And suddenly that thrumming was back in Jac’s body, as it had been that last night with Larry, clinking brandy glasses together as the tears flowed; his own heartbeat in time with the throb of the prison boilers… last chance… last chance… the ticking of the clock on the wall joining that beat as he stared at it numbly, trying to think desperately of what to do next… ifthere was anything left to try. The clip-clop of his step from the many times he’d paced Libreville’s endless corridors over the past six weeks, the final accompaniment a rhythmic banging from the cells as he walked along; as he’d headed in earlier that night, many of Larry’s supporters had banged the cell bars with whatever metal objects they could lay their hands on — tin cups, bed-pans — willing Jac on… save him… save him!
‘Were any days mentioned for the kid’s games? Or perhaps who they were playing?’
Clutching at straws. It was becoming painful even to watch; the increasing edge in Ormdern’s voice, the heavy pulsing behind Larry’s eyelids as he searched desperately for that one fragment of detail from twelve years ago that might save his life now.
Finally: ‘No, sorry… can’t remember anything being said about dates or times for the kid’s games. Just how proud Nat was, you know… being there for the kid. Supporting him.’
‘I know.’ A concluding tone, Ormdern looking back through his notes and last session’s transcript for anything he might have missed asking about the Bayou Brew that night.
The silence suddenly heavy, stifling, only the sound of flicking pages through the speaker, merging, becoming one with the ticking of the clock and the pounding, thunderous roar in Jac’s head… last chance… last chance… save him… save him!
Jac leapt up as the coffee splashed against one thigh. Unconsciously, he’d gripped the paper cup too tight, splitting it.
Ormdern looked up briefly, Jac’s sudden gasp through his earpiece obviously startling him. He went back to his notes for another fifteen seconds or so, though with the silence the pause seemed interminable, before speaking again.
‘I want to move on now, Larry… to when you first read or heard about Jessica’s Roche’s murder… and first of all try and pinpoint that time in relation to the night we’ve just been talking about — when you were playing pool at the Bayou Brew.’ Ormdern left a heavy pause to let the thought and the shift in time settle with Larry. ‘Was it just the day after, two days… or maybe more?’
Jac was at the edge of his seat, breath held. Probably their last chance to be able to pinpoint the day.
It took a long time for Larry to focus his thoughts, the pulsing behind his eyelids becoming more rapid, frantic, the clock ticking on the wall probably seeming deafening to everyone in the room, not just Jac, in that forty second wait.
Larry gently moistened his top lip with his tongue as he spoke, his head lolling slightly. ‘I… I don’t know… A day or two, I think. Not long, anyway.’
‘Please, Larry… think. Think hard. It’s important. Which is it? Just a day, or twodays?’
Jac clenched his hands anxiously as Larry sank back into thought. There’d been an anxious moment too in his pre-session with Larry when he’d slid across the photos, and shortly after had made a verbal slip: ‘On our second meeting together, you mentioned…’ Quickly realizing and correcting: ‘I mean, on your second meeting with Jac McElroy…’ But it was too late, Larry had picked up on it, staring at him intently in that moment, eyes boring past Ayliss’s brown contact lenses, stripping away the prosthetic cheek and jaw bulking and the shoulder padding, as he uttered with a hushed, incredulous breath, ‘It’s you, Jac… isn’t it? It’s you!’ And Jac, not saying anything, but giving his answer with a nervous look towards the glass screen and Folley; the sound link was off, but he worried in that moment that Larry’s body language might give the game away or Folley might be able to lip-read. But Folley held the same nonchalant, slightly bored expression, hadn’t picked up on anything, as Jac gently nodded his acquiescence; and Larry at the same time had quickly killed his sly, disbelieving smile as he picked up on the signal not to give the game away to Folley.
Larry finally spoke. ‘I… I’m sorry. I don’t know… can’t say with any certainty.’
Jac eased out a resigned breath. Ormdern had mentioned that even if the memory of the murder had been suggested or somehow overlaid, its addition could create uncertainty in Larry’s mind about the time gap from his pool game. But the end result was the same, Jac thought, feeling his stomach sink: last chance gone.
‘Okay…okay. When you did actually hear or read about Jessica Roche’s murder… exactly when or where was that? Morning or afternoon? On the TV or in a newspaper?’
‘TV.’ Larry answered almost immediately, then paused longer for thought before continuing. ‘But there was no sound on… I couldn’t hear what was being said. Only saw her face on the newsflash.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Because I didn’t want to. I’d made sure to avoid all newspapers and early morning TV… but there she was suddenly, as I was passing a TV shop window.’
Jac’s stomach fell again, as if a second, surprise trapdoor had suddenly opened. A completely different story to the one he’d got last time from Larry! Ormdern, too, looked perplexed, flicking back a page in his notes to double-check the earlier account.
‘Are… are you sure about that? TV shop window rather than at home in the afternoon or early evening?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Larry’s brow knitted briefly with another thought. ‘Okay… maybe early evening was the first time I actually heardit. But I remember clearly standing by that shop window seeing it for the first time.’
‘And what time of day was that?’
‘Mid, late morning, maybe.’
Jac stared back hard at Larry. Was Larry telling the truth now, or in his earlier account to Jac? Or was he clever enough to realize that his sub conscious had suddenly produced a different story, so he’d slipped in a caveat…. ‘first time I actually heardit’. Maybe, with all of that reading, he was cleverer than allof them: knew and recalled perfectly well that he’d killed Jessica Roche, and now was just playing them all, getting them searching desperately through the haystack of his past for needles that he knew had never been there. Maybe, too, Larry had lied earlier about seeing those photos he’d slid across, realizing then that his subconscious had again given something away.
Just when Jac thought he knew Larry, was getting closer to him and the truth of what happened twelve years ago, he’d do another quick flip, become a conundrum again. A mystery.
Yet if Larry knew that his subconscious would give him away, why subject himself to this now? Was it just that with only days left to live, a random chance was better than no chance at all? One last laugh up his sleeve at them all desperately fluffing around him, trying to save his life. The attention he’d never got from his own family. But why then had he wanted to die when Jac first met him? Or was that the ultimate double-play: the last person you’d suspect of trying to fool you about their innocence was someone who’d already given up on being saved?
Perhaps, as Jac had suspected all along, Larry just didn’t know. The memory loss had stayed with him, and he had no idea if he’d done it or not.
‘And how did you feel, Larry, when you first saw her face on that TV through that shop window?’ Though now the question seemed almost superfluous.