Текст книги "Ascension Day"

Автор книги: John Matthews

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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

39

The phone was on its fourth ring before Bob Stratton finally picked up and Jac worried for a moment that he wasn’t there. He put on the drawl and introduced himself as Darrell Ayliss, said that he’d seen Stratton’s name in the file he’d taken over from Jac McElroy.

‘He’s noted here that you’re good at finding people – withan exclamation mark. And that’s exactly what I’m after.’

I was there at the time… I’d have incriminated myself…

The thought had struck Jac in the early hours of the morning, woke him sharply at 5.40 a.m. – not that he was sleeping that well in any case, different hotel beds every night and the turmoil of thoughts in his head – another crime going down at the same time! That’s why he hadn’t been able to come forward; fear of self-incrimination.

Maybe he was clutching at straws – maybe it was just an old friend or hoaxer – but with still no reply to his last e-mail and only forty-eight hours now left, that was all there was left to do: squeeze every last drop out of the few remaining possibilities.

He explained his thinking to Stratton. ‘Probably not in the Roche house itself – too much of a coincidence – or even immediate neighbours. But somewhere within, say, fifty or a hundred yards… close enough that this person would have got a reasonable look at the murderer leaving the Roche house that night. Enough to say that it wasn’t Larry Durrant.’

‘And you say you’ve got some photos and a description of this mystery e-mailer?’

‘Yeah. From a girl in the internet cafe, I…. I see from McElroy’s file.’ Having to be careful every second what he said. ‘Though the photos don’t give that much, they’re only partial cam-shots with at most thirty per cent facial profile, and the description – black, stocky, five-ten, maybe six foot, late thirties, early forties – could fit ten or twenty per cent of the city’s black population.’

‘Okay.’ Stratton was thoughtful for a second. ‘But if I get fresh photos of a few live-ones in front of this girl, something might strike a chord.’

‘Yeah, possibility,’ Jac agreed. ‘Except don’t forget we’re looking for someone that was active twelve years ago. If they’re not active now, mug-shots are going to be thin on the ground.’

‘True.’ Stratton took a fresh breath. ‘But that’s going to be stage two. The first thing’ll be to find out if another crime did go down nearby twelve years ago. Then we’ll have a start point to know if it’s even worth looking further. And also what type of crime and connected mug-shots we’re looking for.’

Nel-M tried to grab some sleep on his twenty-minute-delayed 6.45 a.m. flight from Vancouver, but the images still surging through his head were making it difficult.

If only everything his end of things had gone as smoothly as Garrard’s. If only.

He’d spoken to Tommy Garrard two hours ago and it apparently had gone like clockwork: car in the drive, alarm set off twice, husband comes out, no other family there at the time, into the house to get the envelope, two quick shots, and away again.

‘Nobody saw me. But just in case, like you suggested, I wore a mask at the time.’

But with Nel-M’s target, there’d been no car in the driveway, and he’d had to bang a side-passage dustbin to hopefully get the man of the house out to investigate. Three sharp bangs at two-minute intervals, Nel-M starting to worry that he’d bring the neighbours out as well, before a heavy-set guy finally emerged – wielding a baseball bat and moving surprisingly fast for his size, perhaps not realizing Nel-M had a gun until it was too late. Nel-M floored him with a leg shot, then had to drag the stumbling, bleeding body back through the house with his wife and son, no more than eleven, looking on – swinging his gun towards the wife for a second as she made a move towards the phone – to get the envelope from a bedroom drawer. He’d made sure to ask about the envelope while they were still outside, out of earshot of his family, then clamped a hand across his mouth as they moved inside, knowing that if the man did mention it, he’d have to shoot them too.

But as he levelled his gun to finish the job halfway back down the hallway, his wife screamed and lunged for him then – only a split-second to turn his gun from the head-shot to put one in her leg to take her down. Then he stood over them both for a second, breath falling rapid and short, as he pondered whether to finish her too.

He’d also used a mask from a joke shop – so what else would her and her son have seen other than a bit of dark skin and some salt-and-pepper curls either side of an Ozzy Osborne mask? Then at that moment she groaned heavily with pain from her leg wound, made him worry that she’d disturb neighbours; but as he raised his gun, he caught the look in her son’s eyes, questioning, pleading. What was he going to do – shoot the kid as well? As Joe Pesci once said, ‘ You could be out there half the fucking night.’

He waggled the gun at them threateningly as he backed away along the hallway and out the front door, then turned and ran off into the night.

But now, as he tried to sleep on the flight, those boy’s eyes were with him again, strangely haunting… reminding him of that night twelve years ago with Jessica Roche, that woman walking her dog staring at him. Only once before had he left a witness alive, and look where that had led.

Jac sat anxiously outside Truelle’s office building, his earlier telephone conversation with Cynthia still rattling through his mind.

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Didn’t tell me that either.’

‘What about the patients he has today?’

Cynthia sighed tiredly. ‘That, if you don’t mind me saying, is none of your business.’

Jac sensed he was getting the run-around, that something was wrong – but if he pushed harder and she revealed anything sensitive, anyone listening in on Truelle’s line would hear it at the same time, and so he’d signed off then, ‘I’ll try him again later,’ deciding in that moment on another unannounced visit.

He’d originally planned to wait outside and observe for thirty or forty minutes, then barge in and let loose with all guns – on Truelle if he was there, on steel-blonde Cynthia if he wasn’t. But then Mike Coultaine’s call about Melanie Ayliss had come through just as he was leaving his hotel, and suddenly he felt vulnerable sitting in the open in the street. It was bad enough posing as Ayliss, padded out like a Weight Watchers reject, feeling as if he was in a constant pressure-cooker, worried that half his face might suddenly melt and slide off – but now he had this crazy ex on his tail, telling the police or anyone who’d listen that the man running around town as Darrell Ayliss wasn’t her husband!

After only fifteen minutes, his nerves were worn, spending as much time looking round at the street for anyone who might be looking at him as at Truelle’s entrance and window.

Still no sign of Truelle, only a couple of people he didn’t recognize, perhaps going to other offices in the building, and a DHL messenger heading in and then out again two minutes later. Jac managed to last only another three minutes.

A short gasp from steely Cynthia as he burst in, then a cool, imperious eyebrow raised. ‘What do you want? I told you earlier he’s not here… and he still isn’t.’

‘Save it!’ Jac snapped. He went through to Truelle’s office to check, then glared back at her. She held the same cool stare; she was getting used to this by now. He moved towards her desk, leant on the edge of it. ‘So, let’s try again. What time do you expect Mr Truelle back?’

‘I don’t know?’

Jac sighed tiredly. A re-run of their telephone conversation forty minutes ago. He asked where Truelle had gone and she said she didn’t know that either. Jac closed his eyes for a second, the sigh heavier now – severelypissed off. He leant over a fraction, more intimidating.

‘We could spend the next half hour with me asking variations on those same questions, with you continuing to be uncooperative – but the only problem with that is, I don’t have much time. I’ve got a man on death row because of Truelle, and the clock’s ticking fast against him. That’s why, when I was here yesterday, I gave Mr Truelle a deadline.’ Jac glanced at his watch. ‘Now at that deadline, only half an hour from now, if Truelle isn’t in the DA’s office ready and willing to talk, then the DA is going to have him arrested. And if he’s not here to arrest, then he’s going to have youarrested instead and charged with obstruction of justice.’ A bluff, but he doubted Truelle had told her enough for her to know that; he’d probably simply instructed, don’t say anything. She stared back at him, hardly a flicker or flinch. Mrs Cool-steel-blonde. ‘And you’ll end up having to answer these same questions after a night in a jail cell and with a year’s sentence hanging over your head.’ Jac eased the syrupy Ayliss smile. ‘Only I don’t have time to wait for you to languish in jail for a day – I need the answer to those questions now!’ He slapped one hand against the desk for emphasis; in the quiet of the office, it was like a rifle-shot.

She didn’t move or flinch, all it raised from her was a slow blink. Defiant: you’renot going to break me. She returned the smile smugly.

Jac reached for his back-up ammunition, took the photo of Nelson Malley out of his briefcase and slid it across her desk, asking, ‘Do you know this man?’

‘No… no, I don’t.’

Jac knew that she was lying; the flinch in her eyes, the first so far, screamed Yes! And, like Truelle, she’d hardly looked at the photo, as if afraid to fully confront it.

‘He’s going to come round here, too… asking you the same questions. But he’s not going to be nearly as nice as me. He’s going to have his hands round your throat and a gun in your face sooner than you can blink.’ Another faint flinch, her blinking a beat quicker. ‘And he’s not going to think twice about pulling the trigger.’

A faint swallow, Cynthia looking down rapidly, not wishing Jac to see that he’d struck a chord.

And as Jac looked down too, he noticed the open appointment diary before her, her arms on it, guarding. From upside down, he thought he could make out the word ‘ Rearranged’ and then another time written alongside on a few entries. He grabbed for the book to turn it his way, but she held on to it tight, and he had to twist and wrench hard, finally shoving her back with one forearm to wrestle it free.

He could now see more Rearranged’swith fresh times alongside, with some on the next page as he flicked over. Seven in all rearranged over the next three days, and she was probably working on the rest as he’d walked in.

‘So, now at least we know how long he’s going to be away – at least the three remaining days of this week. And with all those appointments rearranged for the end of next week and some the week after, maybe as long as a week.’ Jac raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but she just glared back at him, red-faced and slightly breathless from the brief tussle. ‘So now all that’s left to find out is wherehe’s gone?’

‘I don’t know, he… he didn’t tell me.’

But Jac could see that she was more hesitant, less sure of her ground; perhaps uncertain now, after their brief tussle, just how far he’d go to get the information. He gave the diary one more quick scan, an entry to one side hitting his peripheral vision, but not at that instant seeming relevant. He laid the diary back in front of Cynthia, leaning over again at the same time.

‘Come on, Cynthia… I don’t have time for any more of your fooling around.’ Three days. Larry would be dead by then! ‘I need to know where, where?’

She looked down awkwardly again, not wanting Jac to see what was in her eyes; or perhaps, in that instant, seeing in Jac’s eyes everything he’d been through: almost drowning in the lake, being framed for murder and hunted by the police, representing a man who he was sure was innocent now only a day and a half away from execution. Dawning on her then that having gone through all of that, he wasn’t simply, after a few trite fob-offs, going to walk away.

And as Jac looked down again, he noticed that Cynthia seemed to be more concerned with covering that side entry – that’s what she’d been covering before! From where he was, he’d been able to see the rearranged appointments. Shielding them hadn’t been as vital.

He yanked back at the appointment book, shoved her arm away from covering the entry, and read fully what before had only half registered:

Apartado 417, Sancti Spiritus, Cuba.

DHL: 8422016CS.

Jac stabbed the entry with one finger, glaring back at Cynthia. ‘That’s where he’s gone, isn’t it?’

Cynthia, red-faced, shook her head. ‘I… I don’t know.’

Jac slammed one hand on the desk again, another rifle-shot, and this time Cynthia did flinch. ‘Yes, you fucking do! Because I saw the DHL man come in and out just ten minutes before I came up here!’ Cynthia chewing at her bottom lip, clinging by her fingertips to her last shred of resolve. One last push. ‘And if my man on death row, who I truly believe is innocent, should die because of you – then God help you. I’ll push the DA with everything I’ve got for the maximum for obstruction. Two years in the hardest possible women’s prison! And as tough as you think you are, Cynthia, you won’t make it.’ Jac leant closer still, so close that hopefully she’d feel the syrup from Ayliss’s sly smile drip on her, his voice lowering to a hiss. ‘You won’tfucking make it.’ Cynthia chewing harder at her lip, crumbling inch by inch before him. Jac tapped Malley’s photo. ‘And if this man catches up with your boss before me, then God help him too – because he’ll be dead long before my man on death row… and all your efforts today will – ’

‘Okay… okay!’ Breathless exhalation as that last inch went, her resolve finally snapped. ‘That iswhere he’s gone.’ She looked up at him anxiously. She shook her head. ‘But I didn’t tell you, okay? I promised I wouldn’t.’

‘Do you have a street address or any other information?’

‘No… no.’ She shook her head again. ‘That’s it. And I only had that because he asked me to send something there.’

This time Jac sensed she was telling the truth. ‘And what was that?’

‘A cassette tape. He told me where to find it in his office.’

‘Okay.’ Jac nodded thoughtfully . Tape? Perhaps the tape that had got bumped when Truelle shifted all the sessions. Jac wrote down the Cuba P.O. box number and gave Cynthia one last look at Malley’s photos before he slid it back into his case. ‘And do yourself a favour, Cynthia. If this man calls asking for your boss – and for sure he will – make sure you’re not here. As I say, he won’t be nearly as nice as me. And in the end, I wasn’t really nice at all.’

Carmen Malastra visited the Bay-Tree Casino floor once more to confirm everything that he’d put together on screen from studying cam videos the past weeks. Filling in the final shades: the envelopes passed from Jouliern to Strelloff, him stashing them below the bar – easily covered as part of the bar float until the final tally was done at the end of the evening – and then Strelloff in turn passing the envelopes on to the courier.

Malastra walked the areas that he’d seen on video, looking back thoughtfully towards the cameras, wondering how many more envelopes might have been passed that he hadn’t picked up on. The hand-over at times obscured by activity on the casino floor, people milling about.

This time Caccia didn’t follow him round like an obedient puppy, sensed after the first few paces that he’d rather be alone. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Mr Malastra. If you need anything… anything at all, I’ll be at the end of the bar.’

Malastra’s steps retraced Jouliern’s and Strelloff’s movements on those nights: from the tables where Jouliern took the money, half of it pocketed and chips substituted to match before he passed everything on to the cashiers booth; then, an hour before closing, passing all the skimmed money in an envelope to Strelloff behind the bar, and finally Strelloff passing it to the courier at the end of the evening. Not every night, though; they were restricted by how often the courier could call. Two or three times a week by the looks of it; and, with the association, not at all suspicious that they would be there that often.

Malastra leant against the bar and looked back towards the two main cameras covering it. He hadn’t managed to pick up every envelope handover, but enough to piece together the pattern.

With a curt nod to Caccia, Malastra went back to his office and computer. After forty minutes of checking angles again and running through the dozen or so sequences where the images were clearest, he freeze-framed and printed off what he thought were the best shots, then picked up the phone and summoned Bye-Bye.

‘This is who we’re looking for,’ he said as Bye-Bye approached, passing across two photos. ‘That’ll then end this whole Jouliern saga. I want it done quick and so smooth and clean it’ll be like an oyster sliding down Pavarotti’s throat.’ He looked up sharply at Bye-Bye. ‘Understand?’

Bye-Bye nodded, studying the two photos. ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘And be careful on this one, don’t get complacent. With Jouliern gone, they might have guessed we’ll be coming for them. So they could well be looking out or have made some safeguards. Be prepared for that.’

40

Larry couldn’t take his eyes off Joshua. Not, he liked to think, because it was the last time he’d see the boy; but because he hadn’t seen him now for eleven months, and the boy had changed so much in that time.

He looked a good two inches taller, his voice a shade deeper, the look in his eye more thoughtful. Larry thought he could see the first shadow of the man that Joshua would become: kind, thoughtful, caring, but hopefully nobody’s fool. And maybe much of that had come about, that transformation starting so early, because he’d had to shoulder so much more than other boys of his age. The taunts, the different surrogate fathers, careful what he said between and about his real father and them in case it looked like favouritism; difficult, if not impossible, Larry thought, to get that balance right from what he’d read in Josh’s e-mails.

Or maybe that was all just wishful thinking, Larry projecting his thoughts because he knew now that he wouldn’t actually see how Josh turned out.

‘Come here!’ Trying to project too every ounce of love he’d missed giving the boy these past long years, and now the years to come, as he hugged him tight. Not wishing to smother Josh or make him feel too awkward, so letting him go sooner than he’d have liked; he could have stayed hugging Josh all day.

Francine looking on, her eyes glassy with emotion, her voice breaking slightly, ‘Oh, Larry… Larry,’ as she took Josh’s place and they embraced; though this time it was more her hugging Larry, patting his back a couple of times as if he were the child that needed consoling.

Then silence for a moment. Tense, uneasy silence. He’d covered most of the day-to-day, regular stuff by e-mail with Josh over the past few months – though Franny wasn’t to know that – and he and Franny hadn’t spoken for so long now, they hardly knew what to say to each other any more: casual, light stuff seemed too trivial given what he was facing, and the heavier stuff which might remind him of that or, worse still, tackled it directly, seemed just as bad. So they just sat there for a moment, in that silent gap in the middle.

They’d been allowed a cell near Haveling’s office for their final meeting so that they weren’t forced to just clasp fingers through the holes in a glass screen, and semi-privacy: the back of a guard’s head was just visible through the door’s open inspection hatch.

‘I appreciate you coming here today,’ Larry said finally. ‘I understand from Josh’s e-mail it wasn’t that easy. You had to lay it on the line with Frank.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. Had to tell him straight-out: that’s it, we’re going… no point in arguing. It might be our…’ She broke off then, bit at her lip, realizing the minefield this conversation was going to be, but no other word that she could think of that wouldn’t sound pathetic or contrived. ‘Our lastchance to see you.’ Her eyes glistening heavier, she closed them for a second, as if in apology for having said it.

‘That’s okay.’ Larry reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Whatever the reasoning, I’m just glad to see you both here now.’

She nodded, and after a second finally thought of a subject that was weighty and worthy enough for discussion, Joshua’s schooling, talking about how well he was doing. ‘Straight As in most of his subject, a couple of Bs, and nothing… nothingbelow that. We both got good reason to be proud of him there, Larry.’

Joshua beamed awkwardly, flushing slightly.

Larry nodded, looking away from the boy, back to Francine. ‘Yeah, you’ve done a good job with him there, Franny. Even though often it hasn’t been easy.’ Last chance for him to tell Franny how proud he was of her, keeping a stable home wrapped around Joshua, despite the odds.

Larry talked directly with Joshua for a moment about school, asking him which subjects he preferred, even though he already half-knew from their e-mails back and forth: preferred English and History to Maths and Science. Liked languages too, particularly French. Preferred Tolkein to Rowling, though of recent he’d turned more to some of the older classics: Dumas, Dickens, Lord of the Fliesand Tom Sawyer. ‘Fantasy is okay, but they tell me a bit more about how reallife is. Or was.’

‘That’s good…. that’s good.’ Larry nodded sagely. Practically retelling his own words when he’d first recommended the books in e-mails months back. Josh’s way of telling him that he’d taken the advice and was reading them. Telling him before it was too late.

That trivia barrier broken without them hardly realizing it, Francine talked about her work in the shoe shop, that if she could find another job with the same friendly hours that paid better, she’d take it like a shot. Larry appreciating that in fact it wasn’t that trivial, because the hours were linked to her being able to meet Josh from school. Sacrifice. Larry deciding then to lighten things by telling her about Roddy’s last Crosby routine, Franny holding one hand by her mouth as she laughed, as if she shouldn’t be laughing in a place like this, and especially not at this time; an anxious glance towards the guard outside through the open viewing hatch, worried what he would think. But Larry thinking, it was so good to see her laughing. So good. Hardly in fact able to remember the last time he’d seen her smile or laugh; brief, fragmented flashes of their wedding day and Joshua being born making the years since seem all the more lost, wasted.

Larry hastily pushed the thought away. ‘Though I told Roddy straight that it wasn’t half as funny as seeing him struggle to save the day in front of that crab-faced woman at the BOP hearing. He was back-paddling faster than a duck facing ten Chinese chefs… until that Ayliss guy turned up to save his neck. Or mine, as it so happens.’ Larry shook his head, grimacing. ‘If I miss anything from this place, then it’d be Roddy. And maybe the library a bit, too.’

Ayliss. Saving neck. But as much as they’d all desperately tip-toed around the subject, talking about anything but, suddenly it was back before them. Larry’s death. Only thirty-two hours away now. The shadow of it hanging so close that it was stifling, suffocating. Inescapable. With the mention of Ayliss, Franny’s eyes darting rapidly as if unwilling to accept the inevitability of that shadow, she leapt for what she saw as a possible escape route.

‘I heard that new lawyer of yours, Ayliss, on a radio phone-in a few days back after Candaret turned down your pardon… and he said he wasn’t giving up yet. Not by a long shot. Said that he truly believed you were innocent and in fact had someone visiting the prison over the next few days that would hopefully, once and for all, prove it.’

‘Yeah.’ Larry nodded, smiling dryly. Jac hamming it up as Ayliss, trying to get a doubt bandwagon rolling. Never say die. ‘A psychiatrist.’ Larry explained about Ormdern’s two sessions and what they’d hoped to find either with his old pool game or lack of detail recalled about the Roche house. He shook his head as he finished. ‘But in the end, they didn’t hit on anything. Not enough, anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘Though apparently Ayliss is still out there, chasing down, from what he tells me, “some vital final leads uncovered from the sessions”.’

Francine reached out and gently clasped one of his hands. ‘So there’s still somehope left. Still someone out there fighting for you.’

He clasped back at her hand, realizing in that moment that, like her smile and laugh, she’d touched him more in this past half hour than she had in eleven years. He grimaced tightly. ‘Franny, I don’t think it’s right to fool ourselves that he’ll suddenly pull a rabbit out the hat. He’s probably saying all that just to make me feel good, keep my hopes up. Candaret said no, and in the end those sessions didn’t dig up anything. I might just have to accept that that’s it.’

‘But surely, Larry, if he’s still out there trying, then – ’

Larry squeezed tighter at her hand. ‘It’s okay, Franny… it’s okay. I’ve accepted it. Because, you know, at…’ He looked down awkwardly, the right words suddenly elusive. ‘At some stage… I’ve got to. It’s just not right clinging on till the last moment with false hope, when I should be trying to make peace with – ’ He was about to say “my God”, but changed tack at the last second; it de-personalized too much from Fran and Josh. ‘With myself in my own mind. And that inner peace is real important to me right now, so I can say the things to you and Josh that need to be said.’ He kept hold of her hand, though more gently now. ‘I want to thank you first off for bringing Josh up straight and true when, like I said before, God knows often it couldn’t have been easy with me not there through all the years. And I don’t even have to ask you to promise me to keep doing that good job, because I know you will. And to say that… that I alwaysloved you… even though I often had a strange way of showing it back then.’ Francine, eyes glistening heavier with tears, shaking her head as if to say, No, no… you don’t need to say this to me now, or perhaps feeling awkward at hearing it, not wishing it to be the last thing she heard from him, remembered him by; and him eager to get the words out before his resolve went, say what he should have said years ago, but never did because he was too blind or proud or foolish or stubborn, knowing that if he didn’t say it now, he never would. ‘And I… I probably never did stop loving you. And to say that… that…’ But as hard as it had been to say everything so far, this was by far the hardest. ‘I’m… I’m sorry. So sorryfor having done what I did. Let you and Josh down.’

Francine crumbled then, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Joshua’s eyes too were glassy, both of them still clinging to that hope mentioned of Ayliss still trying to save him, not wanting to accept what was happening, not wanting to hear from Larry what sounded now like a goodbye speech, their pleading eyes screaming at him, ‘ You might have accepted what’s happening, found peace with yourself, but we haven’t. We haven’t! And as much as one part of Larry was glad that he’d said what he had – in fact what he should have said eleven or twelve years ago – another part of him cursed ever having met Jac McElroy. For filling him with hope, caring again.

Before that, he’d had it all pretty well worked out: his family had all but given up on him, so in turn him giving up on them and what little there was left in this life for him wasn’t that difficult. Seemed almost the next natural progressive step, as did turning to God. Though he did truly believe, it wasn’t just a second option, a crutch because God was the only person left in this world who he felt hadn’t deserted him.

But one effect it had, though it hadn’t dawned on him until later, was that when he turned more to God and away from worldly life, love and caring – most of it already stripped from him in any case – when he made that final turn away, nobody really noticed. As if he was already a shadow, and so that final slipping away was barely visible. And at that moment he also half-died, and the daily grind and horrors and isolation of Libreville over the years steadily chipped away at that other half until there was practically nothing left.

At that final low moment, the only consolation was that death – the shadow of execution hanging over him – no longer held any threat, because there was so little of life left for him. So little would be taken.

But then this Jac McElroy had come along, talking about family and caring and hope, about life; and as he finally let himself be drawn into that, started to care once more, he’d become afraid of death again. Because there was suddenly much more of life, more that seemed worthwhile, that would be taken away. He wanted nothing more now than to see his son grow tall, go to college, get a girlfriend, avoid all the mistakes he’d made… rather than just have to imagine it all happening; but the last thing he wanted at this moment was his son to see that, see his fear of dying, the longing in his eyes.

And minutes later, as they said their final tearful goodbyes, and Larry hugged them tighter than ever before, while he felt his heart soar as they said they loved him too, Josh adding that he’d never forget him – ‘ You’ll always be my pa,’ as if the others since had only halffilled that role – Larry couldn’t bear to see the pain and unwillingness to accept his death in their eyes.

And so part of him wished it had been like before: him already half-forgotten, just a shadow, and then he could have just quietly slipped away without anyone hardly noticing. Not caused them any pain or trouble.

‘So there she is in this neck brace, her face like she’s gone five rounds with Tyson, and she says: I’ve been in an accident. Really? I say.’