It was cool here, quite dark, and silent. The altar at the far end of the one nave held out a promise of welcome and refuge.
Whenever she entered a church, Vivien found it hard to feel the presence of God in it. Young she might be, but in the time she had spent on the streets she had already met too many devils, and had felt just a weak human being shaken by the confrontation. Here, in this place, with these images, this longing for the sacred built to satisfy the needs of man, in the light of the candles lit in faith and hope, she couldn’t share even a small part of that faith and that hope.
Life is rented accommodation. Sometimes God is an uncomfortable character to have around the house.
She sat down on a pew at the back. She realized one thing. In what for all believers was a place of peace and salvation, she had a gun hanging from her belt. And in spite of everything she felt defenceless.
She closed her eyes, replacing the dim light with darkness. While she waited for her niece Sundance to arrive, the memories arrived, too.
The day when she was sitting at her desk, just opposite the Plaza, in a chaos of papers and telephone calls and her colleagues joking and chattering. Then something happened that she would never forget. Detective Peter Curtin unexpectedly appeared in the doorway. He had been working at the 13th Precinct until quite recently. Then, in a Shootout during a police operation, he had been quite seriously wounded. He had recovered physically, but emotionally he had realized he wasn’t the same person any more. Under pressure from his wife, he had put in for a transfer. Right now he was with vice.
He came straight to her desk.
‘Hi, Peter. What are you doing here?’
‘I need to talk to you, Vivien.’
There was a hint of embarrassment in his voice, which made the smile on her face fade quickly.
‘Sure, go ahead.’
‘Not here. How about going for a walk?’
Surprised, Vivien left her desk, and soon they were outside. Curtin set off in the direction of Third Avenue and Vivien fell into step beside him. There was tension in the air and he attempted to lighten it. For whose sake she wasn’t sure.
‘How are things? Bellew still keeping you all on a tight leash?’
Vivien came to a halt. ‘Stop beating about the bush, Peter. What’s going on?’
He looked at her from another place. And it was a place that Vivien didn’t like at all.
‘You know what this city’s like. Escort services, crap like that. Asian Paradise, Ebony Companions, Transex Dates. Eighty per cent of the places that advertise massage, health treatments, that kind of thing, are covers for prostitution. It happens everywhere. But this is Manhattan. This is the centre of the world, where there’s more of everything …’
Peter came to a halt, and finally made up his mind to look her in the eyes.
‘We had a tip-off. A luxury apartment on the Upper East Side. Used by men who like very young girls. Boys, too, sometimes. All minors, anyway. We went in, rounded up the people we found. And …’
He made a pause that for Vivien was a premonition. In a thin voice, she uttered a supplication as long as a single word. ‘And?’
And the premonition became reality.
‘One of them was your niece.’
The whole world started whirling like a carousel out of control. Vivien would have preferred to die than feel what she was feeling just then.
‘I was the one who went into the room where …’
Peter didn’t have the strength to add anything else. But his silence let Vivien’s imagination run wild and that was worse.
‘Luckily I knew her and managed by a miracle to keep her out of things.’ Peter put his hands on her arms. ‘If the story gets out, then social services get involved. With a family situation like yours it’s possible she’d be put in an institution. She needs help.’
Vivien looked him in the eyes. ‘You’re not telling me everything, Peter.’
A moment’s pause. Followed by something he’d have preferred not to say and she’d have preferred not to hear.
‘Your niece is doing drugs. We found cocaine in her pocket.’
‘How much?’
‘Not enough to suggest she’s dealing. But she must be doing quite a bit every day if she reached a point where …’
Where she prostituted herself to get money, Vivien completed the sentence mentally.
‘Where is she now?’
Peter gestured with his head towards a point somewhere along the street. ‘In my car. A female colleague is keeping an eye on her.’
Vivien shook his hand, to convey her gratitude and feel his warmth in return. ‘Thanks, Peter. You’re a friend. I owe you one. Hell, I owe you a lot.’
They walked to the car, Vivien going that short distance like a sleepwalker, with an urgency in her and at the same time a fear of seeing her niece and …
… the same anxiety with which she was waiting for her now.
A sound of footsteps behind her made her open her eyes again, bringing her back to a present that was only a little better than the past.
She rose and turned towards the entrance. Her niece was there, holding a gym bag. She was as pretty as her mother, and, like her mother, she had been broken in some way. But for her there was hope. There had to be.
John Kortighan had stayed back, in the doorway. Protective and vigilant, as always. But so discreet that he did not want to intrude on this private moment. He simply gave her a nod that was both a greeting and a confirmation. Vivien returned the greeting. John was the right-hand man of Father McKean, the priest who had founded Joy, the community that was taking care of Sundance and other kids who’d been through similar experiences.
Vivien lightly touched her niece’s cheek with her hand. She couldn’t help feeling guilty whenever they met. Guilty over all the things she hadn’t done. Guilty over being so busy dealing with people who meant nothing to her that she hadn’t realized that the person who most needed her was the one closest to her, who, in her way, had asked for help and nobody had listened.
‘Nice to see you again, Sunny. You’re looking very pretty today.’
The girl smiled, with a wicked but not provocative gleam in her eye. ‘You’re pretty, Vunny. I’m beautiful, you ought to know that.’
It was game they’d played since she was a little girl, when they’d given each other these nicknames as a kind of code. In those days, Vivien would brush her hair and tell her she’d be a great beauty one day. Maybe a model, maybe an actress. And together they would imagine all the things she could be.
All except what she’d actually turned out to be …
‘What do you say, shall we go?’
‘Sure. I’m ready.’
She picked up the bag, which contained a change of clothes for the days they would be spending together.
‘Did you bring your rock gear?’
‘You bet.’
Vivien had managed to get two tickets for the U2 concert at Madison Square Garden the next day. Sundance was a fan of the band. The concert had been one of the main reasons why she had been granted these two days away from Joy.
‘Let’s go, then.’
They walked back to where John was standing. He was a well-built man of medium height, simply dressed in sweatshirt and jeans. He had a frank, open face and a positive air. He looked like a man who thought more about the future than the past.
‘Bye, Sundance. See you on Monday.’
Vivien held out her hand, and he shook it. He had a firm grip.
‘Thanks, John.’
‘Thank you. You both enjoy yourselves now. Go on – I’m staying here for a while longer.’
They went out, leaving him in the quiet of the church.
The evening had chased away all trace of natural light, clothing itself artfully in artificial lights. They got in the car and set off for Manhattan. Vivien drove calmly, listening to what her niece was saying, letting her talk about whatever she wanted to talk about.
Neithe
r of them mentioned the girl’s mother, as if there was a tacit agreement between them that all dark thoughts were banned from now on. They weren’t trying to betray or ignore their memories. They both knew, without having to say it, that what they were trying to rebuild wasn’t only for the two of them.
As they drove on, Vivien had the feeling that with every turn of the wheel, every beat of their hearts, they were leaving behind the roles of aunt and niece and becoming more like friends. She felt something inside herself relaxing, as if the image of Greta that tormented her days was fading, along with the image of Sundance naked in the arms of a man older than her father that tormented her nights.
They had left Roosevelt Island behind them and were heading downtown along the East River when it happened. About half a mile ahead of them, on the right, a light suddenly appeared, wiping out all the others. For a moment it was like a distillation of all the lights in the world.
Then the road seemed to tremble under the wheels of the car and through the open windows they heard the hungry roar of an explosion.
CHAPTER 12
Russell Wade had just arrived home when a bright light suddenly and unexpectedly appeared over on the Lower East Side. The big ceiling-to-floor living-room windows framed that light, a light so vivid it seemed like part of a game. But it didn’t go away, and continued to override all the other lights. Through the filter of the unbreakable window panes came the muted sound of a rumble that wasn’t thunder but a destructive human imitation of it. It was followed by a cacophony of alarm systems set off by the blast, hysterical but futile, like little dogs uselessly barking behind an iron fence.
The vibration made him instinctively take a step back. He knew what had happened. He had realized immediately. He had already seen and felt that kind of thing in another place. He knew that glare meant incredulity and surprise, pain and dust, screams, injuries, curses and prayers.
It meant death.
And, in an equally sudden glare, a flash of images and memories.
‘Robert, please …’
His brother was anxiously checking the cameras and the lenses and making sure he had enough rolls of film in the pockets of his jacket. He wouldn’t look him in the face. Maybe he felt ashamed. Or maybe he was already seeing in his mind’s eye the photographs he was going to take.
‘Nothing’s going to happen, Russell. You just have to stay and be quiet.’
‘And where will you go?’
Robert had smelled his fear. He was used to that smell. The whole city was imbued with it. You could breathe it in the air. Like an ugly premonition that comes true, like a nightmare that doesn’t fade when you wake up, like the screams of the dying that don’t end once they’re dead.
He looked at him with eyes that might have been seeing him for the first time since they had arrived in Pristina. A scared boy who shouldn’t be there.
‘I have to go outside. I have to be there.’
Russell realized that this was the only way it could be. And at the same time he realized that he could never be like his brother, not even if he lived a hundred lifetimes. He went back into the cellar, through the trapdoor under the old carpet, and Robert went out the door. Into the sun and the dust and the war.
That was the last time he’d seen him alive.
As if reacting to these thoughts he ran into the bedroom, where one of his cameras was lying on the desk. He grabbed it and went back to the window. He switched off all the lights to avoid reflections and took a number of shots of that distant hypnotic glare with its sickly halo. He knew these photographs would never be used, but he did it to punish himself. To remember who he was, what he had done, what he hadn’t done.
Years had gone by since his brother had gone out through that sunstruck doorway and for a few moments the distant bursts of machine-gun fire had grown louder.
Nothing had changed.
Since that day, there hadn’t been a single morning when he hadn’t woken with that image in front of his eyes and that sound in his ears. Since that day, every pointless photograph of his had been merely a new image of his old fear. As he continued clicking the shutter, he started shaking. It was animal rage, silent and instinctual, as if his soul was shuddering inside him and making his body vibrate.
The clicking of the lens became neurotic
click
click
click
click
click
like a homicidal maniac firing into his victim
Robert
all the bullets he has, unable to stop pulling the trigger, continuing as a kind of nervous habit, until all he hears in return is the empty dry snap of the firing pin.
That’s enough, dammit!
Punctually, like a set answer to a set question, the shrill urgent sound of sirens came from outside.
Lights without anger.
Lights flashing, good lights, healthy lights, rapid lights. Police cars, fire engines, ambulances.
The city had been hit; the city was wounded; the city was asking for help. And everyone had come running, from all over, with all the speed that compassion and civic feeling gave them.
Russell stopped shooting and, in the light from outside, reached for the TV remote control. He switched it on, and found it automatically tuned to Channel One. The weather report should have been on about now. The broadcast was interrupted two seconds after the screen lit up. The weatherman and his maps of sun and rain were replaced without warning by Faber Andrews, one of the channel’s anchormen. His voice was deep and his face grave – appropriate to the situation.
‘News just in that a building on the Lower East Side of New York City has been rocked by a powerful explosion. We have no idea yet how many casualties there are, but first reports suggest the number could be high. That’s all we can tell you for now. At the moment we don’t know the causes of this terrible disaster. We should be able to get a better idea soon. What everyone is hoping is that this wasn’t a criminal act. The memory of other tragic events in the recent past is still fresh in our minds. Right now, the whole city, the whole of America, maybe the whole world is watching and waiting. Our reporters are already on their way to the scene, and we should soon be in a position to bring you more up-to-date news. That’s all for now.’
Russell switched to CNN. Here, too, they were announcing what had happened. The faces and words were different, the substance exactly the same. He turned down the sound, letting the images carry the report. He sat there on the couch in front of the TV set, with nothing but the luminous fuzz of the screen to keep him company. The lights of the city beyond the windows seemed to come from the cold and distance of outer space. And in the bottom left-hand corner of the frame was that murderous sunlight devouring all the other stars. When his family had given him the apartment, he had been happy to be on the 29th floor with a fantastic view over the whole of downtown: the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges on the left, the Flatiron on the right and the New York Life Insurance Building just in front of him.
Now that view was only another cause of distress.
It had all happened so quickly since he had been released after his night in the cell. And yet, if he thought about it again, the images in his head moved in slow motion. Every instant was clear, every detail, every colour, every sensation. Like being condemned to relive those moments ad infinitum.
As if it was again, and for ever, Pristina.
The journey home from the police station had begun in silence. And that was how he thought it should have stayed. The lawyer, Corneill Thornton, an old friend of the family, had understood that, and up to a point had complied.
Then the truce had ended and the attack had begun. ‘Your mother is very worried about you.’
Without looking at him, Russell replied with a shrug, ‘My mother’s always worried about something.’
He saw in his mind’s eye the faultless figure and smooth face of Margaret Taylor Wade, a member of the Boston upper classes. Margaret was one of the city’s most promine
nt citizens. Margaret moved with grace and elegance through that world, sweet faced, a woman who did not deserve what life had meted out to her: one son killed reporting on the war in former Yugoslavia and the other living a life that was, if possible, an even greater source of grief.
Maybe she had never got over either of those things. But she had continued her life of distinction and remembrance because it was inseparable from her. As for his father, Russell hadn’t spoken to him since the day after that damned business with the Pulitzer.
From the first, Russell had suspected something about their attitude to him: it was possible that both of them thought the wrong brother had died.
The lawyer continued, and Russell knew perfectly well where it was all leading.
‘I told her you were hurt. She thinks it would be opportune for you to be seen by a doctor.’
Russell felt like smiling.
Opportune …
‘My mother’s perfect. Not only does she always say the right thing at the right time, she always knows how to choose the most elegant word.’
Thornton leaned back in the leather seat. His shoulders relaxed, as if realizing he was dealing with a hopeless situation. ‘Russell, I’ve known you since you were a little boy. Don’t you think—’
‘Counsellor, you’re not here to condemn or absolve. There are judges for that. Or to preach to me. There are priests for that. You just have to get me out of trouble when you’re asked to.’ Russell turned to look at him, with a half-smile on his lips. ‘It seems to me that’s what you’re paid for. Very well paid, with an hourly fee that’s the equivalent of what a factory worker earns in a week.’
‘Get you out of trouble, did you say? That’s what I keep doing. Just lately, it seems to me I’ve had to do it more often than could reasonably be expected.’
The lawyer paused, as if to decide whether to say what he had to say or not.
‘Russell, everyone has the constitutional right to destroy himself as he sees fit. The only thing limiting him is his imagination. And you have an extremely creative imagination when it comes to such things.’ He looked Russell straight in the eyes, no longer a counsel for the defence but a gleeful executioner. ‘From now on, I’ll be happy to give up my fee. I’ll tell your mother to look elsewhere when necessary. And I’ll sit there with a cigar and a glass of good whisky and watch the spectacle of your ruin.’