Free Ascension Day by John Matthews Page A

repeating them. Or due to the pervasive feeling that had swept over him as the evening progressed: a sense of guilt clinking glasses and chatting aimlessly while Durrant lay in his cell at Libreville, the clock fast ticking against him. Was that what it was going to be like for the forty-four days: guilt at every moment that breathed freedom and life, or was it just the sense of time being wasted that jarred? 
    ‘Oh, I see.’ Equally flatly, plainly. Even within her own little world of studies, computer games, pop posters, starting to look at boys differently and coping with the transition from French to American culture – the increasing media barrage of the Durrant case had managed to penetrate.
    ‘But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone – not even Mum. If she’s pushed by Camille, she’ll find it hard to keep it under wraps.’
    Jean-Marie hastily shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I promise. I’ll…’ She quickly side-tracked as she saw their mother walking back in with the coffee. ‘I was just saying to Jac that he shouldn’t worry about the date with Jennifer. She seems very nice.’
    ‘Yes, she does – as I already told Jac.’ Catherine set the coffee tray down. ‘No need to worry at all.’
    But from his mother’s forced smile, Jac could tell that the thought of  her son having to go on an arranged date because of the situation they were in was troubling her more than any of them.

    Bob Stratton’s journey out to St Tereseville was marked by stages in the Saints–Cardinals game on his car radio.
    As he started on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, they’d managed to claw back three points with a field-goal. But only four miles in, as the first swirls of mist started to hit his windscreen, they fell back eight points from a touch-down that was converted. And as the mist became heavier, as if mirroring the cloud of doom fast descending over his team, they fell back another three points.
    Stratton switched off when the next touch-down against came. It was becoming too painful, and no way were they going to be able to play their way out of this particular hole. Immediately the radio commentary died, he heard the sirens from behind and saw brake lights through the mist ahead.
    He tapped his brakes and followed behind a slow crawling tail-back for three minutes before it ground to a complete halt.
    More sirens – two police cars and an ambulance twenty seconds behind – screamed past him.
    Obviously a collision ahead. Stratton looked at his watch. Could be a long one. He toyed with the idea of tuning back into the game, but the combination of the Saints’ doomed performance and the traffic jam would probably be too much for his blood pressure.
    He tuned into an easy-listening station, KMEZ, and started humming along to Glen Campbell’s Witchita Lineman .

    Jac had heard the boyfriend’s voice next door only two nights after the big argument, but for the last three nights she seemed to have been alone. Or at least he hadn’t been able to discern any other voices from next door.
    After the night of the argument – ‘I just don’t like other guys looking at you like that’ – Jac had become curious to see her, and he’d started working on a plan.
    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