Rodriguez leant forward to the mike as Sinatra came to an end.
‘And that’s Ol’ Blue Eyes there, croonin’ about places that’ll be all too familiar to all you well-heeled jet-setters here at Libreville. Just lay back on your bunk and fly, fly away. But now it’s time for a touch of my main man, Carlos Santana.’ Rodriguez reached for the record and cued it. ‘Samba… Pa… ti. Played today for a very special lady. And not to be confused with Samba Party, a Swedish film which was tradin’ at some high prices a few months back.’
As risque as Rodriguez dared get, he sat back and closed his eyes, letting the softly soaring guitar and mellow background bongo suffuse through him. He was ten days late playing the tune, but then he’d been in the infirmary at the time. Better late than never, he thought, wiping a gentle tear from the corner of one eye.
While Carlos Santana’s guitar sailed and cried through the concrete caverns of Libreville prison, Larry Durrant sat up on his bed.
He knew what the tune meant to Rodriguez. He’d played it at his mother’s funeral — along with her own favourite, ‘Besame Mucho’ — four years ago now, late fall, not far from this date, and every year since on the same day. Rodriguez had also played the tune various other times over the prison radio, but with the mention of ‘for a very special lady’, Larry knew that today was significant.
Rodriguez had taken his mother’s death hard. Coming just fifteen months after his incarceration, he’d partly blamed himself. Larry could imagine Rodriguez in the radio room now, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. Then, as soon as it finished playing, he’d be back to his lively, bubbly self again, lifting everyone’s spirits, if not his own.
Larry wondered what Francine and Josh would play at his own funeraclass="underline" Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s going on’, Sly Stone’s ‘Family Affair’? Both songs a decade ahead of his teens, and so long past now, he doubted that Franny even remembered his favourite tunes any more.
Although he had no idea what Josh’s tastes in music were either — maybe something he could broach in future e-mails. But the thought had already mugged him deep inside without warning, too long apart, and a single tear rolled down one cheek at the lost years.
Nobody rushing to work that morning paid much attention to the man in a lightweight grey suit entering the car park on St Charles Street and exiting ten minutes later. He appeared just one of many hurrying to work having parked their cars.
Except the man didn’t head towards an office, he went fifty yards along the street to the nearest kiosk to make a call.
‘It’s all done.’
‘Great. And what’s the best point?’
‘Eight to eleven miles in. But I wouldn’t leave it beyond that.’
‘Okay, got it. Eight to eleven.’ Nel-M clicked off and dialled straight out again.
With another anxious check of his watch, Jac started reading through draft five — six? he’d lost count — of Durrant’s clemency plea. Please, no more changes. No time! And Coultaine’s support letter, which had arrived forty minutes earlier by messenger, he’d managed to give only a light skim, though the postscript had leapt out at him:
Thought you might find the enclosed of interest, found it amongst my old papers. It’ll save you asking Truelle for a copy. Remember, everything started with this.
Jac twirled the cassette tape briefly in one hand before bringing his attention back to Durrant’s plea on his computer screen, but found his eyes drifting back to the tape at intervals.
Finally, the distraction too much, halfway through reading what he hoped was the final, definitive version, he leapt up, grabbed a cassette player from a nearby shelf, slotted it in, and resumed reading again as soon as he pressed play.
‘ Session fourteen. Seventeenth of August, Nineteen-ninety-two. Subject: Lawrence Tyler Durrant…’
One of Truelle’s sessions with Durrant. There was a minute’s preamble, settling Durrant down before Truelle hit any real topic: Durrant’s heavy drinking the night of the accident.
‘You mentioned feeling guilty about that. Was that because of what resulted — the accident — or the drinking itself?’
‘ Mainly the drinking… because I’d promised Franny, yer know, to stop.’
‘ And do you remember drinking other times after you’d promised to stop, or was it just this one time?’
‘ There were a fair few other times I recall — all around that same time. I was goin’ through a real bad cycle, man… didn’t know what I was doing half the time.’
‘ And why was that? Or didn’t you know that, either?’
‘ Oh, I knew all right — knew all too well. That’s why I tried to bury it… burn it from my mind with as much rum and whisky as I could lay my hands on. But however hard I tried, it stayed with me. I jus’ couldn’t shake it.’
‘ Shake what, Lawrence?’
‘ More guilt, that’s what.’ Durrant’s breathing suddenly more laboured. ‘ More guilt because that wasn’t the only promise I’d broken to Franny.’
‘ Guilt over what, Lawrence. What other promise?’
‘ I…. I… It’s difficult.’ Durrant’s breathing hissing hard.
‘ I know. But perhaps if you unburden whatever it is, you’ll be able to break the cycle.’
Listening to Durrant’s fractured and uncertain breathing, Jac realized that this was one of the sessions where Truelle had used hypnosis to draw out his buried memory. As Durrant struggled with the decision — whether to take the leap or step back — Jac felt as if he was suddenly there with him in the moment, suspended.
He snapped out of it quickly, no time now, stopping the tape and reading the last few paragraphs of the plea. Okay, okay. Plea, Coultaine’s letter, and get there fifteen minutes early to read Haveling’s support letter. He slid the papers into his briefcase, grabbed the tape recorder, and, with a quick wave to John Langfranc who mouthed ‘Good luck’ through his glass screen, skipped down the stairs two at a time.
There was a small hold-up along Esplanade Avenue, but as soon as he was clear of the main downtown traffic, twenty yards after making the turn into Claiborne Avenue, Jac hit play again on the recorder now on his passenger seat.
‘ It… it was another robbery, that’s why I felt guilty. And not just ‘cause I’d promised Franny I wouldn’t rob again, but because it went wrong… terribly wrong.’
‘ In which way did it go wrong?’
‘ There was somebody there when I broke in — a woman. Shouldn’t… shouldn’t have happened.’Durrant’s breathing erratic again . ‘I… I’d checked for a few nights b’forehand, and there was no car either in the drive — or lights on that I could see. She… she wasn’t mean’a be there.’
‘ And where was this house?’