Chapter Thirty-Eight
Andy sat on a rock-hard bed and stared at the paint that was flaking on the walls of his cell. It was pale yellow in colour and reminded him of the studios at Boomerville. But unlike the fresh new shade that enhanced the walls, this paint was cracked and dingy and hadn’t been replenished in years.
He longed for a cigar and a glass of whisky, but the luxuries of life had been left on the other side of the prison door when it closed, firmly behind him. Now he was lucky if he could manage a roll-up and a tin mug of builder’s tea.
His money had been confiscated and his accounts suspended. He’d refused to co-operate with the fraud squad but couldn’t prevent his computer being forensically examined and there was every chance that the experts would be able to trace some of his web of deceit.
Several other skeletons had come out of his closet and a string of women, buoyed up on learning of his arrest, came forward to make their complaints and now a further list of charges had been filed. The way things were going he was looking at the business end of a very long stretch.
Andy lay back on his granite-like mattress and contemplated his future.
Would life have been so bad if he’d gone straight?
He’d a sharp brain and quick wit and combined with good looks, he’d mingled in influential circles.
But his desire to deceive and connive had been great and his greed was as big as his ego.
He wondered what life would have been like had he spun Kate a hardship tale and settled down with her in suburbia?
But it wouldn’t have been enough for a man who’d always thought on his feet and kept them moving when sense and practicality came knocking on his door.
Now he would never know.
The chances of him being in a position to scam his way out of his current situation were non-existent and it was with the heaviest of hearts that he grabbed his paper-thin pillow and turned angrily on his side.
He should have died when the waters swirled over him.
Andy closed his eyes and shuddered as he remembered jumping from the first-floor window.
He’d been convinced that the rescue craft was beneath him.
It was a big boat with plenty of room and many pairs of willing hands reached out to safely assist his fall.
If only he’d managed to land into it and get to an emergency shelter.
He could have slipped away before the shit hit the fan and the police caught up with him.
With his numerous passports and the money that he still had, he could have slipped out of the country and started again.
But inexplicably, as though a mystical magnetic force was at work, he’d flown into orbit and bypassed the boat and his flight sent him cascading helplessly into the swirling black waters. As the current started to drag him away, he’d felt a wooden paddle poke his body and he’d held on tight.
He couldn’t remember what had happened after that but the next time he regained consciousness, he was lying in a tepee with his hands and feet bound and the Shaman standing over him.
‘He’s all yours, Harry,’ someone had said and Andy was conscious of a woman close by. He’d also made out the shape of a uniformed policeman who leaned in, poked him with a truncheon and read him his rights. The Shaman held the flap on the tepee and the policeman and woman moved away.
Andy was vaguely aware of their conversation as they were ushered outside.
‘Good to see you again,’ the policeman said, ‘and if you fancy an hour or two with my truncheon next week, give me a bell.’
Andy had slipped into oblivion and the next time he woke, he was incarcerated.
Now, as he lay confined to the four walls of his own personal hell, he wondered what he would do to count the days off while he served his sentence.
A book from the prison library lay on the table beside his bed and he glanced at the words on the spine. It was a tattered old copy of a James Bond novel and he read the fading title.
Tomorrow Never Dies.
But for Andy Mack, tomorrow was already dead.