Dead Man’s Footsteps

10

Clutching the cordless handset and feeling a terrible swirl of darkness deep inside her, Lorraine threw herself out of the deck-chair. She ran across the decking, almost tripping over Alfie, and in through the patio doors, her feet sinking deep into the soft pile of the white carpet, her boobs and her gold ankle chain flapping.

‘That’s where he is,’ she said into the phone to her sister, her voice a trembling whisper. ‘That’s where Ronnie is right now.’

She grabbed the remote and hit the button. BBC One came on. She saw, through a jerky, hand-held camera, the instantly recognizable image of the tall silver twin towers of the World Trade Center. Thick black smoke belched from the top section of one tower, almost obliterating it, the black and white mast standing erect above it, rising into the cloudless cobalt sky.

Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ. Ronnie is there. Which tower is his meeting in? Which floor?

She barely heard the agitated voice of an American newscaster saying, ‘This is not a light aircraft, this was a large plane. Oh, God! Oh, my God!’

‘I’ll call you back, Mo,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you right back.’ She stabbed out Ronnie’s mobile phone number. Seconds later she got the busy tone. She tried again. Then again. And again.

Oh, God, Ronnie, please be OK. Please, my darling, please be OK.

She heard the wail of sirens on the TV. Saw people staring upwards. Everywhere, scores of people, men and women in smart clothes and in work clothes, all standing still, frozen in a bizarre tableau, some with their hand in front of their faces, some holding cameras. Then the Twin Towers again. One belching that black smoke, soiling that beautiful blue of the sky.

A shiver ripped through her. She stood still.

Sirens getting louder.

Almost nobody moving. Just a few people now sprinting towards the building. She saw a fire truck with a long ladder, heard sirens howling, whupping, grinding the air.

She tried Ronnie’s number again. The busy signal. Again. The busy signal. Always the busy signal.

She called her sister back. ‘I can’t reach him,’ she said, crying.

‘He’ll be OK, Lori. Ronnie’s a survivor, he’ll be OK.’

‘How – how could this happen?’ Lorraine asked. ‘How could a plane do this? I mean-’

‘I’m sure he’s OK. This is horrible, unbelievable. It’s like one of those – you know – those disasters – like a disaster movie.’

‘I’m going to hang up. He might be trying to get through. I’ll try him again.’

‘Call me when you get through to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s OK, sweetie, I promise you.’

Lorraine hung up again, transfixed by the images on the television screen. She started punching out Ronnie’s number again. But she only got halfway.