She probably headed for the stairs at the other end of the apartment complex — he never recalled hearing her pass his door after leaving. If it was at night, she’d put on the timed hallway lights, and if he left instantly and rushed towards the L-bend where the corridor turned towards the far stairway, he might catch a glimpse of her before she headed down. The corridor was carpeted, but if he kept his shoes off as an extra precaution, hopefully she wouldn’t hear him approaching.
Having devised a plan, Jac found himself listening out more acutely for movement and voices from next door, trying to gauge when she would be leaving so that he could accurately time his own exit. The first occasion, by the time he’d heard her door shut, it was practically too late for him to bother running out. The second, the only other opportunity so far, by the time he’d reached the corner of the L, she’d already started down the stairs the far side. She didn’t glance round in that fleeting second before disappearing from view, and he was no nearer knowing what she looked like.
When he’d first returned from his mother’s, he hadn’t heard any noises from next door. Just after midnight, she was either still out or already in bed.
But having still not heard from Stratton, Jac wasn’t ready for bed yet. And, sitting there with the TV on low and not really paying attention to Bloomberg’s financial forecasts and next day’s weather, suddenly he heard movement from next door. Sounded like the bedroom — cupboard doors and drawers being opened and closed. There’d been the sound of another door opening and closing just before — but it hadn’t been the front door. So probably she’d been in the bathroom furthest away from him. Sounds from there barely reached him.
He moved closer to the wall, ear nestled against it and strained for the minutest sound from next door — a familiar position for many of the past few nights now — and for a moment a picture of her fresh from the bath or shower, hair still wet, hit him. But still he had no face to match to that misty image.
He stayed there listening longer than he realized, his legs starting to have a few cramp twinges, and for a while the sounds became more muted and indiscernible. Probably she was getting ready for bed.
And so when he heard more strident opening and closing of cupboard doors, and then suddenly the front door slamming, he was caught by surprise.
Shoes off and thrown brusquely aside, he managed to reach his own front door in just two strides. Out and running, breathless. He tried as best he could to suppress it so that she didn’t hear him approaching like some rampant buffalo. Soft and swift strides too, stocking-feet on carpet.
He could hear the steady pad of her footsteps fifteen yards the other side of the corner, and prayed that it masked his own rapid stride.
And this time he did reach the corner before she headed down the stairs — just as his cell-phone rang.
She wheeled around, and he ducked back round the corner equally as sharply and hit the button to put the call into message service.
He could hear that she wasn’t moving, was still rooted to the same spot, and could almost feel her eyes boring through the bit of corner wall shielding him. He kept perfectly still, struggling to swallow back the weight of his breathing from his brief madcap run. He feared for a moment that she was going to head back towards him. He looked at the number calling: Bob Stratton! He was desperate to get to it before Stratton rang off — but couldn’t risk moving or making any sound.
She stayed in the same position a moment longer, undecided, though to Jac it felt like a lifetime with his back pressed hard against the wall, breath held, staring helplessly at Stratton’s number on his cell-phone as the vital seconds ticked by. Finally she turned and headed down the stairs.
He waited for her to get a few paces down before he raced back to his own apartment, and as soon as the door was shut he pressed to take the call.
‘Hello, hello! Bob! Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I… I was just leaving a message. I didn’t think you were answering.’
‘I was tied up for a moment. Sorry.’ Jac fought to regain his breath. ‘But I’m here now. So, tell me. How did it go?’
‘I was held up on the Causeway due to an accident — that’s why I haven’t been able to call ’till now. I was late getting there. But no worries — Marmont is still spark out.’ Stratton’s tone dropped. ‘The only thing was that one of Marmont’s prison guard buddies was already there when I arrived. Some guy called Miles Elden.’
‘Oh.’ Jac felt a twinge of concern. Elden? The name didn’t strike a chord. He had no idea if he was part of Bateson’s clique or not. Could be just innocent.
‘It was okay. I flashed my badge, and said no visitors unless first cleared with your office. Or, if anyone had a problem with that, the D.A. He didn’t look about to argue with the bluff, said he was simply looking in ‘cause he was Marmont’s best friend. And he left him a book to read for when he wakes up. Stephen King’s Pet Sematary.’ Stratton chuckled. ‘Probably takes a while for books to reach the comatose reading lists.’
‘At least we know one thing about this Elden: he’s an optimist.’ But Elden wasn’t the only one praying that Marmont wouldn’t die, Jac reminded himself.
Jac spent a moment confirming with Stratton how they were going to keep up the vigil on Marmont’s bedside before ringing off, then once again he was with his back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to wind down from the evening. Only a glimpse, but she was gorgeous: a coffee-cream mixture of African and Caucasian, with a hint of something else from the faint slant at the corner of her eyes: Malaysian? Philippino? He let his breathing fall steadily as he tried to bring her clearly into focus again in his mind.
But the rush to see her and almost getting caught, like some pathetic voyeur, only served to remind him of the sorry state of his love life. How lonely and desperate he’d become. It was probably best that he was going on an arranged date. He could hardly be trusted anymore to arrange anything for himself.
6
‘Why do you want to die? Why is it you don’t want me to try and save you?’
Jac went straight in with the key question. No point in beating around the bush. He might have got over most of the first hurdle with the attempted prison break, if Marmont survived, but unless he tackled this, they were all wasting their time. He could prepare the most marvellous clemency plea for the Governor’s office, but Durrant had to agree to its contents and sign the plea petition.
Durrant shuffled uncomfortably, shrugged. He looked like he’d have preferred some delay, as if a question of such purport deserved reasonable preamble. He looked almost offended to be hit with it straightaway.
‘I don’t know. Tired, first and foremost. Tired of the appeals and empty promises, tired of waiting. Tired of false hope. Tired of life.’ Durrant looked up with a steady gaze as he hit the last words, as if he’d only at that moment finally discovered what, most of all, he was tired of.
‘You’re tired, and so you want out. Is that about it?’ Jac said it offhandly, disdainfully, and Durrant’s stare became icy. Jac fully expected some confrontation if he was to stand a chance of shifting Durrant’s stance. It wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Yeah, that’s about it.’ Equally offhandly, disdainfully.
Jac stood up and took a couple of paces away from the interview table before turning to look back again. ‘That may be okay for you. But have you given a thought to those you’re leaving behind. Your wife. Your son. How old is he now?’ Jac remembered the age from Durrant’s file, but he wanted Durrant to say it, be reminded.
‘Twelve. Had his first birthday just a month before Christmas while I was held for trial.’
Jac considered Durrant dolefully for a second. ‘Maybe your wife will come to terms with you dying, has had a fair time to prepare herself. But do you really think your son will at that age?’ And as he saw Durrant flinch and look away, he knew he’d struck a chord. The first chink in Durrant’s armour, built-up hard these past eleven years.