The first real drink after twelve years. And mellow, twenty-year-old cognac. Pure nectar.
They drank in silence for a moment. A long moment, Larry alternating between closing his eyes as the cognac trickled down and its warmth hit his stomach, as if it was just another dream and not really happening, and smacking his lips, relishing its taste. ‘Man, that’s good… that’s sooooogood.’ Larry leant forward after a moment, peering at the label. ‘What’s this stuff called?’
‘Frapin. It’s one of the best.’
‘Man oooohhh man… I can taste that for myself. Even if you hadn’t told me.’ Larry took another sip, closing his eyes for a second in reverie, then sank back into silence again, smiling.
Jac smiled back. Twelve years without a drink, and suddenly Larry was acting like a connoisseur.
This was one of those moments when they were meant to be silent; after all, they’d done nothing but rake over the coals of old ghosts and old memories the past forty minutes, said everything that needed to be said. But as Larry’s eyes narrowed after a moment, it looked like there was something else on his mind. He took another slug, as if clearing his throat for the words; or perhaps, now they were drinking, that final bit of Dutch courage, licence to become more maudlin.
‘One thing I never did work out about you, Jac. Why you went out on such a limb for me? I mean, it got to the point where your life was in danger, man. Maybe still is.’
‘My girlfriend asked just the same the other day.’
‘Don’t blame her.’ Larry smiled crookedly. ‘She likes you, maybe she’s keen on keeping your ass around a while longer.’
Jac mirrored the smile, took another sip of cognac. ‘I think the first thing was, big case, and wanting to prove myself. But a lot of that was also wrapped up with what happened with my father. He died young, well, not exactly old: he was only fifty-four when he died.’
Larry slanted one eyebrow. ‘So, you got a thing about people dying young? Is that what you’re telling me?’
Jac shrugged. ‘No, well, I suppose that’s a pretty natural instinct for a lot of people. But it had more to do with the circumstances surrounding his death.’ Jac explained about his father’s business collapse and disastrous financial situation when he died, with a lot of people, including Jac’s rich aunt, as a result labelling him a failure. ‘So when anyone gets close to suggesting that I too might fail on something, it’s like a red rag to a bull. I’ll go to all sorts of lengths to prove them wrong. It’s almost like I’m batting too on my father’s behalf, setting the record straight on how people remember him.’ Jac took another slug. ‘That’s how they were painting this case originally at Payne, Beaton and Sawyer: little hope, bound to fail. That’s why they gave it to a young blood like me, rather than one of the senior partners. But what they didn’t know was, because of that fear of failure, how hard I’d fight it.’
‘Looks like I got the right man, then.’ Larry raised his glass, smiling tightly, his expression faintly quizzical as he thought about the skewed logic of what Jac had just said. ‘I think.’
A bit more truth, Jac thought, but again he still held back. He’d come here intending to be brutally honest, lay every possible card on the table, because it might be his very last chance. But once he was actually in front of Durrant, his resolve had melted and he’d only told half the truth. The real reason he’d gone out on such a limb for Durrant had hit him in the dead of night the day after Alaysha had asked him, awoken him in a cold, shivering sweat. At the same time it was strangely calming, settling: at least now I know. Now I know. And there’d been a moment now, a natural conversational lead-on, when he could have said it. Dying young? Lived before he died. But as he looked at Durrant, saw the eleven years of pain and loneliness in his eyes, he’d once again balked; felt it might be too harsh for Durrant to take with only days left now until his execution.
Jac shrugged. ‘Or maybe it’s just that I don’t agree with the state killing people. Anti-capitalist punishment thing.’ Jac took a quick slug, grimacing. ‘Almost required thinking for a European.’
Larry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I know. You don’t have it over there.’
Jac nodded back. Easy to forget at times that Durrant wasn’t just another homey, how well-read he was. ‘There hasn’t been anyone executed in over thirty years in most of Europe. And it doesn’t seem to have affected the murder rate. Still a quarter of that in the States.’
‘Pretty much the same here. States with no death penalty don’t have higher murder rates. In fact, in most cases, lower.’
Jac lifted his glass towards Larry. ‘In a way, you’re proof of that.’ Jac made sure not to say ‘living’. ‘Wasn’t too long ago that I asked you which might be preferable, death or another ten or fifteen in here, and …well, we both know what you said.’ Death possibly so near now that Jac found himself tip-toeing around the word. ‘Often a long sentence is as much a deterrent.’
Larry nodded again, this time more slowly, his eyes shifting uncertainly, as if, if asked the same question now, he wasn’t sure any more what he’d answer. ‘You miss your father, don’t you?’ he said after a moment.
‘Yeah.’ Jac looked down at the table and the bottle as his eyes moistened. ‘And hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about him.’
‘I understand.’ Larry contemplated Jac steadily, warmly. ‘Same here too with my mother.’ Then he closed his eyes for a second, though this time in acceptance rather than savouring the cognac. They drank in silence a moment more, and something crossed Larry’s eyes then, something darker, more worrying. His eyes went between his glass, the bottle and Jac, as if he was struggling to fully fathom what it was, and the rest hit him in a rush then: Jac pushing so hard for a possible breakthrough, the drink, the maudlin, philosophical conversation. He nodded at his glass and blinked slowly. ‘Don’t think I don’t appreciate this, Jac. ‘Cause I do. I reallydo. But this is a dying man’s drink, isn’t it? You don’t see much hope left, do you?’
‘No, no… of course not. Like I said, there’s still some leads left, we’ve got a strong plea in with Candaret… and we’ll kick the BOP’s ass like you wouldn’t believe the day after next. And I’m sure that — ’ Jac stopped himself then, felt himself sag under Larry’s steady, withering gaze, under that weight of half-truths he’d fed Larry since walking in the room; sag quickly becoming crumble as, with a heavy exhalation, he met Larry’s gaze more directly, calmly. ‘Sorry, Larry… sorry. It’s not looking that good. I’m going to do my best with the BOP and Candaret, andwith the few leads remaining — but it would be wrong of me to kid you.’
Larry nodded, and suddenly Jac didn’t need to say any more, as if Larry had understood perfectly well all along. Had seen through the subterfuge right from the start.
Jac’s eyes watered, the tears hitting him then without warning. Perhaps because of Larry’s quiet acceptance, or his last words, dying man’s drink, the sudden realization that this might be one of the last times he’d see Larry and there probably wasn’t much more he could do for him.
Larry leant forward, putting one hand on Jac’s shoulder, gently shaking. ‘It’s okay… okay. You did your best.’
But that physical contact made it all the worse, the tears flowing more freely. And then they were on their feet, hugging, Larry patting Jac’s back, consoling, ‘You couldn’t do more, Jac… couldn’t do more. Don’t beat yourself up so.’ Then, after a pause, Larry saying he’d be fine and don’t worry about him; and Jac, biting back the tears, saying that he wasn’t giving up on him and there was still a lot to do. Still strong hope. Both of them knowing in that moment that what they were saying was more wishful thinking than truth, and Jac thinking it was strange that they were standing now in this tableau, because in his mind driving to the prison, if the emotions hadbecome too much, it had been Larry tearful and Jac consoling. ‘And thanks for the cognac, Jac,’ Larry said as, with a last few back-pats, they parted and sat back down. ‘It’s made my day… my year.’