For The Death Of Me

50

As I stared at it, I felt as if someone had switched me back on. I had purpose again; I had things to do.

The first of those involved breakfast. Somehow I’d managed to skip lunch the day before, and I was starving. I checked out of the dosshouse and took a cab to Seventh and Fifty-fifth. They were between rush-hours in the Carnegie Deli, so I was afforded the luxury of a table on my own. I demolished a Woody Allen (lotsa corned beef, plus lotsa pastrami) and a side order of cinnamon toast, and I was on my second coffee refill when I was aware of a guy peering at me. He wore a white apron; it was too pristine for him to have been a cook, so I guessed that he had to be the owner. ‘Hey,’ he asked hoarsely, ‘ain’t you Oz Blackstone?’

I ran my hand over my heavy stubble. ‘So the beard didn’t fool you.’

‘Buddy, you’re supposed to be dead. It says so in the Daily News.’

‘Shit, and I felt fine when I woke up this morning.’

He chuckled. ‘Yeah, maybe I should be careful what I believe. They ran another story about a guy found semi-conscious on Broadway with a Smith and Wesson up his ass. I didn’t swallow that one, though. No, you maybe don’t look so great, Oz, but I reckon you’re alive. Tell you what, buddy, how about proving it by sending me a picture for the wall?’ (I forgot to mention that the Carnegie is decorated with the autographed photographs of thousands of celebrities who’ve eaten there over the years.)

‘I’ll do that,’ I promised.

‘Great. When you do, be sure to put today’s date on it.’

When I’d mopped up the last of the maple syrup with the last of the cinnamon toast, and paid at the counter on the way out, I caught another cab. I’d done some telephone-directory research at the hotel so I was able to ask the driver to take me straight to the British Consulate General, on Third Avenue at East Fifty-first.

I walked in off the street, and asked to see the Consul General and the Press Officer, in that order. The counter clerk looked at me sceptically until I handed over my passport: that got her attention, big-time. I was shown straight in to see the boss.

I kept my story simple.

• I had never been on the plane; I had decided at the last minute to drive the rental back to New York, so I hadn’t been aware of the tragedy until I’d been approached in the Carnegie.

• I’d thought the guy was joking until I bought a Daily News.

• I had just bought the rights to Benedict Luker’s novel, and we had been in Trenton to look at a possible location.

• Primavera had met Luker in Monaco when we had closed the deal, and had subsequently arranged to visit him in New York.

• Ms January was her friend and, coincidentally, was the ex-wife of my brother-in-law, who had just been appointed a judge by Her Majesty the Queen.

The last part really sealed it; obviously, the cops in New Jersey wanted to talk to me, but the Consul General insisted that they do so on what was legally British soil. An assistant Chief of something and another senior officer came to Third Avenue at half past midday and took a formal statement. They were clued up enough to ask me about Marie; I was ready for that, and told them that I was considering her for a role in the movie of Blue Star Falling (true) and that the meeting had been arranged to suit my schedule (lie, more or less).

Once they were done, they asked me if I would identify the bodies of Dylan and Maddy. . they still hadn’t found Prim. I was able to do so from photographs they had brought with them: they’d been banged about, obviously, but not too badly burned because of the swamp, so they’d been made recognisable. I nodded, mute, as I was shown each one.

They asked me who would be handling the funeral arrangements. I told them that Ms January’s mother lived in England but that she had a sister in Princeton, who could be contacted in India through the university. I added that, as far as I knew, Benedict Luker had no next of kin and that I would take care of his needs.

As soon as they had left, the Consul General authorised the Press Officer to issue a statement announcing my miraculous escape, and recounting most of the story I’d told him and the cops. He offered me lunch, too, but I was still full of Woody Allen and cinnamon toast, so I passed on that. But I did ask him for his secretary’s help in getting me out of the country; within half an hour she had me booked on the six thirty out of JFK, connecting to Nice and getting me home well in time for lunch the next day.