But the only photos to have any life and movement in them were the two taken shortly after Joshua’s birth: one a week after Francine had come out of hospital, lovingly cradling Joshua in her arms; the other with himself holding Joshua aloft towards the camera, beaming proudly: ‘Look, unbelievable, isn’t it: he’s mine, all mine.’
From just those two photos, Larry was able to roll out in his mind everything else that had happened around that time: when the birth was announced in the hospital, his mother bought a cigar and a small bottle of champagne from a nearby liquor store, a ‘Benjamin’ — she didn’t want to encourage him to drink too much, she’d defended when he’d remarked about its size — barely gave them half a glass each to toast with. Rocking Joshua in his arms at every opportunity he got, staring down at his cradle at night in wonderment sometimes for as much as an hour, feeling Josh’s tiny fingers and the gentle fall of his breath against the back of one hand; staying awake sometimes for hours and checking regularly, fearful as he listened out that that gentle breathing might have suddenly stopped; and when Joshua did wake up in the middle of the night, crying, Larry swaying him softly in his arms and humming a Viennese waltz to get him back to sleep — Francine laughing as on one occasion she found him slumped in a chair asleep with Joshua still in his arms, the humming having lulled both of them to sleep…
The images playing clearly on his cell’s grey ceiling, where he’d played most of them through the years.
And then nothing. Nothing but static, frozen pictures. His whole life with Joshua condensed into just a few months, then nothing after that. Larry tried as best he could to shift those other images, give them some movement in his imagination — but he’d never managed to bring any life to them as they scrolled across the grey ceiling.
Only in his dreams sometimes could he imagine talking or playing ball or mock-sparring with Joshua as he was in those photos when he was older, hugging him now and then — and then he’d awake to the cold reality of his cell, a slow tear already at the corner of one eye, even before he faced again the cold, static photos and the tears began to flow more freely. All those lost years. Gone. Gone forever.
He’d stare at the photos wide-eyed, as if trying to immerse himself in their world, his body not moving, only his breath slowly rising and falling as the tears streamed down his face. Immobile, static. Frozen. As if somehow if they were both in the same pose, frozen, he would feel closer to Joshua in that moment.
Static. And that’s probably just how he in turn had seemed through the years to young Joshua. The Stone Mountain. A pitiful grey figure frozen inside his prison cell, with little colour or movement or life that Joshua could attach to it.
In all the years, he’d never told Joshua how much he loved him, Francine neither. Oh sure, he’d told his precious God how much he loved them, many a time… but in all their visits or his letters or e-mails with Joshua, he’d never said it directly. Just talked about day-to-day stuff, How are you? How are things at school? Basket-ball team, huh… New computer, that’s nice… What are you reading these days?… Given a few tips where he could.
Arm’s length. Holding at bay his deeper feelings. As if afraid that if he opened up, the dam would burst on the tidal wave of emotions he’d bottled up through the long years. Hold it back… hold back. Be strong… be strong.
And he’d been the same when Jac McElroy had visited: played his cards close to his chest, kept everything tight inside, guarded, given McElroy a hard time. Sure, McElroy had mainly just been doing his job, but as Roddy had said, he was one of the few that had actually taken the trouble to care, had stuck his neck out and gone that extra mile for him. And now…. and now…
The tears welled heavily in Larry’s eyes. Roddy hadn’t told him which song he’d be playing, but as he heard the softly lamenting guitar riff and opening words, he found the tears impossible to bite back any longer. Was that how it would forever be set in stone for his — probably short — time on this earth? His epitaph? Never able to tell people how he truly felt… only his God. Holding back… holding…
And as Peter Green’s soulful cry — ‘ I just wish I had never been born’ — cut through the cold concrete caverns of Libreville prison, finally the dam did burst: he cried for the lost years, cried for all the things that now he might not get the chance to say, cried for having let Franny and Josh down — deserting them just when they needed him most — cried for breaking his mother’s heart, cried for Jessica Roche’s long-gone soul… and now for Jac McElroy too. How many more? Maybe best that he was going soon… He cried and cried until it became a pitiful sobbing that racked his entire body.
Sudden rapping on the side wall, three sharp knocks, startling him.
‘You okay in there, Larry?’ Theo Mellor’s voice from the next cell. ‘You okay, man?’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’ He clawed back some composure, wiped some of the tears away with the back of one hand. ‘Bad song choice, that’s all. Real bad song choice.’
21
Grey. Everything grey.
Clogging his nose, his mouth, trickling down and burning his lungs.
At most, twenty-five seconds before he finally wrenched his leg free, but it felt like a lifetime, sapping him of strength and vital time to get to the top to burst free for air.
Then he was rising up, up… his lungs searing and aching with the pressure and about to explode. Faint, distant light now touching the grey… how much further? Twenty feet, thirty?
His lungs finally gave just over halfway up, the water bursting down his gullet — and as the sunlight hitting the lake surface cut through last of the grey, making him squint, his consciousness in turn started to dim, dragging him back into grey again. Then finally black.
He recalled briefly some voices, though had no idea how long after.
‘I thought I saw him move a little.’
‘Nah… he’s not moving. He’s dead.’
And he thought: I’m not dead. I can hear you. And he could also feel a soft breeze from the lake hitting one cheek just before hands started pressing hard at his stomach, pumping.
But the second voice was right, he realized, must have seen that he was a hopeless case, because once again the grey started dragging him back down, back towards the black.
There was a strange dream at some stage later; a dream that tried to fool him that maybe he’d made it and was still alive. His last subconscious bid not to accept that he’d actually died.
He was lying in a bed — whether at home or a hospital, he couldn’t tell, because everything was whited out and indistinct. And Alaysha was leaning over and hugging and kissing him.
‘Oh, Jac… Jac. You had us all so worried.’
The softness and warmth and perfume of her felt so good it made him ache and want to cry. And his mother and Jean-Marie were also there — got to meet and talk to Alaysha for the first time. John Langfranc, too, and even his occasional squash partner, Jeff Coombs… all of them smiling, nodding, talking… telling him how good it was to see him.
It was like that closing scene in A Wonderful Life, where half the town turn out to greet Jimmy Stewart and tell him how good it is to see him alive. Except that in this case, Jac knew that he was dead, because he could see his father hanging in the shadows at the back of the room; and then the grey was there again, dragging him back down…
Clogging his nose, his mouth… deeper into the blackness… away from the light at the top of the lake.
‘Jac… Jac!’
Alaysha kissing him again, but this time he pushed her away…no… no! I’ve already had that dream. Don’t tease me like this!