‘Do you think he’ll get anywhere with that?’
‘No, don’t think so. Guards’ word against the prisoners — looks like a non-starter. But you never know.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Roche agreed, his breathing suddenly heavier, more troubled. ‘But one thing we do know is that this young lawyer, despite his inexperience, doesn’t look like he’s going to be the type to simply roll over and die at the first obstacle. And that’s just what we don’t need — some young Turk eager to make a name for himself.’
Nel-M left an appropriate pause. ‘What do you want me to do with him?
Roche’s breathing was now rattling heavily at the other end, and Nel-M wasn’t sure if he was mulling over the situation or having trouble catching his breath to form the words.
After a second, Nel-M prompted, ‘I mean, do you just want me to warn him off at this stage, or, as you say, if he’s so eager to make a name for himself — perhaps a few column inches arranged alongside Raoul Ferrer?’
Roche’s breathing continued to rise and fall heavily for moment, like a tide over rough shale, before he finally spoke again.
Ascension Day? So, Durrant’s cell altar hadn’t just been an escape-route cover. His religious conviction was real. That might at least appease Haveling that his trust hadn’t been totallyabused; but then given Haveling’s firebrand religious bent, that might actually work against getting his support. ‘ If Durrant truly believes that that’s his calling — to be with God — then who are we to stand in his way?’
But it was one hell of a speech from Durrant. One that Jac couldn’t immediately fathom out a way of countering. Jac was suddenly more conscious of the one-way mirrored screen, the guard the other side probably wondering what Durrant had said at such length that made his lawyer look so perplexed and lost for words. The sound link wouldn’t be on: client confidentiality.
Jac had been scrambling from day one with Durrant — the attempted escape, Marmont in hospital, Durrant’s apparent death-wish and appeasing Haveling — but now it was crunch time. It all ended here and now if he didn’t think of something quickly. No point, though, in mentioning that mystery e-mail, at least not until he knew more: some anonymous crazy who thought he might be innocent? At best it would cruelly build up Durrant’s hopes; at worst he’d simply sneer at Jac all the more, would underline just how desperately Jac was clutching at any last straw.
And he obviously wasn’t going to get far simply trying to cajole and bully Durrant, push him in a corner. Eleven long years in Libreville had toughened his hide too much for that, and he’d used much of that time to educate himself. He was no longer the same man depicted in his initial arrest and trial folders. He was mentally tougher and far more astute. Maybe that was the key; or, at least, a useful conversational side-turn to diffuse things.
‘Well, one compensation, I suppose: not all your time in here’s been wasted,’ Jac commented.
‘In what way?’ Durrant eyed him warily.
‘The studying and literary degree you gained. Quite an achievement. Couldn’t have been easy.’
No answer from Durrant, simply a wry smile of acknowledgement, as if he could see already where Jac was heading and wasn’t about to be drawn in.
‘Then helping run the prison library. Couldn’t have been easy either, and quite a challenge to organize,’ Jac continued. ‘Must have kept you busy.’
Still no answer from Durrant, only a gentle nod of the head and an impatient, weary gaze, as if to say, ‘ Tell me when you get to something important, won’t you?’
‘The other inmates are going to miss you.’ Still that impatient, steady gaze, so Jac clarified: ‘You know, your organizational abilities in the library. How you’ve arranged everything now. No guarantee that whoever takes over from you will keep it the same. And, by the way, do you know who that will be?’
‘Roddy,’ Durrant said flatly, disinterestedly. ‘Or maybe they’ll stretch Peretti’s duties.’
‘Oh.’ Roddy was Durrant’s closest friend in Libreville, and, although Jac didn’t know Peretti, obviously he handled the other two-hour shift of the four the library was open each day, barring Sundays. Durrant would probably have already talked to one or both of them about the continued smooth running of the library after he’d gone. Another dead-end. ‘By the way, how did you get the nickname “Thes”?’ Jac asked, eager to keep the conversation rolling.
‘Short for Thesaurus.’
‘Oh, right. Because of your literary expertise?’
‘No, from crosswords.’
Durrant had retreated into a pattern of answers between nil and three words, seemed determined not to make things easy on Jac. He was going to have to work for it. ‘From crosswords?’
‘Yeah, ‘cause if you think about it — apart from a few cryptics, most crosswords are built around alternative word choices. Another word for dumb: stupid. Another word for faltering: floundering. Like in a thesaurus.’
Some more words at least, but they were delivered with a tired, laboured tone, as if Durrant was enlightening an irksome, mentally challenged child. Jac couldn’t help wondering whether stupid and floundering mirrored how Durrant felt about his lawyer at that moment.
Jac introduced a brisker tone. ‘So did the reading and interest in literature come later, or about the same time as the crosswords?’
‘Mostly later.’
Jac stayed silent, held a steady gaze on Durrant that made it clear he expected more. He was determined not to be taken for a fool, and probably the best way was to work Durrant equally as hard.
As the silence became uncomfortable and the muted clatter and murmur of the prison beyond reached them, Durrant looked at his shoes briefly before looking back up. ‘Oh, sure, early on I was reading some light stuff now and then: Grisham, Patterson, Elmore Leonard. But then as I got deep into the crosswords and progressed from doing the local Advocateand USA Todayto the Washington Postand New York Timescryptics — sometimes as many as three or four a day — my reading also became deeper and more involved: Steinbeck, Melville, Dostoyevsky, the Bible.’
Full circle back to Durrant’s religion. And although he was finally starting to open up more, it was delivered begrudgingly, as if Durrant resented having to explain or saw little purpose to it. After all, he was going to die soon.
But for the first time Jac felt more in control of the situation, felt he’d pieced together enough to be able to fight back. He shook his head. ‘You know, you’re a real conundrum, Mr Durrant…’
‘Conundrum… as in puzzle, enigma,’ Durrant interjected.
Jac continued unabated. ‘You’ve spent much of your time in here making your life more worthwhile: reading, organizing the library, getting a degree in literature, helping with the prison magazine. But then in the same breath, you tell me that everything here all around you is dire, worthless. So dire and worthless that you can’t wait to die. And so keen on dying are you, so disinterested in continued life — that you and your prison pals have spent the last year planning to escape.’ Jac leant forward over the interview table. ‘You’re well read, Mr Durrant, so you’ll probably know your Plato: That a man is judged by his actions, not his words. And while you might tell me that you want to die and have thrown at me all sorts of reasoning to support that — your actions tell me otherwise. They tell me — correction, shout— that you want to live.’
Durrant’s sly smile had started rising again — perceived challenge this time rather than annoyance — but halfway through it died with a flinch that brought something harder to his eyes. ‘That’s because you don’t fully pay attention, Mr McElroy. What me and my buddies were aiming for was freedom. Not a continued clinging to what passes for life in this rat-hole — but full-blown freedom. And if you’re offering me that — then I’d gladly grasp it with both hands, and say “Thank-you”. But you’re not, and we both know damn well that that isn’t even likely to happen. The best that you’re offering is another ten to fifteen in here, and that being the case, I’d rather say “Thank you, but no thank you. I’ll pass”.’ Durrant leant forward to emphasize his point. ‘That being okay with you.’