Predator. Wilbur Smith

table for a three-course meal. That’s for sure.’

      ‘How about work?’

      ‘Well, I try to go into the office most days, and my staff all know I’m always on call, my clients too.’

      Wilkinson laid down his pen, leaned back in his chair with his arms folded and looked his old friend straight in the eye. ‘So you’re trying to look after Betty, day and night, and the phone keeps ringing with people asking for legal advice. Tell me, do you think you’re giving your clients the best counsel they could get for their money? Because I know for sure I couldn’t treat my patients properly if I were going through the same things as you are now.’

      Bunter’s shoulders sagged a little. ‘It’s hard, I’ll give you that. And yeah, there are times I put the phone down and think, Shoot! I just forgot something, or I realize I got a point of law wrong. And it’s not because I don’t know the right answer, I’m just so darn tired.’

      ‘Right, so now I’m going to give you a prescription, and you’re not going to like it.’

      ‘Do I have to take it?’

      ‘If you’ve got any sense left in you at all, buddy, yeah, you do.’

      ‘OK then, doc, tell it to me straight,’ Bunter said, making Wilkinson smile with his attempt at portraying a character in an old cowboy movie.

      ‘Right, first thing I’m telling you is that you have to get Betty the best round-the-clock care that you and your insurance plan can afford.’

      ‘I’ll think about it.’

      ‘Ron …’ Wilkinson insisted.

      ‘OK, OK, I’ll do it. Anything else?’

      ‘Yes. I want you to cut right back on your work. You’ve got good people at your firm, right?’

      ‘The best.’

      ‘Then they can take over your clients. And Brad can run the business day-to-day. If you want to call yourself by some fancy title that means you’re still the top dog, even though you don’t bark any more, that’s fine by me. But I don’t want you setting foot in the office more than once a week, preferably once a month. Let Brad do all the heavy lifting.’

      ‘I’m just not sure he’s ready for it.’

      ‘Bet that’s what your old man said about you, too, but you showed him.’

      ‘And there’s …’ Bunter grimaced. ‘Well, I hate to say this about my own son, but there are character issues. You heard Brad today. He can be abrasive sometimes, confrontational.’

      ‘So are many of the world’s greatest litigators.’

      ‘But it’s not the style I like to encourage at Bunter and Theobald. The best deals, the ones that last and don’t end in bitterness and acrimony, are the ones where both sides feel like they did OK. That means we get what our client wants, or at least what he needs, while still respecting the other side and acknowledging the merits of their position, not beating them into the ground.’

      ‘Well, Ronnie, I’m not going to tell you how to run your firm, but I didn’t hear a son who was abrasive or confrontational today. I heard a son who’s very aware of how bad things have gotten, who’s worried, just like I am, about the both of you, and who wants to get the situation, if not fixed – because there is no fix for Alzheimer’s – then at least made as tolerable as it can possibly be.’

      Bunter frowned anxiously. ‘You really think I need to get help, leave work, huh?’

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      ‘So then what am I going to do?’

      ‘Take it easy. Spend quality time with Betty while you still can. Listen, Ronnie, it won’t be long – less than a year, maybe less than six months – before Betty’s reached the point where she doesn’t recognize you, can’t hold any kind of a conversation, not even a rambling one, and there’s no trace left of the woman you fell in love with.’

      Bunter’s face crumpled: ‘Don’t … that’s awful …’

      ‘But it’s true. So make the best of the time you have. Look after yourself so you can still look after her. Promise me you’ll think about that, at least.’

      ‘Yeah, OK, I’ll promise you that.’

      ‘You’re a good man, Ron, one of the very best. Betty’s lucky to have you.’

      ‘Not half as lucky as I’ve been to have her. And now I’m losing her …’

      ‘I know …’ Dr Wilkinson said. ‘I know.’

      For decades the state of Texas has carried out its executions in the Texas Death House at the Walls Unit, Huntsville. Right up to 1998, that’s where Death Row was located, too. But then condemned men, Johnny Congo included, started finding ways to escape and the Texas Department of Criminal Justice determined that a more secure unit was required. Death Row was moved across to the Polunsky Unit in West Livingston, a supermax, ultra-high-security facility. No one escaped from there. The nigh-on 300 prisoners were held in solitary confinement and ate in their cells from a plate shoved through a ‘bean slot’ in the door. They exercised alone in a caged recreation area. The only physical contact they received was the strip searches they underwent whenever they left their cells. The regime was enough to drive a man crazy and there were some who chose to waive appeal opportunities and face execution early, just to escape from it.

      Johnny Congo’s execution process began at three in the afternoon of 15 November. He was not offered the choice of a condemned man’s final meal, nor would he be at Huntsville: that luxury had long since been abandoned. There was just a hammering on his cell door and a warder shouting, ‘Time to go, Johnny! Hands through the bean slot.’

      Every aspect of life at the Polunsky Unit was calculated to degrade and dehumanize the inmates. The procedure for leaving a cell was no exception. Johnny walked to the door. He got down on his knees. Then he shuffled around so that he had his back to the door and stretched his arms backwards till his hands pushed through the bean slot and emerged into the corridor outside. A pair of handcuffs was slapped around his wrists; then he pulled his arms back through the slot and got to his feet.

      ‘Step away from the door!’ the voice commanded.

      Obediently, Johnny walked back into the middle of the room with his hands now cuffed behind his back. Then he turned around again to face the door as it opened.

      Two warders came into the sixty-square-foot cell. One of them was white and almost as big as Johnny, with crew-cut ginger hair and sunburned skin on his face and forearms. He was carrying a Mossburger shotgun and there was a tense, jumpy look on his face that suggested he was just looking for a chance to use it.

      Johnny smiled at him. ‘What’s the point of pointing a gun at me today, ya dumb cracker? I’m already a dead man walking. Blow me away now, you’ll be doing me a favour.’

      Johnny turned his face towards the second warden, a portly, middle-aged African-American, his hair dusted with silver. ‘Afternoon, Uncle,’ he said.

      ‘Good afternoon to you, too, Johnny,’ Uncle said. ‘This is a hard time for you, I know that. But the calmer we can make it, the easier it will go, y’hear?’

      ‘Yeah, I hear you.’

      ‘OK then, what I’m going to do is prepare you for transit to Huntsville. So first I want you to stand with your feet about eighteen inches apart. You were in the service, right?’

      ‘Damn right, was a gunny sergeant in the Corps.’

      ‘A Marine, huh? Well, then I guess you know how to stand at ease.’

      Johnny obediently snapped into the position.

      ‘Thanks, man,’ Uncle said. ‘Now just stand still a minute while I fix these around your ankles.’

      Johnny