Till the Dust Settles

by Pat Young

  Soon she came into view and stopped at the cross street. He called, ‘Charlotte!’ When she didn’t respond, he waited until she had crossed, out of the traffic, then shouted again. He tried ‘Miss Gillespie,’ but that didn’t get her attention either. Maybe she was listening to a Walkman. He waited for her to pass, close enough for him to see there were no wires, no earphones. He shouted again. She faltered, stopped for a second, just enough to tell him he was right to be suspicious. When he called out a third time, ‘Miss Gillespie!’ she turned and faced him.

  She looked more afraid than inquisitive as he went down the steps towards her.

  ‘It is Miss Gillespie, isn’t it?’ he smiled tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure he’d got the right person. ‘We met at the hospital recently?’

  When she didn’t react, he said, ‘Richard? Richard Armstrong? I gave you my handkerchief?’

  She laughed nervously and bent over, hands on knees, to get her breath back. ‘Sorry,’ she said between gasps of air, ‘I was daydreaming. Makes the run go by faster. Sorry, I remember you now. You were very kind to me.’

  He laughed like a jovial uncle. ‘Oh, my goodness. It was nothing. How are you?’

  ‘I’m coping. Running helps.’

  ‘I thought the events of the eleventh might have made it extra difficult for people in your position?’

  Her eyes widened. She looked ready to bolt. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be intrusive, but I was thinking it might be hard to arrange your poor mother’s funeral, under the circumstances.’

  The girl looked at a complete loss.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That was indelicate of me,’ he said. He remembered there were insurance issues. ‘How did you get on with that other matter?’

  Again, she looked as if she had no idea what he was talking about. Had he got the wrong girl? Was someone cloning Charlottes in a lab somewhere?

  ‘Forgive me. It’s none of my business. The thing I really mean to say is, I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s kind of you.’

  ‘I expect you’ve got lots of friends and family to see you through this difficult patch?’

  The young woman smiled and shook her head. ‘Afraid not,’ she said.

  ‘Losing a loved one can be a lonely time. I speak from sad experience.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  He lowered his head, as if overcome with emotion, and put a little catch in his voice. ‘I lost my wife a few months ago. I’ve never felt so lonesome in my whole life.’

  He was delighted to feel her touch his arm.

  ‘Oh, poor you,’ she said, in a sad voice that sounded sincere. ‘Had you been married for long?’

  ‘Ten years this month. But I feel as if I’d known her forever. She was my better half, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘Every minute of every day.’ He pointed to the church. ‘I’m not the most religious, but I find coming here a real comfort.’

  The woman started to jog on the spot. He took the hint. ‘Oh, don’t listen to me,’ he said. ‘I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted your run.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s good to see you again. I’m glad of the chance to be able to say thanks. You were really kind to me the day my mum died. I’m just sorry I can’t return your lovely handkerchief.’

  ‘Not a problem. Listen, I didn’t catch your first name?’

  ‘It’s Charlotte.’

  ‘Charlotte?’ Shock made him repeat her, like a parrot. ‘Charlotte? That’s unbelievable.’ Recovering quickly, he said the first thing that came into his head. ‘That was my wife’s name.’

  The girl seemed taken aback. It was time to move. Before this got any more awkward. He needed time and space to think.

  ‘Okay. Bye then. Charlotte.’

  With a little wave of her hand she jogged off in one direction and he walked away in the other, satisfied with the encounter. He passed a young man tying a laminated photo to a lamppost. At his feet lay a bag filled with similar posters. Someone else on a quest.

  ‘Good luck, fella,’ he said. The man handed him a photo and said he was sure his wife was alive but she’d lost her memory.

  He crossed the street and headed for the nearest subway, stuffing the photo in a trash can as he went. The first part of the job was done. He’d made contact with the mystery woman. Now he had to work out why this girl was masquerading as Charlotte Gillespie and how much she knew about the woman she was impersonating.

  45

  Dylan had made up his mind. He would wish Curtis good luck. Shake his hand, for old times’ sake, and walk away.

  Nurse Abigail wasn’t on duty. Pity. He’d have liked to say goodbye. He’d grown fond of the woman. How anyone could work with guys like Curtis day in, day out, he’d never know.

  The cute blonde nurse assured him Curtis was on excellent form today. Been telling her jokes, making her laugh. ‘He’s a funny guy,’ she said. Dylan could hear an admiration in her voice that made him worry for her.

  ‘If you say so.’ He headed off towards the day room.

  ‘Hey there, buddy,’ Curtis greeted him with a grin. ‘Good to see you.’

  He must have thought the better of his accusations the previous day. Or realised that he couldn’t afford to lose his only friend.

  ‘Hey, Dylan. Listen. That stuff I was saying? About you and Lucie? Forget it. I didn’t mean any of that shit.’

  ‘Sure. Anything you say.’

  ‘You’re way better than that. I should’ve known.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Curtis. Really.’

  Curtis’s face lit up. It was clear he thought he’d been forgiven. Like every other time he’d offended Dylan. It was that easy.

  As if they were two best buddies catching up, Curtis said, ‘Grab a chair. Come sit by me so I can tell you my plans for when I get out of here.’

  Dylan had not intended to stay, but he thought there was no harm in listening to Curtis’s plan. Knowing what Curtis had in mind for the future would only make it easier to walk away for good.

  ‘That health insurance Lucie set up with money from her folks? Their “kiss-off” cash, she called it.’

  Dylan didn’t really know what Curtis was talking about but he was beyond caring so he nodded anyway.

  ‘Just before she lost the baby?’

  Dylan remembered asking Lucie at the time if they could afford the hospital bills and offering to help out. ‘Yeah. Is it going to come good for this?’

  ‘It is. And not only that.’ Curtis sounded as if he’d done something really clever. ‘The plan will help me get set up once I leave here. Nothing fancy, just “appropriate to my needs”.’

  ‘Well done, Lucie, for having the foresight to set that up. You’d probably have squandered the cash if you’d got your hands on it.’

  Curtis didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Yeah,’ he said, quietly. ‘Speaking of Lucie. You wanna hear what I’ve done about her?’

  ‘Not sure there’s much you can do about Lucie, is there?’

  ‘I can call the cops.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘Bet your sweet ass I would. And I did. Told them what she did to me and that she’s been back to the house to grab her passport. I expect they’re watching for her at La Guardia and JFK right now. Not to mention Newark, which would be my bet.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They said they’d find her. And when they do, they’ll throw the book at her. Those were the cop’s exact words. He was a former track athlete, the guy who booked in the details. Said he remembered my name from back in the day. Reckon he felt sorry me.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Dylan, keeping his voice neutral.

  ‘But you haven’t heard the best bit.’ He paused like a stage comic waiting to deliver his punchline. ‘You ever hear of CVC?’

  Dylan shook his head.


  ‘Crime Victim Compensation. Reckon I could be eligible for a minimum ten grand. Could be as much as ten times that, for life-changing injuries like mine.’ Curtis gave a little whoop, as if a slot machine had paid out.

  Dylan knew he ought to feel pleased for his friend, but his heart had hardened to the point where he didn’t care anymore.

  He’d never considered himself malicious, but something about Curtis’s smug grin made him want to wound in whatever way he could. He inhaled deeply and blew the air out through his lips. It made a whistling sound as it went.

  ‘Curtis, buddy, there’s no easy way to say this. So I’m just gonna get it out, okay?’

  Dylan crossed his fingers. A childhood habit he thought he’d long since grown out of. ‘Thing is, there’s no point in the cops looking for Lucie.’

  ‘Hell you talking about?’

  ‘They won’t find her. She’s dead.’

  ‘Fuck.’ The word came out on a long, soft whisper. Curtis sagged in his chair, as if the muscles of his upper body had also withered, but taken only seconds to waste away. He folded his arms and raised one hand to clasp his face, making it hard for Dylan to read his expression.

  ‘She died on 9/11.’

  ‘In the towers?’ Curtis pumped a fist in the air and started to whistle ‘I’m in the Money’. Incredible. The man had just been told his beautiful young wife was dead.

  ‘Christ, you look like you’re pleased! I can’t believe it. Were things really that bad between you two?’

  A familiar expression stole across Curtis’s face. It was the same sly look Dylan had known since they were kids. Whether he was swindling Dylan out of a favourite toy or wangling the lion’s share of their Trick or Treat candy, Curtis had always been expert in pulling fast ones.

  ‘Hell you implying, man? Things were great. I loved my wife.’ Curtis paused for dramatic effect and wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone for good.’ He covered his face with both his hands and sniffed loudly.

  Dylan waited, intrigued by the performance and keen to see what would come next.

  ‘So how come they know for sure she was in the World Trade Center?’

  ‘I didn’t say she was in WTC. She was found in Lower Manhattan, on Murray Street, to be precise.’

  Curtis’s hands, and then his smile, dropped off his face. He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘They’re paying out to the families of people who died in the towers. And she has to get run over by a car. Typical.’

  ‘I didn’t say she got run over, man. I said she died in the street.’

  ‘So she was a victim of 9/11?’

  ‘Her body was found by the cops. That’s all I know. Sorry.’

  Curtis looked like he might burst into tears. He sniffed loudly.

  Dylan berated himself for being cynical. ‘Curtis, this must be a terrible shock. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. But, I need to ask, why did you look pleased when you heard she’d been killed?’

  Curtis sighed, as if he’d been asked to explain quantum physics to a particularly stupid child.

  ‘Because I thought I was in the money. Twice over.’ His voice was so cold that Dylan knew his cynicism had been justified.

  ‘I thought there might even be enough money to make up for this.’ He banged his hands on the metal sides of the wheelchair. The sound reverberated angrily around the little room, one bang for each word. ‘This total fuckin’ mess!’

  46

  Lucie smoothed the iron over a white blouse of Charlotte’s. The smell of hot, fragranced linen rose to her nostrils, a homely scent that reminded her of her childhood.

  Even with state-of-the-art equipment, doing laundry was tiresome. At least she didn’t have to wash Curtis’s foul-smelling socks and underpants ever again. Their ancient washer had packed in six months ago. Lucie had been forced to wash everything by hand, even their bed sheets. There was a Clean Rite Washeteria within walking distance but Curtis didn’t believe in wasting good beer money. Not on something his wife could do for nothing. As a result, the place had a permanent smell of damp washing.

  She’d been trying to avoid thinking about things. She was working her way through Charlotte’s collection of bestsellers. She also spent hours on Charlotte’s laptop, surfing the net. Some days her only contact with the real world was Friends Reunited. She’d managed to trace a few folk she’d gone to school with back in Scotland. Most of them had kids by now. Some were even on their second husband. Gluttons for punishment. One would be more than enough for Lucie.

  She eased the shirt on to a hanger, glad to be done. Surely someone as well off as Charlotte had sent her clothes out for laundering? Lucie could do the same but she was keen to use as little of Charlotte’s money as possible. The thought of having to go to an ATM was horrifying. But when the cash ran out, she’d have no choice. Using Charlotte’s card would feel like serious fraud.

  Much of her time on the internet had been spent on researching her chances of avoiding a jail sentence. They did not look good.

  She could claim to have lost her memory. That was feasible. She did bash her head when she fell in the street. It was not uncommon, apparently, to sustain memory loss from a head injury.

  Or, she could plead temporary insanity brought on by the events of 9/11.

  She could say she remembered the dust chasing her until she fell and hit her head. She’d talk about how she opened Charlotte’s bag believing it was hers. Believing she was Charlotte. Official records would show where Charlotte’s body was found. It would be clear that Lucie was a victim of the dust cloud, just like Charlotte. The only difference was that Lucie’s lungs were better able to cope with the polluted air.

  It would not be difficult to convince people that she’d gone a little mad as a result of her traumatic experience. Waking up with your legs wound round a dead woman would be enough to freak anyone. All she had to do was convince the experts that she’d lost her mind, or her memory, maybe both.

  But wouldn’t they have tests they could run? Lucie wouldn’t be the first criminal to use madness as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  She needed to do more research. Look into the kind of tests used to check for insanity. Then she could work out a way to get around them. How hard could it be to pretend she’d gone a little bit mad?

  Lucie lifted the basket to put it away and spotted the handkerchief lying on the bottom. She placed the square of linen on the ironing board and smoothed it out. Her fingers traced three letters. S, S and M.

  She drew the hot iron over the handkerchief, folding it as she went. She ended with a small smooth square with the initials in the corner. Strange letters to have on your hankie if your name is Richard Armstrong. Maybe she’d ask him about it, if she ever bumped into him again.

  It had been a long time since she’d been in the company of anyone so charming and solicitous. An image of Dylan’s kind face came into her mind and she felt instantly guilty. Dylan was caring, but he could hardly be described as suave and sophisticated, like Rick.

  She tried to recall the handsome stranger who had come to her aid that awful day in the hospital. From their first meeting she’d had only the vaguest of impressions of the man. He’d felt solid, anchored, something she could cling to until she recovered enough to carry on. Lucie smiled at the clichés that were piling one on top of the other, but often a cliché was the most apt way to describe something. And Rick had felt like a rock.

  When she first met Curtis, he’d still been strong and muscled, even though his sprinting days were behind him.

  Dylan was slimmer, his chest not so deep, his arms not so bulky. But on the few occasions he’d given her a hug, she’d felt safe and protected. Dylan was one of the good guys, no doubt about it. He was a true friend. Loyal to Curtis and Lucie over the years. But he was hardly a looker. With sandy hair and cheeks that looked permanently embarrassed, Dylan was a regular boy next door. She’d rarely seen him ou
t of baggy denims, sweatshirts and sneakers.

  Rick oozed sophistication with his expensively groomed dark hair and designer stubble. In the hospital that day, even in her grief, she’d been aware that he smelled gorgeous. Of something citrusy, piney, leathery.

  Curtis didn’t believe in cologne.

  Curtis was in the past.

  She needed to leave him there.

  However this whole mess turned out, one thing was sure. Her marriage was over.

  Lucie laid the folded handkerchief on the console table in the hall. Maybe she’d take it with her the next time she went for a run, just in case she bumped into Rick again.

  47

  ‘Come on, Dylan. Pick up,’ Lucie muttered, tapping her nails on the worktop.

  She didn’t even give him time to speak. She’d rehearsed her lines and was keen to say them before she lost her nerve.

  ‘Hey, Dylan. You said to call if I needed anything?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever you need.’

  ‘I need my passport. But I don’t want to go back to the house in case Curtis catches me. Could you take a look for me, please? Or can you find some excuse to ask Curtis if he’s seen it?’

  ‘Why do you need your passport, Lucie?’

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘To Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You taking your mum back?’

  ‘Well, you see. I’m not sure. That’s the other thing I wanted to ask you. Could you call the hospital for me?’

  ‘I guess. If you need me to.’

  ‘Can you call and find out what’s happened to my mum, please?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She had no insurance.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dylan, in a way that confirmed what Lucie feared. She had a problem on her hands.

  ‘See, I need to know what’s happening. I can’t bear the thought of her lying in some hospital morgue, unclaimed. Or even worse, being disposed of.’ Lucie tried to keep her voice strong. She wanted Dylan to believe she was in control.