by Pat Young
As he climbed the two steps onto the dais and turned to help Diane step up, he thought he’d never had to do anything so difficult in his life. Was this some sort of karma at work? Was this how he’d be made to pay for his actions? God, he wished it was over and he could get out of here.
Gradually the room stilled as people took a seat or turned to face the stage to give him their full attention. Apart from the crying baby, the huge room fell silent, waiting for him to speak.
Checking the mike was on he tried to say hello and found his voice letting him down for the first time in a long career of public speaking. He cleared his throat and tried again.
‘Hello, everyone, and welcome. Thank you so very much for coming along this afternoon. I hope you’ve been able to help yourself to some refreshments and that you’ve found our information packs helpful.’
There was a muted rustle of agreement from his audience but his overwhelming impression was that they were impatient. Keen for him to get on and say whatever it was he had to tell them.
He gave another nervous cough, then began. ‘As many of you already know, the headquarters of my company, Langdon Associates, was located in office suites on floors ninety-five through ninety-eight of the North Tower. You may also know that since 9/11 we have been trying to ascertain exactly how many of our employees were in the building that morning. We know that many colleagues went to vote in the mayoral primary on the way to work and thus were delayed. Many others took the kids to their first day of school that morning and were also delayed. Added to that, at eight forty-six, when the first plane struck, we would not have expected our full workforce to be at their desks.’
‘Please get to the point,’ someone shouted from the back of the room, drowning out a woman who had shrieked when he’d mentioned the plane. She wailed pitifully in the background, while he filled his lungs with air, having learned somewhere that oxygen helped with nerves.
‘The point I’m trying to make,’ he said, ‘is that we are fortunate so many of our colleagues were not at work when this tragedy occurred. However, that fact has been making it extremely difficult for us to give the authorities accurate figures of how many of the Langdon staff are still missing.’
He dragged his hand across his mouth, felt sweat on his upper lip. He’d spent so long planning what he should say and still he was getting it wrong. He stole a look at Diane, who managed, without altering her expression one bit, to give him the strength to carry on.
‘That’s why it is so vital that everyone fill in a missing person’s form before they leave today.’ He indicated the tables at the back of the room and there was a scraping of chairs as people turned to look. ‘Please help yourself to the pens provided and complete your form in as much detail as you can. If, that is, you haven’t already done so.’ Some members of the audience rose and went to fetch the forms, as if they were worried the supply might run out if they didn’t grab one right away.
Once the room had settled again, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. This was the part he had been dreading most of all.
‘I’m going to be completely honest with you now. And I promise to tell you all I know.’
An expectant hush fell on the room. He felt as if he were about to announce the winner of a sweepstake instead of preparing to deliver the worst news imaginable.
‘It’s just been confirmed that the bodies of two of our employees have been found and identified by their dental records. Two people who were on our floors. I have to tell you that the search and rescue services, NYPD and the Fire Department are no longer looking for survivors. I’ve been advised to make this as clear to you as I can. They are now in the process of finding your families. That’s all they can do for us now. I am so sorry.’
Several people slumped over their table, or clung to their neighbours, the picture of despair.
A young woman stood up and screamed at him. ‘Don’t you dare take away our hope. Don’t you dare!’
Another distraught voice shouted, ‘You can’t tell us there are no survivors. Nobody knows that.’
Other voices joined in. ‘Yeah, who says so?’ ‘They don’t know shit!’ ‘I don’t believe that.’ ‘Not true!’
He felt the atmosphere in the room change and wished he’d taken the advice of the hotel manager to have some security standing by. He tapped the microphone, trying to get some order.
‘We’re all on the same side here, people,’ he said, somewhat plaintively. Was that a touch of desperation he could hear in his voice? Jeez, this was godawful.
‘How can we be on the same side? Who have you lost?’ This from the sweet mom in the bandana.
Before he could decide what, if anything, he ought to say, a big burly guy close to the front stood up and demanded, ‘Why weren’t you in the office that morning? You’re supposed to be the boss.’
This was starting to get ugly. He looked towards the doors, measuring how far he had to run and at the same time hoping the manager might have sent some guys from security after all.
When he felt a gentle push he looked down and saw Diane, elbowing him to the side, just a little, managing to make it look like a planned move rather than a rescue. She looked expectantly at the crowd and, to his astonishment, people stopped shouting and stared at her, as if wondering what was coming next.
Her voice smooth as melting honey, she spoke quietly into the microphone. Like calming oil on troubled waters, her soft southern accent seemed to soothe and within moments everyone in the room was listening.
‘My husband was on his way to work early on that awful morning, despite the fact he was suffering from a terrible migraine headache. When the pain made it dangerous for him to drive, he turned around and went back home. Please don’t be mad at him. He’s already mad enough for everyone. Mad at the terrorists who did this to us.’ She gestured around the room, implying that they were all one big family. ‘Mad at those towers for tumbling like they did.’ She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what they’d all seen with their own eyes. Then, after a perfectly timed pause that would be the envy of any politician alive, she said in a low, confidential tone, ‘Can I tell you something?’ As if she were sharing the most private secret, she said, ‘Most of all, he’s mad at himself for turning back that morning. He wishes, each and every day, that he’d been in there with his folks, in that tower.’ On the last word, her voice broke and it seemed to him that somehow this amazing woman had made everyone in the room feel sorry for him. She wiped her eyes with a scrap of lace and looked at him, smiling sadly.
It was time for him to step up to the plate. He had to be the one to do this. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Please be assured that we, Langdon Associates, will do everything in our power to help you in any way we can. We have counsellors here today that you can speak to if you wish. We have set up a relief fund with financial assistance, available right now, for those of you who may already be in need of support at this time. And I promise you one more thing. This firm will work tirelessly to rebuild and establish a new global headquarters in Manhattan. No terrorist is going to destroy what your families worked so hard to create. You have my word on that.’
To his surprise, he felt tears on his cheeks, real tears. Perhaps it was those that made the people nearest the stage start to applaud. He would never know, but the mood had swung again and, this time, he felt like the good guy.
At table number ninety-eight a man stood and shouted, ‘What the hell are we doing here, eating sandwiches and drinking fancy French water? We should be out there, looking for our loved ones. Come on!’
The man stormed from the room and like revolutionaries rushing to the barricades, a small army of people followed.
He turned to Diane and exhaled the longest breath of his life, his shoulders drooping as his lungs emptied. She hugged him and whispered, ‘Well done, honey. You’re a saint.’
If only she knew.
38
The sun was up when Lucie woke from the first full night’s
sleep she’d had in months, maybe years. Since she’d moved into Charlotte’s apartment, her sleep, if she slept at all, had been snatches between random sounds in the building. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion that had made her sleep through till morning. More likely it was the fact that she could see a guaranteed escape route. Not just a light at the end of the tunnel, but a whole new future. In a familiar landscape.
She’d thought of it just before she fell asleep and her dreams had been of Scotland, as if her subconscious mind wanted to convince her it would work. She knew she was dreaming because the sky was azure and the sun was shining as her private jet flew over the Firth of Clyde. Everyone she’d ever known was gathered at the foot of the aircraft steps, waiting to welcome her home. She appeared at the door of the aircraft, dressed like a visiting princess, and the hordes went mad with excitement. She swept elegantly to the foot of the steps where she took off her red-soled shoes so she could kneel to kiss the ground. The crowds cheered and paparazzi shouted her name as they jostled and fought for the best shot. The Provost stepped forward, in velvet, mink and chain, to shake her hand and introduce her to the guests of honour.
Granny came first, with a bouquet of rhubarb and a two-pound bag of sugar. ‘I couldn’t think whit else tae bring ye,’ she whispered, as Lucie kissed her rouged cheek. Then Dad, smiling through the tears as he silently gathered her into his arms. Over his shoulder Lucie scanned the line. Looking for someone. Not sure who. Curtis was there, handsome as ever, joking with school friends, running friends, people from her past. Some faces were familiar, others less so. She started to push through the crowd, becoming frantic in her search. She saw Dylan. Standing taller than the others, and a little apart. He smiled and said, ‘Stop. Let me help you.’ But Lucie ignored him and pushed past. She had to keep looking. And looking. Till she woke.
Lucie had never been kicked in the stomach, but she imagined it felt like this. An unexpected, low blow that knocks all the breath out of you.
Mum. Gone. This time, for ever.
It was like being told all over again. She replayed in her mind the sad way Doctor Meyer had looked at her. The barely perceptible nod that confirmed Lucie’s fear. She remembered wanting to scream ‘That’s not fair.’ She’d been given a wonderful gift and had it been snatched away hours later. No wonder she felt wronged.
The hospital staff would be expecting her today. Expecting a daughter to want her mother’s possessions. Anticipating a close relative would be keen to sort out the paperwork, pay the bills, do the decent thing. Imagining Lucie had dumped the flowers and run off because she was too distraught to stay. Believing she’d be back to talk about insurance.
Granny had a saying, ‘Ye make yer bed, ye lie in it.’ If Lucie had been prepared to put up with her lot and accept the consequences of the choices she’d made, things might have been better. She’d still be miserable, but at least her mum would be alive. Living the new, independent life she’d finally made for herself. Pity she’d left it too late. And yet, didn’t she tell the doctor she’d die happy because she’d been reunited with Lucie?
Last night Lucie had been sure she’d found the solution. Nothing had changed since then. In her dream, Dad had been smiling. He’d welcomed her with open arms, just like Mum said he would. Lucie knew it was just a dream, but in the afterglow she could feel her dad’s arms around her. She’d believed herself forgiven, loved, safe and secure. All feelings that had disappeared from her relationship with Curtis.
Maybe accepting the bed you’d made was enough for the stoics of Granny’s generation, but it hadn’t been good enough for Mum, and it certainly wouldn’t do for Lucie. This was a new millennium, after all. Women didn’t accept their lot anymore. They didn’t lie in the bed they’d made and feel sorry for themselves. They leapt out and took on the world.
Lucie was thinking like a self-help book. And about time too. She threw back the covers and opened the curtains to a new dawn.
Her mind was made up. She was heading home to Scotland. Putting all this chaos behind her. Miss Gillespie would pay for the flights. And Dad’s arms would be open wide to welcome her back.
39
‘How’s the patient today?’ Dylan asked.
All four women at the nurses’ station smiled at him. The senior nurse, a straight-talking black woman old enough to be his mother, said, ‘He’s grumpy as a bear with its ass on fire.’ Dylan loved Nurse Abigail. She’d had the measure of Curtis from day one and knew exactly how to handle him.
Everyone hooted, apart from the youngest nurse, a pretty little thing about Dylan’s own age. ‘He is not grumpy!’ she said indignantly.
‘Is too,’ chorused the others.
‘Don’t you be taken in by those dark, brooding good looks of his, missy,’ said Abigail with a complicit smile at Dylan.
The young nurse blushed to the roots of her baby blonde hair. Dylan hoped Curtis wasn’t making a move on the nurses now. It would be a sign that he was feeling better and that was good, but the last thing Curtis needed was another woman to abuse.
Dylan thought it best to make light of the situation. He slapped his thigh, cowboy style. ‘Hell, ladies,’ he said with a salacious grin and a phoney accent, ‘good looks ain’t everythin!’
They were still laughing when Curtis appeared at the door of his room. ‘You havin’ a good time there, Dylan?’ he shouted.
‘Did warn you,’ said Abigail under her breath.
‘I heard that,’ Curtis shouted again, less aggressively.
Dylan raised an eyebrow at the nurses and took a deep breath. ‘Wish me luck,’ he muttered.
‘Gonna need it,’ said Abigail.
‘Heard that too,’ Curtis called. He turned his chair and wheeled off down the corridor towards the day room where patients were encouraged to sit and engage with others or in therapeutic activities. Curtis had refused to participate.
If the nursing staff were to be believed, Curtis preferred to sit alone all day and brood. It meant he was usually ready with the vitriol the moment Dylan arrived.
‘You’re a lucky bastard, strutting about on those legs of yours while I’m going crazy in here.’
Looked like today would be no different.
‘Can you imagine how long an hour takes to pass when you’re sitting here watching the clock?’
There was an impossibly fine line between sympathy and pity. Curtis sought one but could not tolerate the other. Dylan decided to steer clear of both and try humour.
‘Now I don’t know how you feel about this, Curtis,’ he said, ‘and I certainly wouldn’t want to point an accusatory finger and call someone a cheat. But nobody should be slam dunking in wheelchair basketball.’
Curtis didn’t even attempt a smile. ‘Have you lost your mind, Dylan?’
Dylan shrugged. ‘I thought maybe you’d like to hear a joke.’
‘A joke about guys in wheelchairs?’ Curtis patted his hands together, like a genteel lady watching an opera performance. Dylan hadn’t known applause could look and sound sarcastic.
His face felt warm, a sure sign he was blushing. ‘Sorry, buddy. Bad taste.’
‘You think?’
At least the usual rant had been diverted, or so it seemed. Dylan tried some talk about the Giants but Curtis didn’t engage, beyond a few non-committal grunts. Finally, there seemed nothing left to talk about but Lucie and how she had ruined his life.
‘Would you swing by the house one more time, Dylan?’
‘Curtis, what’s the point?’
‘I could use some of my stuff, but hey, if it’s too much trouble for you, just say the word.’
‘I didn’t say that. I asked you what’s the point, as in what do you hope to achieve?’
‘Some sort of evidence as to where the bitch has gone and if she ever intends to come back is what I “hope to achieve”.’ Curtis curled his fingers in the air, visual aids in case his tone wasn’t sarky enough.
Dylan wondered how long he could put up with the constant sarcas
m. ‘Any idea what I should look out for?’
‘See if there’s food in the fridge. Check if the toilet’s been cleaned.’
‘How do you expect me to tell if Lucie’s been cleaning the toilet?’
Curtis banged the flat of his hand against his brow. ‘See if you can smell disinfectant! For chrissakes, Dylan, don’t go giving up the day job any time soon. You have no future in the private eye business. Why don’t you rummage through her underwear drawer and see if all her panties have gone?’
Dylan gave him a look. ‘Seriously, dude?’
‘Okay, maybe not the panties. Hell, Dylan. Use your initiative. See if her passport’s still there.’
‘Still where?’
‘It’s hidden behind the bathtub. Low down on the left-hand side, where the taps are.’
‘Why does she keep it there?’
Curtis laughed, more like a villain than a clown. ‘She doesn’t keep it there. I do.’
It took a moment for Dylan to work out the implications of what Curtis had just said. Even for him this seemed extreme. ‘You confiscated her passport?’
At least Curtis had the good grace to look a little uncomfortable, but not much. ‘Not sure I’d use the word confiscated. Seems a bit over-dramatic.’
‘What other word would you use? Man, I don’t know you anymore. You took your wife’s passport? Why?’
‘Hell do you think? In case she left me.’
‘You’re a sad bastard now, Curtis, but you were sad long before this happened. I just didn’t know it.’
40
The screen door hung dejected as ever. As Lucie tried to ease it open the last rusted hinge gave up and the door clattered to the ground. She jumped back, out of its way, and waited for Curtis to shout abuse from inside.
