Peter James - Dead Man’s Footsteps

‘When you’re with us in New York, you’re our guest,’ Dennis said. ‘But shit, buddy, when we come to England you’d better take out a second mortgage!’

They laughed.

Then Pat looked sad suddenly. ‘You know, did I ever tell you that thing about 9/11, about the feelgood dogs?’

Grace shook his head.

‘They had people bring dogs along – to the pile, you know, the Belly of the Beast. They were just for the workers there to stroke.’

Dennis nodded, concurring. ‘That’s what they called ’em – feelgood dogs.’

‘Kind of like therapy,’ Pat said. ‘We were all finding such horrible things. They figured, we stroke the dogs, it’s a good feeling, contact with something living, something happy.’

‘You know, I think it worked,’ Dennis said. ‘That whole thing, 9/11, you know, it brought a lot of good out in people in this city.’

‘And it brought the scumbags out too,’ Pat reminded him. ‘At Pier 92 we were giving cash handouts between fifteen hundred and two and a half thousand bucks, depending on their needs, to help people in immediate hardship.’ He shrugged. ‘Didn’t take the scumbags long to hear about this. We had several came and scammed us, telling us they had lost family, when they hadn’t.’

‘But we got them,’ Dennis said with grim satisfaction. ‘We got ’ em after. Took a while, but we got every damned one of them.’

‘But there was good that came out of it,’ Pat said. ‘It brought some heart and soul back to this city. I think people are a little kinder here now.’

‘And some people are a lot richer,’ Dennis said.

Pat nodded. ‘That’s for sure.’

Dennis chuckled suddenly. ‘Rachel, my wife, she’s got an uncle over in the Garment District. He has an embroidery business, makes stuff for the souvenir shops. I stopped by to see him a couple of weeks after 9/11. He’s this little Jewish guy, right, Hymie. He’s eighty-two years old, still works a fourteen-hour day. The nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. His family escaped the Holocaust, came out here. There isn’t anybody he wouldn’t help. Anyhow, I walk in there and I never saw the place so busy. Workers everywhere. T-shirts, sweatshirts, baseball caps, all piled up, people stitching, ironing, machining, bagging.’

He sipped some beer and shook his head.

‘My uncle had had to take on extra staff. Couldn’t cope with all the orders. It was all Twin Towers commemorative stuff he was making. I asked him how it was going. He sat there in the middle of all this chaos and he looked at me with this little smile on his face and he said business was good, it had never been better.’ Dennis nodded, then gave a wry shrug, ‘You know what? There’s always a buck in tragedy.’

Lorraine lay in bed, wide awake. The sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her were about as effective as a double espresso.

The television was on in the room, the shitty little portable that had been in the guest bedroom, the only one that hadn’t been repossessed by the bailiffs, as there wasn’t any money owing on it. There was an old film playing. She hadn’t caught the title, but she kept the set on all the time, as if the screen was wallpaper. She liked the light from it, the noises, the company.

Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway were playing chess in a swish pad with moody lighting. There was a seriously erotic, charged atmosphere between them, with all kinds of nuances.

She and Ronnie used to play games together. She recalled those early years, when they had been crazy about each other and did wild things sometimes. They played strip chess, and Ronnie always wiped her out, leaving her naked and himself fully clothed. And strip Scrabble.

Never again. She sniffed.

She found it hard to focus on anything clearly. Hard to get her head around anything. She just kept thinking about Ronnie. Missing him. Dreaming of him on the rare occasions she slept long enough to dream. And in the dreams he was alive, smiling, telling her she was a silly cow for thinking he was dead.

She was still shaking from the contents of the FedEx envelope that had arrived at the end of September, containing photographs of Ronnie’s wallet and his mobile phone. It was the picture of the singed wallet that was the worst. Had he been burned to death?

A massive wave of grief flooded through her suddenly. She started crying. Clinging to the pillow, she sobbed her heart out. ‘Ronnie,’ she murmured. ‘Ronnie, my darling Ronnie. I loved you so much. So much.’

After some minutes she calmed down and lay back, watching the movie flickering on the screen. And then, to her complete and utter terror, she suddenly saw her bedroom door opening. A figure was coming in. A tall, black shadow. A man, his face almost in total darkness inside a cagoule hood. He was striding towards her.

She scrambled back in the bed in terror, reaching out to her bedside table for something to use as a weapon. Her glass of water went crashing to the floor. She tried to scream, but only the faintest sound blurted out before a hand clamped over her mouth.

And she heard Ronnie’s voice. Sharp and hushed.

‘It’s me!’ he said. ‘It’s me! Lorraine, babe, it’s me. I’m OK!’

He took his hand away and tossed back the cagoule hood.

She snapped on the bedside light. Stared at him in utter disbelief. Stared at a ghost who had grown a beard and shaved his head. A ghost who smelled of Ronnie’s skin, of Ronnie’s hair, of Ronnie’s cologne. Who was cupping her face with hands that felt like Ronnie’s hands.

She stared at him with complete and utter bewilderment, joy steadily catching fire inside her. ‘Ronnie? It’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Course it’s me!’

She stared back. Open-mouthed. Stared. And stared. Then she shook her head, silent for some moments.

‘They all said – they said you were dead.’

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘I am.’

He kissed her. His breath smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and something slightly garlicky. At this moment it was the most beautiful smell in all the world.

‘They sent me pictures of your wallet and your phone.’

His eyes lit up like a child. ‘Fuck! Brilliant! They found them! That is so fucking great!’

His reaction confused her. Was he joking? Everything at this moment was confusing her. She touched his face, tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, caressing his cheeks, touching his nose, his ears, stroking his forehead. ‘It’s you. It’s really you.’

‘Yes, you daft cow!’

‘How – how did you – how did you survive?’

‘Because I thought about you and I wasn’t ready to leave you.’

‘Why – why didn’t you call? Were you hurt?’

‘It’s a long story.’

She pulled him towards her and kissed him. Kissed him as if she was discovering his mouth for the first time, exploring every part of it. Then she pulled back her face for a moment, grinning almost breathlessly.

‘It really is you!’

His hands had found their way inside her nightdress and were exploring her breasts. When she’d first had her boob job, they had driven him wild for a time, then he seemed to lose interest in them, the way he had lost interest in just about everything. But tonight this apparition, this Ronnie in her bedroom, was a totally different man. The old Ronnie she remembered from happier times. Ronnie who had died and come back?

He was undressing. Unlacing his trainers. Dropping his trousers. He had a massive erection. He pulled off his cagoule, his black polo-neck sweater, peeled off his socks. Now he pulled back the bedclothes and roughly pushed her nightdress up over her thighs.