by R.J. Ellory
Then a woman was asking Annie what she wanted, what she wanted to drink, and Annie was caught for words, for thoughts perhaps, and she hesitated.
A man pushed past her, his elbow jamming into her side and causing her some degree of pain.
She turned suddenly. ‘Hey!’ she said.
‘You gonna make up your mind or what?’ the man snapped.
‘Patience … have patience,’ Annie replied.
‘Aah, get a life why don’tcha?’ the man sneered.
Suddenly David was beside her, there between herself and the man.
‘You know this woman?’ David was asking him.
The man frowned, decided not to answer, and at the same time didn’t know where to look.
‘Hey!’ David said. ‘Do you know this woman?’
Annie felt immediately uncomfortable; confrontations did not suit her, especially those connected to herself.
The man shook his head.
‘Well, let me tell you something –’ David started.
‘What the fuck is this?’ the man interjected.
Annie wanted to shrink back into the crowd and slip silently into the street. She was tense, scared even, and she wanted to pull David’s arm, to tell him Never mind, it doesn’t matter, but there was something in his face, something about the way he was standing that told her not to interrupt. That something was passion, the passion with which he’d first spoken to her in his apartment.
David seemed to tower over the man even though they were of the same height. Annie could feel people watching them.
‘What is it? I’ll tell you what the fuck it is,’ David continued, his voice getting louder. ‘You tell her to get a life … get a life? What the fuck d’you know? Tell me what the fuck you know?’
David seemed to round on the guy, seemed to corner him mentally, and the guy just stood there wishing to hell he hadn’t said a word.
‘You come here thinking that because she gets in your way then she owes you something … that you gotta say something, you gotta be the big man. And now you feel bad because I have something to say about it, and maybe you feel a little guilty, a little embarrassed, right?’
The man stood expressionless, lost for words.
‘You tell me that, and then you tell me that your life means something more than anyone else’s.’
The man stood immobile, rooted to the spot.
David leaned close to him, whispered right to his face. ‘Sorry to the lady?’
The man glanced at Annie, a weak smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Sorry, he mouthed.
Annie smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, at the same time feeling sympathy as well as a strange sense of satisfaction. She couldn’t remember anyone ever coming to her defence in such a forceful and challenging manner.
David gripped the man’s shoulder. ‘Now you,’ he whispered, his voice cold and direct. ‘You go get a life.’
The man lowered his head and backed away. The crowd that had gathered dispersed in silence, some watching the man, some watching David.
Annie looked up. A woman, leaning against the bar was watching David, her face intent; Annie sensed the woman’s attraction, her interest in David.
Mine, Annie heard herself think. He’s mine. And then: What is this? Jealousy? She surprised herself with the intensity of this emotion, an emotion that was new, another sensation, another viewpoint.
She shrugged it off, gripped David’s arm, and then they were walking through the crowd, walking towards the door, out into the street, the cool air, the space, the sound of life, unaffected by what had happened here.
It was only as they reached the junction that she realized David was laughing to himself.
She nudged him with her elbow. He turned, still laughing, and this became contagious, virulently contagious, and she was laughing with him … these two people, these strange people, standing there at the junction while the cars waited for them to cross.
*
Back at the hotel, after they’d eaten, after they’d once again made love and there was nothing but silence, she’d asked him why he’d reacted the way he had in the bar.
‘Because people are sometimes so blind and self-centered,’ he said. ‘Sometimes you look at someone and there is just nothing in their eyes … like they’re hollow, you know? Sometimes you see someone like that and you want to do something to wake them up.’
Like what you did to me in your apartment? Annie wanted to ask, but she didn’t.
And then Is there something else going on here David? Is there something else you’re not telling me about? Were you really mad at that guy, or is there something else you’re fighting?
But she didn’t say a word.
She just pulled herself against him and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be another day.
TWENTY-FOUR
He saw her home. Drove all the way from the airport with her, had the cab wait while he walked her up to her apartment, and then he kissed her, held her for a while, and he left. He had work to do he said, reports to prepare for the clients he’d seen in Boston. He needed a day or so, that was all, but unless he was alone he would never get it done. And besides, he’d added, Annie should perhaps go back to the store or her regulars might give up on her.
From the front window overlooking the street Annie watched the cab pull away, and then she turned and walked through her apartment as if this was some place new. Some place she’d never been before. She touched her things – her books, the ornaments lined up like soldiers on the chest of drawers, and from the front she stepped into the bathroom, opened the cabinet above the sink and looked at the jars of anti-ageing cream, moisturiser, herbal shampoo, the Have A Hollywood Smile toothpaste, other such things that really seemed to mean nothing at all the way she felt now. And how did she feel now? A little disturbed perhaps, a little ill-at-ease after the scene in the bar the night before? No, that wasn’t it. David had not mentioned it, not another word about why he had turned on the man the way he did. Perhaps he didn’t feel there was any need to justify or rationalize his behavior. And Annie, wanting to say something, had restrained herself. She hadn’t wanted to grant it any more importance than it deserved. And was it important? Perhaps, in a way, it was. It had meant something to her, that someone had stepped forward to defend her, to place her well-being above their own. The man could so easily have become violent, abusive, could have justifiably attacked David for what he said. But he had not. He had backed down. And for that and that alone Annie had been immeasurably relieved. Weeks ago, days even, such a scene would have horrified her. She would have walked from the place terrified, trembling, and it would have been hours before she would have returned to battery. But no, she had walked half a block and laughed with David about the situation.
Something had changed. So many things had changed. And they had all come from within.
Annie smiled to herself and walked into the kitchen. Looking to her right, she opened the cupboard door above the counter and reached for the tea. Her hand went left a few inches, back again. She looked up, frowned. The tea wasn’t there. She moved aside a box of packet soups, and there – beside them and to the rear – was the container in which she stored tea-leaves. She reached it down, set it on the counter. She shook her head.
A place for everything, and everything in its place, her mother would say. That was one particular characteristic she had inherited from Madeline. Annie O’Neill was neat and predictable beyond reproach. She always knew where everything was, and everything went right back there when she was done.
She shrugged. The male influence, she thought, and switched on the kettle.
Sitting at the table in the front she looked through the pages that Forrester had brought. She was ready to know more, and once again a vague thought started to nag at the edges of her mind. It was Thursday, Forrester wouldn’t come again until Monday: disappointment and frustration seemed to lie ahead in the gap between.
And the
n she remembered.
Sullivan.
Her father.
She got up, left her apartment, and knocked on Sullivan’s door. Nothing.
She glanced at her watch, it was a little after ten, and she tried to remember if Sullivan had anything arranged for Thursday mornings.
She returned to her front room, sat once again at the table, and began to leaf through the manuscript. It all came back – Jozef Kolzac and Elena Kruszwica, the horrors of Dachau and Wilhelm Kiel; Sergeant Daniel Rosen carrying this ghost of a child back through liberated Europe and onto a boat bound for New York; Rebecca McCready accepting the child into her home, the child becoming a teenager, leaving after Rosen’s death and disappearing into New York. From there the rest unfolded like a Martin Scorsese movie: the gambling and the drinking, the killings and robberies, all of it filling her mind with the images and sounds and colors of an age past. She thought of Johnnie Redbird holed up in Rikers Island for Olson’s murder, and how Harry Rose had left him there, left him to pay the penalty for something they both had done.
And when she turned the last page she really wanted to know, really wanted to find out what had happened seven years later.
Annie fetched the telephone book, searched until she found listings for Forrester … A, B, G, K, O, P … and then dozens of R. Forresters scrolling down the page like a taunt. There was no way she would find him. Not this way. Such an idea was hopeless.
She turned and looked at her door. Where the hell was Sullivan?
As if in answer to her thoughts she heard the street door open and close.
She got up, hurried out onto the landing and called down.
‘Jack?’
From the bottom she heard his voice. ‘Jesus Mary Mother of God you gave me a fright Annie O’Neill … what the hell are you doing?’
Sullivan came around the last turn on the stairwell and stopped, looked up at her, stood there catching his breath like he’d been hurrying.
‘When did you get back?’ he asked.
‘This morning, just a little while ago.’
‘And what is it that’s so important you’re hollerin’ at me from the top of the stairs?’ Sullivan started walking towards her. He was already breathless, his face strained and tired. He looked far the worse for wear than she’d ever seen him. His body was fighting, she knew, and for a split second she regretted the promise he’d made. The regret vanished as she realized what he was doing. He was no longer drinking.
Have to be cruel to be kind, her mother would have said.
‘I wanted to know if you’d found anything out,’ Annie said, and in her voice she could hear the sense of anticipation and expectancy.
Sullivan shook his head. He walked to his apartment door, produced his key and unlocked it. He was inside, Annie following him, before he answered.
‘Your father,’ he started, ‘as far as I can tell –’
‘What?’ Annie prompted. ‘As far as you can tell what?’
Sullivan shook his head and frowned. ‘Your father … well hell, Annie, it seems that your father has no records.’
She laughed, a short nervous laugh. ‘What?’
Sullivan crossed the room and sat down. ‘I’ve gone through every engineering trade association and organization record I could find. I’ve been on the internet. I went down to the library yesterday and scoured most of their engineering and architectural sections. References, indexes, everything I could think of. I didn’t find a thing, so I called up some friends and had them go through newspaper microfiche records for obituaries, and then when that proved fruitless I went to the Department of Public Works, and when I couldn’t find anyone named Frank O’Neill who even came close to the dates you gave me I went to a bar on 114th and had a club soda and a bowl of peanuts.’
‘A club soda?’ Annie asked.
Sullivan nodded. ‘A club soda, Annie O’Neill. Jack Ulysses Sullivan sat in a bar on 114th drinking a club soda, as God is my witness.’
Annie sat down beside Sullivan. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand how someone can’t exist.’
Sullivan smiled, took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course someone can’t not exist Annie. Your father existed as much as you and me … but for whatever reason I haven’t found any records. It really isn’t that big a deal –’
‘Perhaps not to you Jack, but it is to me.’
‘Okay, okay Annie … perhaps that didn’t come out the way I meant it. People can live their whole lives and never really –’
‘Amount to anything?’ she interjected.
‘You’re putting words in my mouth, Annie,’ Sullivan said. ‘All I’m saying is that I’m sure your father did whatever he did, and I bet he was fucking good at it … but he never really figured from a social record point of view.’
Annie was silent for a time.
‘I mean, apart from a few newspaper photos no-one will ever know I existed, except the people that knew me,’ Sullivan added.
‘I don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘I can’t say that I’m not disappointed … I’d hoped that you’d find out something about him.’
‘Tell me,’ Sullivan said. ‘Tell me why it’s become so important all of a sudden.’
Annie shook her head. She looked away for a while, away into the middle of the room. ‘I can’t say,’ she eventually said. Her voice was quiet, a whisper almost. ‘I was thinking about it a while back, a few days ago. I think this thing with Forrester started it up, the fact that there was someone else apart from my mother who knew him. It made me look at the fact that he had a life too, he had friends, people who knew his name, perhaps someplace he’d go and have a drink when he felt down.’ Annie paused, was once again silent for a few seconds. ‘He was my father, a real honest-to-God human being, and there’s absolutely nothing left of him but this wristwatch and a book he left me.’
‘And the store,’ Sullivan said. ‘You have the store.’
‘Yes, I have the store,’ Annie replied.
‘And what do you think it would give you … if you found out?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Christ only knows Jack. A sense of belonging I s’pose, a feeling that I came from somewhere.’
‘Seems to me it’s an awful lot more important to know where you’re going than where you came from.’
‘Except if where you came from could determine where you’re headed,’ Annie said.
‘And where d’you think you’re headed?’
Annie smiled. ‘I want to go on feeling what I’ve felt with David, like there’s someone to come home to, someone to go see –’
‘And someone with whom you can exercise your tremendous vocal capacity,’ Sullivan added with a wry smile.
‘Yes Jack … that too.’
‘So just live life Annie O’Neill … ’cause the fact of the matter is that life will go on whether you live with it or not. And I’ll tell you one thing for free. You sure as hell seem happier these past few days than I’ve ever known you.’
‘I am,’ Annie said. ‘I am happier Jack.’
‘So forget about your father. I know it’s easy for me to say that, but whoever he was, whatever he did, those things don’t hold anywhere near as much importance as what you’re doing now.’
Sullivan squeezed her hand again.
‘Seems to me the one thing that fathers always want, mothers too for that matter, is for their kids to be happy. Comes down to it they always come to terms with decisions their kids make as long as they’re happy, right?’
Annie nodded. ‘I s’pose.’
‘So make this thing with David work, and spend whatever time you want with Forrester; hear what he has to say but don’t give it any more importance than it deserves. Stories are really nothing more than stories, okay?’
Annie leaned forward and hugged Sullivan. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘Okay Jack.’
She held him for a moment more and then released him.
‘You got plans tonight?’ Annie asked.
&
nbsp; Sullivan shook his head. ‘Figured I’d eat half a box of Excedrin and try and sleep off the DTs.’
‘Sounds like fun. Why not come over and have some dinner with me.’
‘Sure I will,’ Sullivan said. ‘That would be good.’
‘We’ll eat and watch a video or something okay?’
‘Good enough for me,’ he said, and smiled.
Annie left his apartment and crossed the landing.
That evening, while preparing food before Sullivan came over, she looked for a particular CD in the rack system. She found it no problem, but it was out of its alphabetical sequence.
She recalled David looking through the CDs when he’d first come by. That must have been it. Have to educate the man, she thought, and considered it no further. But then, moments later, having thought of David, she wanted to call him, wanted to hear his voice, and realized that she still had no number for him, no way to reach him if she wanted, or needed, to.
And then Sullivan came across and they ate, and after that they sat beside one another on the couch and watched The Philadelphia Story, and Annie fell in love with Cary Grant all over again.
Sullivan didn’t stay long once the movie was over, and Annie – more tired than she believed possible – went to bed, tugged the quilt over her, and fell asleep.
She did not dream.
Her mind was empty.
As empty as the memory of her father.
TWENTY-FIVE
It was the envelope that did it. The envelope which the courier had brought with the last section of the manuscript. It was there on the counter at the store on Friday morning when she let herself in, when she walked into somewhere that seemed alien to her, altogether different.
She picked it up, turned it over, and there on the back was stamped SPEEDEE COURIERS and a telephone number.
She dialed the number, was greeted by Al who asked her politely if this was to order a delivery or a collection.
Neither, she told Al. An inquiry.
Shoot, Al said.
She explained who she was, gave her address, and told him that she’d received a package on the previous Monday night couriered by one of their staff.
