She doesn’t sound convinced, and neither am I. They shepherd me into a booth, onto red leatherette seating, and place what smells like a brandy in front of me. I blink at it, so rapidly the glass seems to shimmer and shake and flicker, as though it’s not actually real at all, just a figment of my imagination.
Now we are safe, tucked away in a cocoon of wood and plastic, Michael gets out his phone. I see him navigating from page to page, searching for information. Doing what he can to help, in the most practical way he knows. Belinda is squashed next to me, her thighs pressed against mine, as though she feels the need to hold me in and protect me.
‘I’ve found a news story about it,’ Michael announces, skimming through the words, cancelling out video ads, frowning at the screen.
Belinda passes me my glass, and insists I take a sip. The amber liquid burns down my throat, and makes me cough.
Michael is reading, and he is silent, which is never that good a sign. He looks up at us, across the wooden table and its bowl of lonely peanuts, and stares at me for a few moments.
I feel like I have a super-power, that I have become telepathic. That I can see inside his head, past his hair and the thick protective dome of his skull and into the labyrinth of whirring and bubbling brain cells. The cogs are turning, the connections are being made, the messages are being fired off: he is worried that I am melting down. Losing myself. And that whatever he has to say will make it worse.
He is remembering that day, which feels like so long ago now, the day of my mother’s funeral. The day I found the shoebox, and the day he first saw how very far away his cousin could go while still sitting in the same room as him. He is concerned, and sad, and also a little bit scared of me, and ashamed of being scared of me. Mental health. The gift that keeps on giving.
‘It’s all right,’ I say, nodding. ‘Just tell me.’
‘OK … well, George was right on everything. It was just under two years ago. It doesn’t mention the electrical fault in this, because it was written the day after, and just says the cause is being investigated. There’s no follow-up story …’
That doesn’t surprise me. This is a big city, with a lot of news, and many more important things going on than one fire at one bar that killed only one person.
‘There aren’t any names,’ he says quickly, as though this is supposed to reassure me. ‘But it says that one male member of staff, believed to be originally from the UK and in his thirties, died in the blaze.
‘He was trying to rescue people, and left it too late, and got trapped inside. And another man – described here as a passer-by – was taken to hospital with burns to his hands from trying to help. Everyone else seemed all right, just smoke inhalation and treated at the scene. And … that’s pretty much it. I’m sorry I didn’t see this earlier. We had the address already, and I was a bit tired and I guess I just wasn’t quite trying hard enough.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I respond, hearing my own voice filtered through layers of strange, pleased that it sounds almost normal. ‘I’d have wanted to come here anyway. There isn’t a good way to find out news like this, and at least I believe it now I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
‘You believe what?’ Belinda asks, frowning. ‘You believe that Joe is dead?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I … I don’t want to … not after all of this. I don’t. But … maybe we have to. Maybe we have to accept this. Maybe we can do some more digging and find out for sure, but … yes. I do. I think Joe is dead.’
I see her brown eyes flood with tears, and her fists clench on the table top, and her shoulders shake with sudden grief. I place a hand on one of hers, and try to console her. I am going through the motions – I know that is what I should do, what someone normal would do. So I do it. I murmur meaningless words and I stroke her hand, and I wait until that first rush of painful adrenalin has left her body.
‘It just doesn’t seem fair,’ Michael says, his tone quiet and borderline petulant. ‘After everything. After all of this. We came so far, came so close, and now this …’
‘Life isn’t fair, though, is it?’ I respond, dredging up a fake smile. ‘If life was fair, none of this would have happened. I’d be living in a suburb with Joe and Gracie. My parents would still be alive. Everything would be different. And we’ve come so far, yes – but without a time machine, we can’t go any further. It’s over.’
I stand up, and gulp down the last dregs of my brandy. Belinda shows no sign of moving, so I clamber across her lap to escape the booth.
‘Where are we going?’ Michael asks, standing up so quickly he upends the peanut bowl, scattering them in salty tendrils across the table.
‘We’re going nowhere. I just … I need to be alone for a while, OK? Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid, like throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge. But I need some time. I’ll see you back at the hotel later.’
Chapter 37
Despite my reassurances that I’m not planning to do anything stupid, I am not 100 per cent sure that I am planning to do anything intelligent either.
I wander out into the night with no clear idea of where I’m going, bouncing off people like a human pinball.
Everything out here is still the same: the lights, the noise, the clamour. Except now it feels different. Or, more accurately, I feel different. I feel separate and distant and apart, like I am an alien life form who has landed on planet Earth for the first time, observing their curious social rituals and mating routines with a watchful eye.
None of it feels real, even when I get body-slammed into a bollard so hard I drop my Dora backpack. I scoop it up, clutching it to my chest, glaring out at a world that dares to threaten it, no matter how accidentally.
It’s so busy here. So full. I walk, snaking my way down Broadway, for what feels like hours. The crowds thin out, still busy, but not as overwhelming. I pass shops and coffee houses and food trucks and bars, cyclists and drivers, party groups and single people and one man with seven dogs all on a communal lead.
I end up in SoHo, with its super-cool stores and decorated cast-iron buildings and cobbled streets; there seems to be a café on every corner, galleries, restaurants, people everywhere. Again I am struck by how easy it is to feel like you’ve been here before – surrounded by scenes from TV shows and films.
I stop to buy water, and drink it while defiantly standing still. I imagine that I have erected a force-field around myself, a bubble to protect me from the rest of humanity. People do give me a wide berth, but it’s probably not a real force-field, I tell myself and my off-centre mind. Probably just that I look a little unhinged and people in New York are used to that, and know to leave it well alone.
I realise that I have come too far, and that I need to go back up towards Midtown. Or, I think, I could … not. I could just keep going. I could do a Forrest Gump, and disappear on an odyssey. I could carry on walking, I could go over bridges, I could take ferries. I could walk through New Jersey, and go to Philadelphia, and Washington, and maybe walk all the way to Texas. I could cross the border into Mexico, and become a wild woman who lives in a dusty shack and raises mules.