“Turn that up, would you?” called one of the men, and Jacinta, the waitress who had replaced Mrs. Goggin as manageress, reached for the remote control and turned up the volume as we watched a plane disappear into the heart of the World Trade Center over and over again, on what seemed like an endless repeat.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” said the TD. “What’s going on there, do you suppose?”
“That’s New York,” I said.
“It is not.”
“It is. It’s the World Trade Center. The Twin Towers.”
I stood up and walked slowly over toward the television as the TDs around us did the same thing, and when the coverage moved back to a live feed and another plane flew toward the second tower, burying itself inside it, we let out a groan of horror and stared at each other, not quite understanding what was going on.
“I better get back to my office,” she said, picking up her silent pager. “The Taoiseach might need me.”
“I doubt that he will.”
“I’ll come back to you about Brenda another time. Remember, you’re perfect for each other.”
“Right,” I said, barely listening to her. The people on Sky News were talking about a terrible accident but then one of the guests asked how it could be an accident when it had happened twice. It must be hijackers, someone said. Or terrorists. From outside the tearoom, I could see the TDs running back and forth, going back to their offices or in search of a television set. It wasn’t long before the room was half full.
“I’ve never been on a plane in my life,” said Jacinta, coming over to stand next to me. “And I never will either.”
I turned to her in surprise. “Are you frightened of them?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t you be? After seeing that?”
I looked back at the screen. Reports were starting to come in that a third plane had crashed into the Pentagon in Washington and somehow there were already cameras on the streets of the capital, from the White House to the Senate Office Buildings, from the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial. A few minutes later, there was a live feed from the streets of New York, where I could see people running down the streets of Manhattan like something out of a cheesy Hollywood disaster movie.
Another switch and now a different reporter was standing in Central Park at exactly the same location where Bastiaan and I had been walking fourteen years earlier and suffered our attack. An involuntary cry came from my mouth as I saw it—I hadn’t been there or seen it since that terrible night—and Jacinta touched my shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“It’s that place,” I said, pointing at the screen. “I know it. My…my best friend was murdered right there.”
“Stop watching it,” she said, pulling me away. “Why don’t you take a cup of tea with you and go back downstairs to the library and drink it in peace. There’ll be no one in there for the rest of the day, I daresay. They’ll all be watching this.”
I nodded and turned back to the counter as she made the tea. I was moved that she was being so kind to me. She had learned well, I thought, from Mrs. Goggin.
“It’s not easy losing someone,” she said. “It never goes away, does it?”
“The Phantom Pain, they call it,” I said. “Like amputees get when they can still feel their missing limbs.”
“I expect so,” she said, and then she gasped and I turned to look back at the television, where a series of black dots seemed to be falling from the windows of the buildings. The pictures quickly cut back to the studio, where both reporters looked shocked.
“Was that what I think it was?” I asked, turning back to her. “Were there people jumping from the windows?”
“I’m going to turn it off,” she called out to the people gathered beneath the set, watching it.
“No!” they cried, gobbling up the drama.
“I’m the manageress,” she insisted. “And what I say in this tearoom goes. I’m turning it off and if you want to keep watching you can find another television set somewhere in the building.” And with that she reached for the remote, pressed the red button in the top right-hand corner and the screen went black. There was a roar of annoyance from the crowd, but they quickly scattered back to their offices or the local pubs, leaving us in silence.
“Ghouls,” she said as she watched their departing backs. “The types that slow down when they see an accident on the motorway. I won’t have people using this room to stare at someone else’s misfortune.”
I agreed with her but still wanted to get back to a television myself. I wondered how long would be respectable to stand there before I could leave.
“Go on then,” she said finally, looking at me with disappointment in her eyes. “I know you’re only itching to get out of here.”
The Unspeakables
Christmas morning. The roads into town were practically empty and the snow that we’d been promised hadn’t materialized. The taxi driver, surprisingly cheerful considering he was sitting behind the wheel of his car rather than at home opening presents and knocking back the Baileys with his family, was flicking between radio stations.
“Nothing serious, I hope?” he asked me, and I caught his eye in the rearview mirror.
“What’s that?”
“Whoever you’re visiting in hospital. Nothing serious, is it?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s good news,” I told him. “My son and his wife are having a baby.”
“Ah that’s great news. Their first, is it?”
“Second. They have a three-year-old boy, George.”
I glanced out the window as we stopped at a red light. A little girl was cycling a brand-new bicycle with a broad smile on her face and wearing a shiny blue helmet as her father trotted along beside her, shouting words of encouragement. She wobbled a little but managed to steer in a relatively straight line and the pride on the man’s face was something to behold. I might have been a good father. I might have been a positive force in Liam’s life. But at least I had the grandchildren, Ignac’s four and Liam’s one. And now there was another on the way.
“They should call the child Jesus,” said the taxi driver.
“What’s that?”
“Your son and his wife,” he said. “They should call the child Jesus. On account of the day that he’s born.”
“Yeah,” I said “Probably not.”
“I’ve got ten grandchildren myself,” he continued. “And three of them are in the ’Joy. Best place for them. Vicious little bastards, each one. I blame the parents.”
I looked down at my shoes, hoping to discourage him from further conversation, and soon enough the hospital loomed into sight. I reached into my pocket for a ten-euro note, handing it over as he pulled up outside, and wished him a happy Christmas. In the lobby I looked around, hoping to see someone I recognized, and when I didn’t I took my phone from my pocket and rang Alice.
“Are you in the hospital?” I asked when she answered.
“I am,” she said. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the lobby. Would you do me a favor and come down and get me?”
“Have you lost the use of your legs?”