Ascension Day

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 hadbeen 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 Be

‘Tab-it, Be

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.

He jumped back and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and his nerves. Maybe he was panicking for nothing. In Ferrer’s line of work, it was only a matter of time before he was found in an empty car lot or ditch. But it was the timing in the run-up to Durrant’s execution that made it ominous. Nel-M pays himself a visit to make sure that everything is ‘cool’ — then next on the list is Raoul Ferrer. This time, though, Nel-M had obviously decided that everything wasn’t so cool.

The only way he could know for sure was by calling Nel-M. Nel-M probably wouldn’t admit it outright, but he’d glean enough from the cadence and inflection of what was said. The trained psychiatrist’s ear. But the call in itself might be the one thing to alert Nel-M that things might not be so cool with himself either, would make him next on the list.

Cool. It was a warm and sultry night, but Truelle felt ice-cold, his whole body starting to tremble and shiver. Rooted to the spot amongst the milling throng, his stance underlined how isolated he felt at that moment, with nobody he felt he could turn to. Advising thousands through the years — but who had ever been there for him when he most needed it? And his burden had been far, far beyond that of any of those he’d had to sit patiently listening to through the years.

Perhaps it was time to tell Nel-M and Adelay Roche about his insurance policies. No point in them finding out after the event that killing him was the one thing that would throw everything into the open.

Jac was waiting in the ante-room to the Payne, Beaton and Sawyer boardroom along with seventeen other lawyers and paralegals for the company’s regular Wednesday morning progress meeting, when the call came through on his cell-phone.

The ritual meetings were presided over by either Jeremiah Payne or Clive Beaton — Dougy Sawyer would take the role of company secretary, saying little but making furious notes throughout — and order of importance in the company was all but determined by time of arrival. Junior lawyers and paralegals were expected at 8.20 a.m. sharp, senior lawyers at 8.25, and, finally, the presiding partners at 8.30.

The message was patently clear: when the company gods arrived, woe betide any laggers that might hold up proceedings, even for a second.

The ten-minute wait for the juniors, though, was often insufferable. It was intended to give them more time to prepare their notes or get comments clearer in their minds — but more often than not it just gave them more time to dwell and become increasingly anxious.

Jac was no exception, particularly this morning. He’d been turning over and over in his mind just how much to show and tell about Durrant. If he told about the attempted prison break, Beaton might well axe the case; but then if Haveling decided finally to go with the guards’ account of events, the whole thing would come out later. How was he going to cover for that? And he certainly couldn’t reveal that Durrant wanted to die — didn’t want a plea made on his behalf. For sure, Beaton would axe the whole case instantly.

His cell-phone ringing broke his train of thought. He looked at the number: same area code as Libreville prison, but it wasn’t Haveling’s direct number. Durrant!

Jac quickly answered. Perhaps Durrant had had a change of heart, and he wouldn’t have to go through any subterfuge now at Beaton’s meeting.

‘Mr McElroy. It’s about something you said the other day.’

‘Yes.’ Jac felt his hopes rise.

‘About the book that Elden left at the hospital for Marmont.’

‘ Pet Sematary?’ Jac subdued his voice to a mumble. He could feel a few eyes on him, particularly Kyle Everett. No calls during the meeting, obviously, but even those prior to it were frowned upon, might disturb the thoughts and note-making of others.