by Pat Young
Why hadn’t she called nine one one? That’s the question any prosecutor would ask. Maybe she wanted him to die? After all, she’d made no attempt to check for vital signs, no effort to summon assistance. She didn’t even scream. She had silently and cold-bloodedly left the scene of the crime.
The TV burbled quietly in the background. Lucie savaged her fingernails while she considered her options. She didn’t have many to choose from.
She could go back and face a murder rap.
She shook her head. Not going to happen.
She could take off and start again elsewhere.
Impossible. She had no ID, no money, no skills. And anyway, where would she go?
The intercom buzzed again. Lucie kicked her feet free of the dusty skirt that tethered her to her old life and lifted the receiver.
‘Hello? Ms Gillespie?’
12
‘Ms Gillespie?’
Lucie couldn’t answer.
‘Is this Ms Gillespie?’
Lucie didn’t know what to say.
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you. I called earlier. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’ The caller, his voice that of a young man, sounded nervous. ‘It’s just that I’d like to introduce myself to as many residents as possible and I wondered if I could come up and say hello.’
Lucie felt a sweat break out and knew a red rash would be racing up her neck. Who was this guy?
He seemed to read her mind.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m Tommy’s replacement.’
She scanned her brain for a match that would make sense of these words and, fortunately, came up with the answer before the pause became too long. Tommy, the doorman who’d let her in yesterday.
‘Oh yes,’ she murmured.
‘So, would that be okay?’
‘I guess,’ she said, because no seemed the wrong thing to say.
‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be right there.’
Lucie hung up the phone and stood there, stunned. She had just said she was Charlotte Gillespie. Not in so many words, maybe, but the implication was clear.
Sweat trickled between her breasts. She swiped it away and felt bare skin. She needed to get dressed. And fast. Before this guy turned up at the door.
She grabbed the first things she could find – the clothes she’d worn the night before. As she pulled the other woman’s sweatshirt over her head, Lucie imagined she was pulling on a new skin, turning into someone else.
The doorbell rang.
A tall, fair-haired young man stood in the hallway, looking somewhat uncomfortable in the liveried uniform of a doorman. He was holding his hand out, waiting for Lucie to take it.
‘Hello, Ms Gillespie. I’m Rob. For the foreseeable future, I’ll be your replacement doorman. Or concierge, if you prefer.’ His smile was self-deprecating and Lucie couldn’t help smiling back as she shook his hand.
‘What happened to Tommy?’
‘I heard he lost someone real close, his son, maybe? Worked in one of the towers. Don’t know any details, but I sure feel sorry for him.’
Lucie nodded, knew she ought to say something. ‘That’s so sad,’ was all she could manage.
Rob’s young face was sombre. ‘Well, ma’am. I’d like to assure you of my best service at all times. Anything I can do for you, please don’t ever hesitate to call me.’
‘Thank you, Rob,’ she said and started to close the door.
‘Ma’am?’ He touched the side of his face then pointed at hers. ‘Your face, ma’am. Are you okay?’
‘Thanks, I’m okay.’ She nodded. ‘Got caught in the dust cloud yesterday and fell over. But I’m fine, really. Lucky to be alive.’
‘Ain’t that the truth! Well, Ms Gillespie, you know where I am, if you should need anything.’
The door clicked shut. Lucie’s shoulders slumped. This was no good.
She had to get hold of her folks and get out of here. The sooner, the better.
13
‘I’m sorry,’ said a receptionist who sounded anything but. ‘We haven’t heard from Mrs McBride. In fact, we’ve re-allocated the room.’
‘You can’t do that. What if they turn up?’
‘I’m afraid it’s company policy when clients don’t check in within forty-eight hours.’
‘Have you any idea where else they might be?’ Lucie asked. What a stupid question.
‘You should speak to our central reservations team. They may be able help you.’
One more call was all it took for Lucie to learn that her parents hadn’t checked in at any hotel in the chain. But then, why would they go elsewhere when their reservation was for Times Square. Every visitor to New York wanted to see Times Square.
Maybe something had happened back home. Some emergency that meant they couldn’t come after all. More likely Dad changed his mind at the last minute. She should have expected as much. The only thing bothering him would be that he didn’t cancel the reservation in time to get his money back.
This not knowing would drive her daft. She could try the airport, ask if someone would check the passenger lists for her. It was a long shot, but worth a phone call.
The guy who answered the airport helpline almost choked when Lucie made her request. ‘Lady, are you for real?’
‘Sorry?’
‘After what happened yesterday?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’
‘No, ma’am, you sure didn’t. You have a nice day now.’ He hung up.
There was one more call she could make. Her parents’ home number, the only phone number in the world she could remember off by heart. As she’d expected, it was ‘unavailable’. Years ago she had asked what that meant. It meant Dad had changed their number and gone ex-directory.
14
Dylan woke with a jolt. A nurse was shaking his arm, repeating his name.
‘What’s happened? Is he dead?’
‘We’ve brought your friend out of the induced coma. Would you like to see him for a few minutes?’
‘Please,’ Dylan muttered, still half-sleep. ‘Is he okay?’ He rubbed at his three-day growth. His eyes felt as if he’d only just closed them but the clock on the waiting room wall said different.
He stood, unsteady on his feet, and the nurse touched his elbow. ‘Do you need a moment?’
He shook his head. ‘Just got up too fast. I’m good. What about Curtis? What shape’s he in?’
‘You’ll probably find him a bit woozy to begin with.’ The nurse turned away before he could ask any more, but woozy was fine. He could handle woozy.
She showed him into a room full of people in hospital garb. I hope Curtis has insurance to pay for this level of attention, he thought.
The lighting in the room was low and subdued and machines bleeped and flashed in the background. The medical staff were speaking to each other in hushed tones and as they moved aside Dylan caught his first sight of Curtis. Dylan thought he’d been brought to see the wrong patient. The man on the bed had more wires attached than a marionette. Bags of liquid hung above the bed and underneath another contained murky fluid that Dylan preferred not to look at. Curtis’s pale cheeks were clean-shaven and someone had flattened his hair into something resembling a style. His chest was bare and dotted with electrodes and seemed far too skinny and frail. Lying there with his eyes closed, Curtis looked like an old man, closer to sixty than thirty.
No one spoke and Dylan didn’t know what was expected of him. He was there in lieu of next of kin, Curtis being alone in the world now that Lucie seemed to have disappeared. He stepped up to the bedside and looked at one of the doctors for permission.
‘Go ahead and talk to him. He’ll hear you.’
Dylan leaned close to his friend. ‘Curtis,’ he whispered, self-conscious. ‘Hey, buddy. It’s Dylan.’
No response. Was Curtis brain damaged? Dylan looked to the nurse, wordless.
‘Mr Jardine,’ she said in a bossy, no-nonsense voice. ‘It’s time to wake up now. You have a v
isitor and the doctors would like to speak to you.’
Without opening his eyes, Curtis said in a rasp so hoarse it was hard to make out, ‘Lucie?’
‘Sorry, buddy,’ said Dylan. ‘Hate to disappoint you, but it’s only me.’ When there was no reaction, he said, ‘It’s Dylan, Curtis.’
Curtis squinted as if the light was too much for him. ‘Dylan?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Dylan. You know me. We’ve been best buddies since kindergarten. Remember Miss Rosie?’
No response.
‘Our first-grade teacher? She just loved you. You remember?’
‘Miss Rosie.’
‘Man, she must be about a hundred years old by now.’ Dylan laughed at his own joke and was delighted when Curtis laughed too, but the laugh was short-lived. It turned into a hacking cough and Curtis raised a pale hand to his throat.
A tall, middle-aged man in a white coat stepped forward and said, ‘I’m Doctor Fernandez, Neurology. Your throat may be a bit tender for a few days, Mr Jardine. We had to intubate you, I’m afraid, just to help you breathe for a while.’
‘What happened?’ Curtis looked at Dylan, appealing for an answer. ‘Dylan?’
‘I don’t know, buddy. I came round to your house and found you out cold. Thought you were sleeping off the night before. Then when you wouldn’t wake up, I got a bit freaked. Finally, you came to and said a few words. But you passed out again, and that’s when I called nine one one.’
‘When?’ Curtis asked.
‘You’ve been here three days, Mr Jardine,’ said the doctor.
‘Three?’
‘You were seriously injured.’
‘Feel fine now. When can I go?’
‘Not for a while, I’m afraid. You’ve suffered severe trauma to your spine.’
‘My spine?’ Curtis narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. ‘But I’m okay, yeah?’
‘Unfortunately we were unable to repair the damage.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You appear to have sustained severe trauma to the thoracic spine which has caused damage between T11 and T12.’
‘Speak plain English!’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you …’ The doctor paused.
‘Tell me what?’
‘It’s unlikely you’ll walk again.’
15
‘Doctor Fernandez, sir,’ said Dylan quietly. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ the doctor answered, nodding slowly. He sounded genuinely upset.
Curtis howled like an injured dog. The sound chilled Dylan to his core. Then, just as suddenly, Curtis went quiet. He turned his head away as if to shut them out.
The nurse laid her hand on Curtis’s arm but he flung it off and tried to move across the bed.
‘My legs won’t move. Somebody help me!’
Curtis had never asked for help in his life. He’d borrowed money, scammed beers, but always demanded whatever it was he wanted, as if he were taking his dues. The beseeching look in his eyes was new and just about the most heartbreaking sight Dylan had ever seen.
Curtis turned on the doctor. ‘You saying you’re just giving up on me? There has to be something you can do. For chrissake, man, guys with no legs run marathons these days. I’ve seen them.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Jardine. The spinal column is less protected and very vulnerable at the point where the trauma occurred. That has very serious implications. And, although it grieves me to have to say this, there’s nothing we can do to reverse the damage. I’m so very, very sorry.’
Dylan could listen to no more. Afraid Curtis would see his tears, he turned his back and stepped away from the bedside. As he left the room he glanced at the shrunken figure in the bed. Curtis did not appear to notice him leaving.
It took two cups of coffee and a chat with the kind nurse before Dylan could face going back in. When she offered to go with him for moral support, he accepted.
Curtis was staring at the ceiling.
‘Hi, pal.’ Dylan said. ‘You feeling any better?’
Curtis turned his head to look at him. Dylan tried to read his expression.
‘Help me out here, Dylan. I’m trying to remember what happened. There’s a block in my head, and it’s driving me crazy. I remember an argument with Lucie and then it all goes blank on me. The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor and you’re there, watching some goddamn disaster movie on our TV.’
Dylan and the nurse exchanged a look but neither spoke.
‘What?’ said Curtis.
‘There was no movie, Curtis. That was real. Some terrorist group ordered an attack on the World Trade Center that morning. The Twin Towers collapsed.’
‘Come on, man. You don’t expect me to believe that.’
Dylan said nothing.
‘You’re not kidding, are you?’
Dylan shook his head, his face solemn.
‘Is anyone hurt?’
Before Dylan could answer, Curtis said, ‘Sorry, dumb question.’
‘They reckon thousands of people could be dead.’
Curtis tried to sit up in bed, and when he couldn’t he cursed loudly and looked to the nurse for help. She shook her head sadly, her eyes full of compassion. ‘I’ll go get some help.’
‘Listen to me, Dylan. I could be wrong about this, but I’m pretty sure Lucie said she was going to World Trade Center. Something about getting a job. Is that right?’
‘I don’t know, Curtis. I don’t know anything about Lucie looking for a job.’
‘Is she okay?’
Dylan rubbed at his chin, and looked away.
‘Dylan, look at me. Is Lucie okay? Why isn’t she here?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Dylan nibbled on his lip.
‘Hell you talkin’ about, you’re not sure?’
Dylan found it hard to look his friend in the face. ‘I’m not sure where she is. I’m sorry, man. I haven’t seen her.’
‘You been round the house?’
‘Yeah, a couple times, but she wasn’t there.’
Curtis started to cry. Not a manly cry with silent sobs and heaving shoulders. Dylan thought it was the saddest sound. He looked at the nurse. Do something, he wanted to say.
She gave Curtis a quick check over and quietly left the room. Dylan didn’t know what to do. He sat on the side of the bed and patted Curtis on the shoulder. To his horror, his tough-guy friend pulled at him and hugged him close, like a child seeking comfort.
When the weeping died down, Dylan extricated himself and got to his feet.
‘I’m gonna go now, buddy, and leave you to get some rest. I could use a freshen up and a shave. Okay, pal? I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’
Curtis didn’t respond.
16
The television reports were full of distraught relatives desperately seeking the tiniest shred of evidence that their loved ones were alive. People had gathered with home-made placards, each showing the face of a lost relative, friend or lover. Lucie scanned the crowd and turned up the volume. Those interviewed told of phone calls from the towers made by loved ones who knew their death was inevitable and imminent. Some calls had been cut off mid-word while horrified relatives watched the drama unfold on screen like some far-fetched disaster movie. This was a comment made by many. For a few seconds they’d been watching a gruesome reality without knowing it was real.
Perhaps, among the throng, someone was holding a placard with Charlotte’s face on it?
Maybe someone was out there looking for Lucie Jardine?
Curtis? Not impossible. The more she thought about it, the more she managed to convince herself he was alive. She hadn’t hit him that hard. Maybe he was down there on the streets of Manhattan, looking for her. Worried she’d come to harm.
He’d been so proud of her in the early days. She was his protégée, his hope for glory. He saw her potential and was determined to take her right to the top of collegiate athletics, and beyond. The night he’d told her h
e loved her, he’d also told her she could win Olympic gold. Something he had never been able to achieve. Later they’d made love for the first time. Lucie knew it was crazy to get mixed up with her coach but it was too late. She’d have done anything to please him. She trained harder than anyone else on the squad, she never cheated on the prescribed diet even when she longed for some Häagen-Dazs. Her dedication paid off and her times got better and better. Curtis made Lucie feel like the queen of the world.
Then it all went sour.
She shouldn’t think about Curtis. He’d been the toxic air she’d breathed for too long, and now she was free. Or at least she could be, if she were brave enough.
A wee voice kept whispering in her head. She ignored it at first but the whispering continued, persistent as tinnitus and equally maddening.
This could be her way out. Her escape route from the prison of her life with Curtis. She’d fought back, and defiantly come to Manhattan yesterday morning. Hadn’t that been her first step towards freedom? Now Fate had given her a great big push in the right direction. Like jumping from the poorest to the richest street on a Monopoly board without passing Go.
Lucie began to see the merit in what the voice in her head was saying. Perhaps she could stick around here for a while. Lie low, just till the dust settled. She smiled grimly at the metaphor that had come so easily to mind. No dust-associated clichés would ever be the same for New York citizens. Especially those who’d lived and breathed it.
As she dumped her old clothes in the trash for the second time, Lucie felt she had turned a corner, but if she were going to become Charlotte Gillespie, even for a few weeks, she’d need to find out all she could about her.
Another look in Charlotte’s bag revealed nothing new, but she was struck by the fact that such an affluent businesswoman didn’t carry a cell phone.
This apartment must have information to share. All she had to do was look in the right places. She’d make a start soon. Right after she raided that fridge again.
