Текст книги "Ascension Day"

Автор книги: John Matthews

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

‘So. Just the phone?’ Confirming it as if it was a lesser issue, that he’d somehow got off lightly, belied how Jac felt. A shiver ran up his spine as he thought about the many conversations he’d had that had been listened in to: his mum and Jean-Marie, John Langfranc, Alaysha, and then Rodriguez, Coultaine and his calls to arrange to see Truelle and Thallerey that had finally targeted him to be killed. ‘Okay. Okay.’ Jac eased a burdened sigh. ‘How do we get rid of it?’

‘We don’t,’ Stratton said, shrugging. ‘Not, that is, without them knowing.’

Jac’s eyebrows knitted. With the impact the bug had so far had on his life, he couldn’t bear the thought of it being around a second longer. Stratton gestured towards the apartment; he didn’t want to explain on the corridor. They went back into the apartment and Jac turned down Bruce Hornsby.

‘Think about it, Jac,’ Stratton said. ‘If you’re right in your assumption – whoever’s bugging you has already tried to kill you because they’re afraid of what you might find out. If we remove the bug, they’re gonna panic even more – thinking you’re up to all sorts they don’t know about.’ Stratton shrugged as he viewed Jac’s discomfort. ‘Fear of the unknown. Odds are they’ll try again to get rid of you.’

‘But how will leaving it in help? Especially given the sort of conversations I’m having right now on the Durrant case?’

‘Because you can use it for a handy bit of disinformation.’ Stratton smiled slyly as he saw the first spark of realization hit Jac. ‘You make sure that all vital calls on the Durrant case are made on your cell-phone, and you warn all potential incoming callers of the same: nothingsurrounding the Durrant case to ever come in on your land-line here.’ He nodded towards the phone. ‘Then, to complete the picture, having primed a few key people on your cell-phone – you call on your land-line here and tell them that you’re not going to be doing anything further on the Durrant case. You’ve looked at every possible angle, but it appears hopeless trying to prove his innocence. The whole thing now rests with Governor Candaret as to whether he gets clemency or not.’

Jac mirrored Stratton’s smile. ‘So they think I’ve given up, and meanwhile I’ve got free rein without having to worry about watching my back?’

‘Yeah. And you can even play things up some more if you want. You set up a call to your phone here, someone claiming they’ve got vital information on the Durrant case. You’re officially off it, you say – but if it’s that vital, okay. You’ll meet them. They then give you the name of some hotel in Rio or Montevideo and a time for the meet. Meanwhile you sit back here with your feet up and raise a glass, knowing that you’ve sent them on a wild goose chase halfway across the world.’

As uncomfortable as Jac felt leaving the bug in place, the thought of being able to mislead whoever it was, get some of his own back, was irresistible. Jac arched a sharp eyebrow.

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘Yeah.’ Stratton smiled wanly. ‘Just a few times.’

While Jac had been right about the phone bug, he wouldn’t know whether his other suspicion – Truelle being involved somehow – was right until some days had passed. Which brought a smile to Alaysha’s face when he explained the rationale behind his thinking.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Alaysha said, taking the first sip of the red Bordeaux Jac had just poured for her. ‘If over the coming days Truelle is killed or, as happened with you, there’s an attempt on his life – then he’s probably one of the good guys. But if he remains alive, then most likely he’s one of the bad guys. Is that about it?’

‘Yes. More or less.’ Jac shrugged awkwardly. ‘Unless there’s some other reason why, unlike myself and Thallerey, he can’t be targeted.’

Alaysha’s mouth skewed; half quizzical, half humorous. ‘Sounds like one of those old witchcraft trials. If she sinks and drowns, then she’s okay. If she floats and lives, then she must be a witch. You’re not exactly going to be able to phone him after the event and congratulate him on passing the test. “Hey, you’re okay after all. Let’s go for a drink and talk some more”.’

Jac held one hand out, smiling dryly. ‘Unless, that is, like me he survives the attempt.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Alaysha agreed gleefully, taking another sip of wine. ‘Durrant case survivors club. Maybe you can have tags printed, hold a little convention.’

‘I couldn’t have done more with Truelle.’ Jac introduced a more sober tone. ‘I told him what happened with me, and warned him he could be next.’

‘Well, that’s really going to brighten the coming days for him.’

The darker, heavier side of their light banter hit them both at the same time. Alaysha’s expression fell sharply and she reached out and gently stroked Jac’s cheek with the palm of one hand.

‘Oh, Jac. Jac. Have you thought seriously about giving up, throwing in this whole thing with Durrant? I mean, you’re only Durrant’s lawyer, for God’s sake – not his keeper and protector. And certainly not at the risk of your own life.’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I thought about it a lot. Especially in those last days recovering in the hospital.’ Jac took a sip of his own wine as he focused his thoughts, his eyes staying on the glass for a second, as if the greyness of the lake might somehow lay beyond the red. ‘Sure, I was scared out of my wits thinking about how close I came to death. And now I have the knowledge that it probably wasn’t an accident, along with the worry that they might try again. But against that, and not just because I promised to try and help, I can’t shift Durrant from my mind: cut off from his family for eleven years, his life ruined, and hisdeath, now only seventeen days away – unless by some miracle he doesget clemency – a certainty. And everyone else has given up on him as a lost cause, deserted him; apart from young Joshua.’ Something tugged at the back of Jac’s mind about Durrant that harked back to his own father’s death; but he just couldn’t bring whatever it was to the forefront. He shook his head. ‘I can’t desert him as well. Especially not now.’

‘What makes nowso different to before?’

‘Because however much the evidence against Durrant appears overwhelming, what happened with me and now Dr Thallerey convinces me of one thing: there’s something crucial I’m missing, something these people are keen for me not to find out. If only I could discover what?’

Alaysha shook her head. ‘But it’s not just what, Jac, you have no idea who– who is trying to kill you?’

‘True. That would certainly help. Know thy enemy. I’ll make a note to ask them when they next make contact.’ Then held one hand up in apology as he became more serious. ‘I know what you’re saying, Alaysha. But, like I said, it would be wrong to give up on Durrant right now. Just when I’ve seen the first strong sign that he might be innocent.’

Alaysha looked at him levelly, sombrely. ‘Even though it might end up costing you your life, Jac?’

Jac could see the brewing storm-clouds in her eyes, weighted emotions struggling for balance: one part of her admiring what he was doing in trying to save Durrant’s life, the other questioning the terrible risk he was taking. He couldn’t tell which one held sway.

‘I know. I know.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second in submission, as if accepting some of that weight and concern. She’d already almost lost him once; understandable that she wouldn’t want to go through that again. ‘But hopefully this little ploy of Bob Stratton’s will take their eye off of me, take most of the heat and danger away.’

As Alaysha looked down for a second in muted acceptance, she noticed that her hands were trembling. All this talk of danger and lives threatened had got to her; though not just because of Jac’s plight. She’d read the small entry in the Times-Picayunejust the day before: he was noted only as ‘missing’, but now with his family receiving no contact for two weeks, the police were beginning to fear the worst. Her mind had gone into a white-hot spin, wondering when the knock might come at her own door and she’d be next to go ‘missing’. Butterflies of unease writhed in her stomach, made her feel queasy. She gripped her hand tighter on her wine glass to kill the trembling as she raised it and looked up again at Jac.

‘Hopefully,’ she said, and took another sip.

But Jac could see that his attempt at reassurance had done little to shift her concern. The storm-clouds still lingered in her eyes.

‘So, Gary did more lines this week. How many?’

‘Three.’

‘And did you show your parents?’

‘Not at first. But I think they… they kinda guessed. So in the end I did show them what he did.’

‘And were they upset?’

‘A little, sure. But at least now they don’t blame me any more. They seem to accept that it’s Gary doing them – not me.’

Truelle nodded pensively. One of his most intriguing cases. Fourteen-year-old boy, Brad Fieschek, recommended by Social Services due to self-mutilation. Discovered by his parents three months back, although it had probably being going on for some time before that, the marks were thin knife or razor cuts on his arms and sometimes wrists. ‘Lines’, had quickly become his comfort-zone term for them, Truelle discovered; possibly to soften the impact in his mind, because some of the cuts had been so deep that when made on his wrists his parents were convinced that it was a suicide attempt.

But from there, the case became deeper and darker still, because Brad claimed a secondary character, Gary, was making the ‘lines’. Perhaps again to push away what was happening to him – but the worry now was that schizophrenia was developing. And that this secondary character might become increasingly violent: the self-mutilation would get worse.

It was a case that required all of his attention, all his skills; and so he should have known better than to schedule his meeting with Jac McElroy for earlier that day.

Truelle noticed his hand starting to shake again, and pressed his pen firmer on his pad to steady it.

He’d broken the golden rule when – with the excuse to his secretary that he was grabbing a coffee from the deli – he’d had a quick shot of bourbon before his appointment with McElroy. It steadied his hands slightly, but he kept them clasped as much as possible during the meeting to mask any remaining tell-tale signs.

He popped back a few peppermints to kill any smell on his breath, then sprayed himself with some cologne from his office cabinet just to make sure.

But the shaking in his hands was back after talking to McElroy, with a vengeance.

Phones bugged, an attempt on McElroy’s life, Jessica Roche’s obstetrician killed…

He managed somehow to brave it through the one remaining patient session before lunch, then dived out to the nearest bar. What he’d intended as just one more shot quickly became two, then three. The bourbon did little to quell his churning thoughts, but at least took most of the tremble out of his hands.

He looked at them again now: still not too heavy a tremble, not too noticeable. He focused past them to his notepad and took a fresh breath.

‘And, as I suggested last time – have you asked Gary to stop?’

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because… because, I’m afraid.’ Brad’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘I’m afraid that’ll make him angry, will just make it worse. He’ll give me more lines.’

Looked like he’d taken out those phone bugs and changed his insurance policies just in time. If he hadn’t, he’d have probably gone the same way as Thallerey by now…

‘I can understand that. But you know – as we also discussed last time – if you don’t confront Gary, he’ll just become bolder. It could become worse anyway.’

‘I know. But, like I said – I’m afraid. I just don’t know what to do.’

Confront them? Know what to do? Afraid.

Truelle’s hands were starting to shake harder. He clenched them tightly. Maybe it should be him laying on the couch. Maybe he could get one of his old colleagues from New York to pull him apart, guide him through what to do. Pull him apart before he fell apart.

He swallowed, took a fresh breath. ‘But sometimes, Brad, however hard it might seem at the time – we have to confront our worst fears.’

‘I know.’

‘Otherwise they just become stronger.’

‘I know, Doc… I know.’ Brad biting at his bottom lip, close to tears. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult.’

‘I know.’ Truelle in that moment feeling as if he wanted to join Brad in bursting into tears. He dabbed at some sweat beads on his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘And, uh… have you been able to find out why Gary is doing this? Why he’s giving you the lines?’

Brad looked quizzically at Truelle, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘Yes. We discussed that at my last session.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Truelle covered quickly, reminding himself. ‘What I meant was – have you been able to probe more about that with Gary? You were never really satisfied with what he said – because you thought that you werepleasing your parents with what you did.’

‘I could try, but I don’t think he’d tell me. It’s like… like his little secret, his main hold over me, knowing better than me what might please my parents…’

Truelle knew that he should have stopped the session there. He was far too distracted.

As McElroy had been. Maybe it had been due to Thallerey’s death – but then what had McElroy suddenly thought of to make him cut everything short and head off in such a rush? And why on earth had they killed Thallerey? How could he possibly have presented a threat?

Truelle pressed his hands firmer against his notepad as the shaking ran deeper. But this time the pad simply started shaking as well.

Oh God, help me. Help me!

Truelle battled his way through the remaining twenty minutes of the session, keeping his comments concise and simple so that he didn’t make any more mistakes.

But when he finally ushered Brad out, his secretary Cynthia, seeing Truelle pale and shaky, enquired, ‘Has it got worse?’

It took Truelle a second to detach from his own thoughts and realize that she was talking about the boy, not him.

‘No, no. Much the same as before with Brad.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just a small fever that seems to have hit me. Cancel and rearrange my last two sessions today, would you?’

He headed back into his office without waiting for a response, went into the adjoining washroom and splashed water on his face as he leant over the sink.

Straightening up, his head was still burning as if about to explode, his eyes pin-pricks unable to fully focus on his reflection. And his hands shaking worse than ever.

Maybe he should head out and get another drink or two to steady them again. But he knew that if he did, it would end up as four or five, and by the next day he’d be on half a bottle; a day or two after that, a full bottle.

And so he stayed in the same position, hands gripped tight to the edge of the sink, as if it were the last planks of a sinking ship that he dared not let go of.

‘Does Durrant know yet that you can’t do any more?’

‘Not yet. I’m heading out there tomorrow to tell him.’

Nel-M had already heard the taped calls once at Farrelia’s, so wound through to the main highlights. McElroy on the phone to Mike Coultaine.

‘So that’s it now? Last time you’ll be seeing him?’

‘Apart from sitting in with him for the BOP hearing, or if there’s something else needed connected with the clemency plea. But that’s going to be the only focus now. From hereon in, it all rests with whether or not Candaret feels generous-hearted.’

Coultaine consoled that at least he’d given it a shot before they signed off. Nel-M wound forward to McElroy’s following call to Pat Coyne.

‘…I know that my colleague John Langfranc said that I’d probably be following up on some details. That won’t now be happening – I’ve decided there’s nowhere left to go with it. Apart from the DNA, I just can’t get my mind past Durrant describing that final shot to the head – particularly since you held that back from all releases.’

‘I understand. Me neither, and I’ve had twelve long years to think it over.’

‘But thanks for your time and the information you gave.’

Nel-M wound forward to the next call, this time incoming and left on McElroy’s answer-phone.

‘Jac. Jennifer. Jennifer Bromwell. I heard all about your accident. Your sister, Jean-Marie, kept me up to date. I didn’t visit the hospital, because, well, I… I understood your girlfriend was there much of the time. But I hear from Jean-Marie that you’re fine now… so this is to wish you well, and also to ask – and I’d understand perfectly if you didn’t think you were well enough yet for it – about one of those dates we discussed. I sneaked off to see Kelvin a couple of nights back – but there’s something coming up in a few nights that’ll be hard for me to find an excuse for. So, if you thought you could oblige… call me.’

Nel-M stopped the tape and smiled thinly. Hardly got his pulse back, and McElroy’s convoluted love-life was full-on again: screwing his lap-dancing neighbour while playing charades with this second girl.

Shame though it wasn’t about to get more complicated, thought Nel-M. He’d already started to bring the lap-dancer’s ex-boyfriend, Gerry Strelloff, into play; only a few words spoken on his anonymous call, but effective. And as much as Roche would be pleased to hear that McElroy had finally thrown in the towel with Durrant, Nel-M couldn’t help feel disappointed that they wouldn’t now be taking things to the next stage; his plan for McElroy had without doubt been his best yet. Nel-M picked up the phone.

As it rang, he tapped a finger slowly at its side. Something nagged at the back of his mind about McElroy’s recent calls, but the thought hadn’t sufficiently formed to be worth mentioning to Roche. He simply told it how it appeared: didn’t look like McElroy was going to be giving them any more grief.

24

‘Try… try and remember.’

Durrant looked at Jac levelly. ‘You think I haven’t tried, time and over again these past long years, to remember more – fill the gaps? Haven’t had too much else worth thinking about.’ Durrant shook his head, smiling crookedly. ‘You think it’s all going to magically come back to me just because you’re pushing?’

‘I know.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second in acceptance. ‘But this could be our last shot at this, Larry. Our very last shot.’

‘Don’t you think I know that too?’ Durrant arched an eyebrow sharply. ‘Believe me, I’m trying… raking and going over everything I’ve ever recalled these past years. Everydamn thing.’

They were on the same side now, pulling in the same direction, but it would have been easy to believe from their often heated exchange of the past half-hour that they weren’t. Still stuck in the same mould of Jac pushing hard and Durrant resisting; except that this time it was Durrant’s lack of memory providing the resistance. Trying to push beyond the shadows that shrouded his life of twelve years ago, the effort creasing and raising sweat on his brow.

The room they were in was hot and claustrophobic. No windows. No one-way mirror with guards looking on. No faint murmur or sounds of the prison beyond – the surrounding walls were sixteen-inches of thick concrete.

Jac had requested privacy from Haveling and had got it in spades. They’d been allocated one of Libreville’s ‘Quiet Rooms’. Originally constructed for prisoners who’d gone mad so that their ranting and screaming didn’t disturb anyone, prisoners or guards, they’d hardly been used since the opening of a dedicated sanatorium wing twelve years ago.

Back in those dark days, inmates would be leather-strapped to beds and chairs bolted to the floor. Now the room was completely bare, and a small table and two chairs had been brought in. Jac and Durrant sat facing each other.

Their voices echoed faintly in the bare concrete room, the silence when they weren’t talking so absolute that when the door spy-hatch had been slid back eight minutes ago – the only guard check so far – it had sounded like a rifle shot, making them jump. On the table between them were Jac’s hand-held recorder, its cassette slowly turning, and his notepad.

Jac took a fresh breath. ‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.’ He flicked back a page in his notes, then to the front again. ‘These regular pool games were usually Tuesday, Thursday or Saturday nights – with no particular pattern as to which night?’

‘That’s right. It was usually oneof those nights – at most two in the week, but not too often.’ Durrant grimaced. ‘Some of the guys didn’t want to get flak from staying out half the week.’

‘You say someof the guys. Did that not include you?’

‘From what I remember, I was better after Josh was born.’ Durrant shrugged lamely. ‘But I was still drifting off some nights to other bars.’ Durrant caught Jac’s look. ‘Don’t ask – ‘cause I hardly remembered then, let alone now. The only one that I ended up recalling, probably from reading Coleridge, was the “Ain’t Showin’ Mariner” – along Marais Street, if I remember right.’ Durrant smiled briefly, the rest of what he was reaching for sinking back quickly into shadow. ‘Probably changed hands a dozen times since.’

Jac made a brief note before looking up again. ‘Anywhere else you can think of?

‘There was a regular poker game I used to go to. But that was always on a Friday, ifit was on. Sometimes we’d miss a week.’

‘Or anyoneelse that you could have been with that night?’

Durrant thought briefly. ‘Not that I can think of. And that’s not just because it might have slipped from my memory after the accident. I just don’t think there wasanyone I was seeing then – at least not regularly.’

‘So – no other women then?’

Durrant smiled slyly. ‘I know that was what Franny thought some nights I was out. But no – it was just me and my pool buddies. Or me and a hand of cards. Or me and a bottle. Or, if Truelle’s tape and the evidence is right – ’ Durrant’s expression darkened – ‘Me and more house break-ins. Ain’t no damsel suddenly going to come out of the wings to save my ass.’

‘Okay.’ Jac held Durrant’s gaze for a second before nodding his acceptance. ‘Going back to these pool games at the “Bayou Brew”. If you can’t remember which night your game might have been the week of Jessica Roche’s murder – could anyone else there?’

Durrant shook his head slowly. ‘Doubt it. When I was arrested, already six months had passed. Even if I hadremembered the game then as a possible alibi and the police had talked to the people there – they’d have had problems remembering by then. When I did finally recall the pool games and one of my playing buddies – Nat Hadley – we’re talking three years later, just before the appeal. Coultaine spoke to him on the phone, but he couldn’t remember which night it was that week. Now, twelve years on – forget it.’

Thursday night, that was the crucial night. Jac had circled it on his notepad. If Durrant had been playing pool then and had stayed until 10.30, 11 p.m., then he couldn’t have been halfway across town killing Jessica Roche.

‘What about the other two in the game?’

‘Bill Saunders and Ted Levereaux.’ Durrant blinked slowly. ‘I couldn’t remember either of them back then. Still can’t picture them fully even now – their names were given to Coultaine by Hadley. Coultaine spoke to Saunders, but he couldn’t recall which night it was either, and Levereaux he wasn’t able to contact. He’d moved to St Louis, then apparently on again from the last number given.’

Jac nodded pensively. He could try to locate Levereaux, it was an unusual enough name that it shouldn’t be that difficult to track down, and perhaps go back also to the other two to try and jog their memories. But, as Durrant had pointed out, what were the chances of anyone remembering after twelve years?

There’d have been other people there, though, Jac reminded himself: Bar staff, waitresses, perhaps people on set shifts that would have a better chance of remembering which night it might have been. Jac asked, ‘Did Coultaine try any of the bar staff at Bayou Brew?’

‘No, he never got into that.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘But again we’re facing that twelve-year gap. Staff all long-gone, bar changed hands, or maybe even isn’t there any longer.’

But as Durrant’s shoulders slumped, Jac found himself more fired-up. Work rosters, payslips giving working times, maybe even someone who kept a diary? Jac shared his thoughts with Durrant. ‘We’ve only got to find oneperson who used to keep some sort of written record, and we’ve struck gold. We’re not relying on twelve-year-old memories any more.’

‘Yeah, suppose so,’ Durrant agreed, half hopeful, half sneer. ‘Don’t have much else worth trying.’ Then, sudden afterthought, he shrugged and smiled wanly. ‘That is, ifthey’ve still got those records or diaries after twelve years?’

Jac nodded soberly, rubbing one temple.

Something vital and elemental had changed between himself and Durrant since their last meeting. Before, Durrant had been indolent, uncooperative. Now he was helpful, cooperative and finally appreciative of what Jac was doing. There’d been a maudlin moment when Jac started the interview and Durrant looked across at him meaningfully, his eyes moistening.

‘I went hard on you last time, and I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t called for. You put your neck out for me, and there’s not many would do that. But with me being such an ass, you might have got the impression I don’t appreciate what you’re doing – but that ain’t so. I do.’ Durrant twisted his mouth as if something still didn’t quite sit comfortably. Only total honesty would do. ‘Or rather, maybe I didn’t last time – but nowI do. You’re all right.’

But there was still something holding Durrant back, and often he was still defeatist; though where before he’d been couldn’t-care-less and relaxed, now he was tense and anxious. Perhaps it was that death was now that much closer, only fifteen days away, and it was finally hitting him.

Given that, and the fact that everything tried before had failed, Jac could hardly blame Durrant for looking on the down-side. With contact again from Josh, no doubt he did now want to live, cling to hope, as Jac had earlier sold him so hard on; but, worn down by the trial, the failed appeal, the long years of imprisonment, abandoned by his family for much of it, and throughout it all not even sure whether he had committed the murder or not – he’d probably given up long ago on just how that might be achieved. Distant dream.

A handful of old pool-buddies and the bar they used to play at now his only remaining hope.

Jac spent a while filling in details, those that Durrant could remember, then stopped the tape.

Faint rustling, shuffling.

Alaysha went to the door and looked through the spy-hole. Nobody there. She cupped one hand over her far ear to mask the sounds of Molly watching Rugratsin the lounge. No sounds now, either.

Second time in the past half hour she thought she’d heard something. Probably just people passing on the corridor or Mrs Orwin shuffling around and being nosy, rather than anyone hanging around outside.

She’d been anxious and on edge ever since Gerry had called at her door, particularly with what he’d shouted through the forced gap. She’d countered quickly that he couldn’t say anything because he’d be implicated too.

‘That’s the beauty of it, babe. I was just a go-between, made an introduction. All that was ever passed to me in envelopes at the bar were receipts. It’s the courier they’ll be looking for – and that’s you, babe. That’s you.’

Then when she’d read the news clipping the other day, her nervousness had leapt to a new level. Maybe Gerry had already said something, and they’d started targeting those involved. Maybe the knock would come at her door at any minute and…

She tried to put it out of her mind, concentrate on what she should prepare for dinner for herself and Molly. But opening the fridge and kitchen cupboard doors, she found herself staring blankly at their contents, unable to focus on anything. And when the bell did ring a couple of minutes later, it made her jump.

A voice, partly muffled by the TV, came through the door ‘It’s okay Alaysha… it’s Jac.’

Molly was quickly on her feet confirming it as Alaysha passed her to answer the door. ‘It’s Jac, Mommy… it’s Jac.’

‘I know. I know.’ Alaysha felt the weight ease from her chest. Probably the sound a moment ago had been Jac going into his apartment; or perhaps he’d disturbed whoever was in the corridor, ifthere was anyone. She slid back the top lock and turned the door handle as she unhooked the chain with her other hand.

Then, as she caught the shape of who was there, before he’d even looked up fully beyond the baseball cap peak partly obscuring his face – she went to ram it shut again.

She broke two fingernails clawing the chain back on, but she couldn’t get the door closed the last inch. Gerry’s weight was quickly against the other side, pushing hard.

‘So that ishis fucking name! Jac! Your new boyfriend.’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Stock reaction, breathless from the exertion of pushing against the door, her mind scrambling for how he might have found out.

‘Yes, you do. And you sounded real pleased to hear it was him. Never answered the door that quick to me – even when we were at our hottest.’

‘What are you doing here, Gerry? You got my lawyers’ letter?’

‘Yeah, I got your smarmy fuckin’ lawyers’ letter.’

He thrust harder against the door as he said it, and she couldn’t hold it back any longer. It burst hard against the chain, rattling.

‘Is that Gerry, Mommy? Wh… why’s he being like that?’

Alaysha looked back at Molly a few paces away, pulling anxiously at a few strands of hair, trying to be adult to cope with the situation.

Alaysha’s anger surged, fuelling a white-hot adrenalin burst. She barged the door back an inch, felt the satisfaction of a grunt from Gerry as he took the impact.

‘I won’t have it, Gerry. I won’t have you coming round here terrifying Molly. We’re getting a court restraining order, yer hear? You come round here again – next stop for you is a jail cell!’

‘Yeah.’ Challenging, sliding into a mocking chuckle. ‘You do that, and you’re dead, babe. You’re – ’