I make sympathetic noises, and as I’d hoped, he holds the gate open for me. Inside, it is beautiful and weird: it is small, but densely packed with bushes and trees and flowers, little concrete pathways winding through the foliage.
It is almost midnight, and it feels as though the city that never sleeps is having a little snooze here in this park. I sit on a wrought-iron bench in front of a statue of someone I don’t recognise. It is tall, it looms, but with so little light it casts no shadow.
I take out my phone and see that predictably enough there are several missed calls, from Belinda and from Michael. I call Belinda back, the glow of the screen illuminating the feet of the statue, which are wearing iron boots with buckles on the front.
It’s quiet here, apart from the mysterious rustling of night-time creatures in the bushes, and the occasional distant blare of a car horn. Belinda answers on the second ring, sounding relieved.
‘You OK?’ she asks. ‘Where are you? Are you coming back to the hotel? We’re in the bar waiting up for you.’
‘Don’t do that, please,’ I say. ‘I might be a while. I’m just trying to get my head a bit straighter, and … well, that’s not a quick fix.’
‘We’re also in the hotel bar because we can’t sleep, and because we need to drink.’
‘Oh. Well that’s OK then. Go for it.’
‘Michael has been doing some research. He thinks he’s found the people we need to speak to, to find out what … happened. To Joe, you know, after the fire?’
‘You mean what happened to Joe’s body?’
‘Yes. I just didn’t want to say it out loud. I didn’t want to make it real. Look, are you really all right? I’m not, and Joe was … he was my friend. He was part of my past. But he wasn’t to me what he is to you. I’m so, so sorry, Jess.’
I find myself smiling, in the midnight darkness of my secret garden, and reply: ‘I am too. And thank you. For coming, for helping. I’m not really all right, no – but I think maybe one day I might be. I have to believe that this hasn’t been wasted.’
‘It hasn’t,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s been important. Joe deserved it, didn’t he? To have us follow him, learn about him – mourn him?’
‘He did. And we deserved to know the truth. The thing about truth is that once you have it, you often don’t want it. Anyway. There’s a lot to think about. A lot to do. But tonight, I’m just going to walk, and think, and let myself feel, OK? It doesn’t make me very fit company. The statue doesn’t seem to mind, but I’m not sure other humans would be keen.’
There is a lengthy pause, and I realise that what I have just said makes no sense at all.
‘I’m in a park. There’s a statue. It’s not a hallucination.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, be careful. This is the city at night, and you’re just B—’
‘I’m not just Baby Spice, Belinda. I’m not just anything. I’m a grown woman with a lot of life experience, so please stop calling me that.’
See? I am already being braver.
‘Cool. I’ll call you Snappy Spice.’
‘Not much better, but we can brainstorm it tomorrow. Anyhow. Please don’t wait up for me. I’m going to walk some more. It’s helping.’
We say our goodbyes, and I leave the nocturnal creatures to their dark explorations, emerging back out into the grand neighbourhood that I probably won’t ever see again.
I carry on walking, and find myself following the streets back over to Times Square. I walk past now-empty theatres, and bars that are closing up for the night, and keep going west. I have some vague idea that I would like to see the river before my body finally shuts me down, and decide that I will walk that far, and then try to jump in a cab back to the hotel.
I pass 9th Avenue, walking along intersecting streets, seeing the atmosphere change around me. It’s odd, this city – a few steps can take you from one world to another, from China to Italy, from glamour to grime.
I am in Hell’s Kitchen, and it is different to the other places I have been tonight. The streets are still dominated by rows of tall buildings, but they seem narrower, more densely packed. Their metal fire escapes are serving as impromptu meeting places, small groups of people sitting and chatting and smoking.
There is music of all types, rap and Hispanic pop and Irish folk and even opera, and the smells of food from every corner of the world. There are still-open convenience stores, and cars parked within centimetres of each other. Normal cars – small and boxy and dusty, not the slick sedans I’ve seen elsewhere.
This is a real neighbourhood. This is a place where real people live and work and love. Something about it reminds me of the flat, and Yusuf from the kebab shop, and home.
A lot of the bars and cafés are closed or closing, but the streets are still vibrant. It’s infectious, and I wander along, letting some of that energy seep into my tired bones. It is the energy of living, and I need some of that. I am in limbo, and could get pulled in either direction.
I pass a Catholic church, and an actor’s studio, and a place that offers self-serve dog washing, wondering if it is time for another stop. For a moment to rest, rehydrate, check in with my body and my mind and make sure everything is still in place. To look at those photos, and remember Joe – my Joe – and try to scoop out some of the hollowness I feel growing, deep inside.
As I stand, and gaze around me, I see a neon bar sign flicker on and off. On. Off. On again. Finally off. It’s a bit like being at a rave.
I shake my head, and blink my eyes, convinced that I am having some kind of otherworldly experience.
I am not a believer in the supernatural, and I am not afraid of the dark. There are enough horrors in the real world without fabricating them as well. But for a split second, I wonder if I am wrong – if there are such things as ghosts, or a delicate lace veil floating between this world and some other.
I wonder if I really saw what I think I saw: a neon sign that proclaimed the name of a place called Gracie’s.
The light is gone now, but I walk in the direction I think it came from. I could have imagined it. Or it could be real – it’s a common enough name.
Within a few moments I am there, in front of a corner building that juts out onto the main street on one side, and an alleyway on the other. It is a bar, and it is called Gracie’s. It is stencilled onto the windows, in a looping, curling version of old-fashioned handwriting.
The wooden doors are closed, and the sign does not come back on. I cup my hands around my eyes, and peer through the front window. Inside, I see wooden floorboards, and tables littered with empty pint glasses, and a long, shining bar punctuated by beer taps, logos for Guinness and Blue Moon and Bud and Samuel Adams.
Behind the bar, a mirrored wall is adorned with rows of optics and spirits, shelves of glasses, small stacks of beer mats and a collage of taped-up photos.
At the far end, I see a man placing glasses on the bar, obviously starting his clear-up rituals.
I stare through the window, and I see him. I see him standing there, in jeans and a T-shirt that has the Gracie’s motif across the chest. I see him pushing glasses to one side, making more space before he adds to it from the scattered tables.
I see him, and I know that it is Joe.