Killer Move

Killer Move

Michael Marshall

Dedication

For Jonny Geller

Epigraph

La vie contemplative est souvent misérable.

Il faut agir davantage, penser moins,

et ne pas se regarder vivre.

—NICOLAS-SÉBASTIEN CHAMFORT, Maximes et Pensées

PROLOGUE

He stands in a corridor. He has been there for nearly an hour. For many this would feel like the final imposition, the last straw, the bitter end: something to ignite crimson threads of anger in the brain and provoke a tumble backward into the pit of clotted fury that consigned them here in the first place. It does not have this effect on John Hunter, however, and this is not just because he has always possessed certain reserves of calm, or even because this period is but the stubby tail of a far longer period of waiting. He has simply become aware, over the years, that all experience is more or less equal. So he waits.

The corridor is painted in rancid cream, a color that is presumably supposed to be calming. He will remember this place by it, along with the tang of rust and the orchestral complexity of a thousand mingled strains of male sweat. He has been offered a seat. He declines, deferentially, but without playing the fake submissive: a balanced performance he’s had plenty of time to perfect. Waiting in a seated or standing position amounts to the same job, and so he stands.

His mind is a perfect blank.

Eventually a door opens, and a bluff, plump man wearing a crumpled blue suit steps out into the corridor.

“Sorry for the wait, John,” he says. He looks harassed, but in command.

Inside the office are bookshelves crammed with case files and texts on criminology and penal theory. There is a window that affords a view over the main prison yard. The man with his name on the door has occupied this space for seven years. During this time, it is said, he has made significant improvements to conditions within the facility and has published four highly regarded papers presenting carefully quantified analysis of the results. He has also lost much of his hair, revealing a pate sprinkled with sizable moles.

He sits himself behind the wide wooden desk. “Minor crisis on D,” he mutters. “Now averted, or at least postponed until the gods of chaos pay another visit. Which they will. Please—have a seat.”

Hunter does so, taking one of the two large plush chairs angled to face the warden’s desk. He has been in this office before. The desk as usual holds a laptop, a half-used legal pad, two pens, a mobile phone in a leather belt-clip, and a photograph of a woman and three children so strikingly anonymous that it seems possible the official bought the picture preframed from a prop shop, as set dressing, in order to present himself exactly as he is expected to be. Perhaps, in reality, and outside these walls, he is roguishly single, spending the small hours of the night cruising S and M bars. It is equally possible that the warden is simply what he appears to be. Sometimes, remarkably, that is so.

He folds his hands together over his stomach and looks cheerfully across at the man sitting bolt upright in one of his chairs. “So. Feeling good?”

“Very good, sir.”

“Not surprised. Been a long time.”

The man nods. He is privately of the opinion that only someone who has been incarcerated for sixteen years can have any understanding of how long a period that represents, but is aware this is not a fruitful direction for the discussion to take. During the course of preparing for three unsuccessful parole hearings, he has learned a good deal about fruitful discussion.

“Any questions? Any particular fears?”

“No sir. Not that I’m aware of. The counseling sessions have been real helpful.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, I know you do, but I’ve got to ask. You understand, and will fulfill, the conditions of your release and parole, blah blah blah?”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t want to see you back here, right?”

“With respect, sir, the feeling is mutual.”