: Stephen King’s Pet Sematary , if you will.’

Durrant smiled. ‘Elden is okay. Not particularly one of Bateson’s tight circle. But I appreciate it: if not directly for me, then for how Roddy will be dealt with after I’m gone.’

‘That’s okay.’ Jac proffered his hand and Durrant took it into a shake. ‘I just wish you’d change your mind. Because I think Roddy’s going to miss you — even if he does manage to survive in here with you gone. And your son. Twelve. Vulnerable age.’ That uncertain flinch again, which if he’d been able to read, he might have been able to prise Durrant open more and convince him. But Durrant just nodded dolefully as Jac handed over his card. ‘Call me, please, if you do have a change of heart.’

That look of uncertainty — that deep down there was something that Durrant wanted to live for — was the only hope Jac clung to as he paced back through the prison: ‘Will call, won’t call. Will call, won’t call.’ But with each echoing step and gate clanked shut behind him through the cavernous extremities of Libreville, that hope began to fade.

If nothing else, Dr Leonard Truelle was a creature of habit. He read the daily newspapers every morning in his favourite cafe on Iberville Street over coffee and croissants, except when he had outside assessments or clinical notes to review for patients that day, in which case he’d use his morning coffee break for that and delay catching up on the troubles of the world outside until he left work.

But on some occasions, like tonight, those assessment reviews also coincided with his Tuesday and Friday single drink rituals — so he’d then spread out with his papers at a corner table rather than sit up at the bar. But the order of reading, day or night, was always the same: first the majors, the NYT, Washington Post and Chicago Tribune , twelve to fifteen minutes on each, then finally the Times-Picayune , which held his attention for no more than six or eight minutes.

Truelle always felt more connected to the country at large than locally, possibly through having graduated from Cornell and spent his first eight years of practice in New York. He’d only gone to New Orleans when his mother became ill. She’d long since died, but through circumstance, the drink and a mess of other problems, he’d never managed to grasp a time when he was organized or brave enough to return.

He still felt, twenty years on from his last days of practice in the Big Apple, that he was in New Orleans through duty rather than choice. The only things he found solace in were the warmer climes and the seafood. The rest of it — the petty wrangling and corruption of city officials, the environmentalists fighting a losing battle against the oil refineries along the coast — constantly grated, and so he always gave the Picayune short shrift as he flicked through.

He was flicking through so rapidly, skimming half-blindly, that he could have easily missed the entry, tucked in the bottom left-hand corner of page fifteen: Raoul Ferrer, 36, financier and businessman, was found dead in an Algiers car lot in the early hours of Friday morning. Early police reports cite the cause as two gunshot wounds from a 9mm calibre weapon to the head. On occasion linked to the Malastra organization, Ferrer…

The noise and activity of the bar around him suddenly became more distant, muted. He wasn’t sure if the barman, Benny, had heard him above the drone from the sudden blood-rush to his head as he called out for another drink.

But Benny was certainly looking his way, having paused mid-wipe of the bar counter as he saw Truelle suddenly transfixed by the paper as if he’d seen a ghost, one hand gripping tight to the page as he read and re-read, the other reaching absently to knock back in one the bourbon that he’d usually nurse for another half hour.

‘Are you sure?’ Benny asked, eyeing him with concern. Four months into the ritual, Benny felt that enough rapport existed between them for him to breach barman’s protocol and ask why always only the one drink? From that point on, Benny had become a silent conspirator in keeping him clean.

‘Yeah, Benny, never been surer. Bring it on.’ He beckoned elaborately, but was careful not to meet Benny’s eye. Shield the demons. Then, as he watched Benny pouring, ‘In fact, bring over the whole bottle.’ This time he looked even further aslant — somewhere between New York and New Orleans, to avoid Ben’s withering gaze, only looking up with a tight smile as Benny came over and set the glass and bottle down.

‘Your funeral,’ Benny said resignedly. The tired tone of a barman who’d seen more than he dared count finally slip off the wagon.

Truelle knocked the drink down in two slugs as soon as Benny turned away. Poured, drank; poured, drank; poured, drank… but it did little to quell his panic or give him any clarity of thought. His head was still buzzing and his hands still shaking.

He pushed the bottle abruptly away, suddenly picturing the months ahead of trying to push away more and more bottles, but never quite succeeding… the lost hours and days and mental lapses, the patients neglected, the sickness and depression, friends patting his shoulder concernedly, ‘Are you okay, Len?’… the steady downward spiral that he knew so well.

Truelle’s eyes darted around the table. There was even a small article on Durrant on page nine of the NYT , obviously the first to hit the national press: ‘ Anti capital punishment campaigners, both local and from out-of-state, are planning a vigil in front of Libreville’s prison gates in the run-up to the execution… ’

Maybe that was it, Truelle thought. Surrounded by too many demons: the bottle, Durrant, Raoul Ferrer, the bar where Nel-M had paid him a visit just a week ago. He had to get out!

He pushed the table back, its legs grating roughly and turning a few heads from the bar. He felt himself sway uncertainly as he took the first few steps — he had been off the wagon a long while. In the good old days, he’d have put away a few stiff ones like that without hardly blinking. He waved briefly towards Benny as he passed, again careful not to meet his eye, or for that matter those at the bar who were now watching his exit with curious smiles.

‘Tab-it, Benny. I’ll catch you next time.’

It was worse outside. A confusion of traffic noise, horns beeping, people rushing by and calling out — the height of the rush hour and happy hour on Chartres Street. All of it seemed amplified in his head along with the buzzing, and he felt himself swaying more — or was it the street and all the people around tilting? He bumped into a woman with her shopping bags, and reached out to steady himself on the man just behind — who pushed the arm brusquely away with a sneer. Another horn blaring, sharper, more immediate, the sudden flare of headlamps making him realize he’d staggered into the road.