by Philip Cox
‘Oh, Will. How late?’
‘Don’t know. Certainly after eight. It’s all gone tits up today.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Everything. May’s not in: she’s had a fall at home.’
‘Oh God, how is she?’
‘She’s okay. Just a bit shaken and bruised. I told her to stay on the sofa today.’
‘How did she do it?’
‘Kitchen floor was wet and she slipped.’
‘Oh, shit.’
‘That’s what I said. And of course Dan’s out on one of his goddamn trips to Brooklyn or somewhere. I can’t reach him. That leaves me and Eddie. And Eddie is not coping very well. Getting very hot under the collar and stressed.’
Chrissy could hear a telephone ringing in the background. ‘Well, you’d better get back to work. I’ll see you when you get back. Text me when you’re leaving.’
‘I will. Kiss Loulou goodnight for me, won’t you?’
‘Give me a break. Do you think she’ll go to sleep knowing you’re not home yet?’
They said their goodbyes. Chrissy studied her phone for a second or two. Her finger hovered over the keyboard before she tossed the phone onto the table and took up Jake’s glass of milk. Then she checked the time: only another forty-five minutes before she had to go to pick up Louise. Today was one of the two weekdays when Chrissy did not help out at her nursery.
The rest of the afternoon saw the usual routine, apart from Jake getting home from school and going straight to his room: he was already there. Chrissy brought Louise home, gave her an apple to eat while she prepared dinner. Today was fried chicken, enough for three. Will would have to fend for himself. Jake retreated to his room after dinner, there being no further signs of diarrhoea; Chrissy gave Louise her bath, read her a short story and put her to bed. At 8:23 a text came through from Will: leaving now xx.
Surprisingly, Louise fell asleep quite quickly. Jake was listening to some music in his room. Chrissy poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir, and flopped down on the couch in front of the TV. Homeland.
*****
At 8:37 it was now Will who was walking briskly home. He had just left the subway and was striding up Bleeker Street. Tired, he would be home in five minutes. He was starving too, and hoped Chrissy had left some dinner out for him.
Once again, the last time he had used the car, he had to park a few doors down the street. As usual, as he passed the car, he double checked the doors. With his hand still on the door handle, he paused and looked up the street. A few yards away, standing on the sidewalk outside his house, was a figure. The figure casually glanced in Will’s direction, caught sight of him, and quickly turned and walked across the street and away in the other direction.
It was a figure Will had seen before.
Hands in the pockets of a sweatshirt, hood over the head, it was the figure Will had seen in the newspaper report.
The figure from the mall.
TWENTY-ONE
Will quickened his pace and paused at the foot of the steps leading up to his house. He glanced up at the front door, the glossy black paint reflecting the light from the street lamps. Options flashed through his mind: should he just go in, forget what he had seen, or call the police? He swung round and could still see the figure walking down the opposite side of the street.
He made his decision. Pausing for a second to allow a truck to pass, he crossed over the road and followed the hooded figure, glancing back one more time at his house.
Striding purposefully in pursuit of the figure, he thought about whether to call Chrissy. He had let her know when he left the office, so she would be expecting him home around now. However, the actual process of calling or texting her might distract him and he would lose his target; furthermore, she would probably try to talk him out of following the guy, and there would be an argument in the street.
He decided to leave it for now, and just see where this guy was headed. He had no plans to make any contact with him.
As far as Will could make out, the guy did not know he was being followed. After all, no sane, rational person would do what Will was doing. The hooded sweatshirt, seemingly the same one he was wearing at the mall, was light grey, and easily visible under the street lamps. He was, however, walking fast, and Will quickened his pace again to keep up, to keep no more than fifty yards behind.
When he reached Hudson, the guy made a left and headed south; Will did the same a few seconds later. Over 10th, over Christopher. Moments later, crossing Leroy Street, ironically where Chrissy had been a few hours earlier. Once he had crossed Leroy, the figure bore left, and headed through James J Walker Park, the 3 acre park named after the New York politician, one of whose claims to fame was to legalize Sunday baseball.
The sign on the black railings Will passed as he entered the park said it closed at 9pm: it was almost that now, but the floodlit field was still being used by a dozen men playing baseball, and two of the four Bocce strips were in use. Both men were walking briskly across the concrete, Will being momentarily impeded by a small group of kids running through the park.
Once through the park, they were out on 7th Avenue. Will could see his quarry ahead, hood still up, hands in pockets, and heading down 7th.
‘You’re headed for the subway,’ Will muttered, still debating whether to follow or return home.
Will was right. The guy hurried down the steps to Houston Street station. As Will followed him down the stairs, he glanced up at the station name board: only the 1 train stopped here; so where was the guy headed? Didn’t the line go up as far as Washington Heights?
At the bottom of the steps Will saw him dash towards the platforms. There was a token booth as well as the standard High Entrance/Exit Turnstile: the guy pushed past the group of four Japanese tourists who were standing at the booth talking to the clerk, who was too occupied to even notice. Brushing past the group was too much for Will: he dug out his MetroCard from his back pocket and headed for the HEET turnstile. He swiped his card, and frustratingly had to wait a second or two before the green display showed go, and the gate allowed him access.
Now he had lost sight of the other man. There were two platforms, two stairways. One northbound, one southbound: which should he take? He decided to take a calculated risk: the southbound train would lead to Battery Park and the Financial District, not likely destinations for this guy. Will hurried over to and down the stairs to the northbound platform. He was halfway down the stairs when to his dismay he heard the roar and felt the warm draught of a train entering the station. Quickening his pace, as he reached the platform, to his relief it was an express coming through on the other line.
He paused for a second at the foot of the steps to catch his breath and look around. There was no sign of the guy. The platform was not that full fortunately, and he had a good view right on the whole length of the station. He looked over at the southbound platform, in case he was wrong: no sign.
Not wanting to walk up and down the platform in case the guy was here and spotted him, Will remained where he was, although he did have to move aside for other passengers coming down the stairs. He kept looking, in vain.
From behind, he heard the blare of a horn, and a train emerged from the tunnel. It was a northbound local service, headed for 242nd Street, in the Bronx. Then, as it pulled up, with a squeal of brakes, Will saw the hooded man step forward to the platform edge. He had been hidden by one of the wide metal ceiling support girders.
Will stood by the edge, looking up the platform, through the passengers getting on and off the train, to check what the guy was doing. He caught a glimpse of him getting on board, and did the same. The door closing alarm horn sounded and the doors slid shut. As the train pulled away, Will scanned the platforms. There was no sign of the guy, so he must be on board, around four cars away. Will leaned back against the door, relieved. He had a brief recollection of that scene in the movie The French Connection, where ‘Popeye’ Doyle and Charnier, played by Gene Hackman an
d Fernando Rey, are playing a cat and mouse game, getting on and off the subway. Will remained by the door, as he would need to check at every station in case the guy got off.
At every stop, Will would lean out of the doorway and look up the platform; occasionally, a passenger would jostle past him, muttering something. How long was this guy going to stay on the train? Or had he already gotten off? Would Will need to ride all the way up to 242nd?
Will got his answer eight stops later, at 59th St-Columbus Circle, ironically where it had all begun. Will stepped onto the platform and watched his quarry go up the steps to the Mezzanine level. He ran along the platform and followed.
For some reason, Will had assumed wherever the guy left the train would be his final destination. It had not occurred to him that he would just change trains. Keeping about thirty feet behind, Will followed him along past the numerous retail outlets to another set of platforms. Now he was headed for the B and D lines. Where the hell was he leading Will? The thought did occur to Will that he knew he was being followed, that he was leading Will through an elaborate tour of the city, just for the purpose of toying with him. Whatever the reason, Will decided to take the bait.
His phone vibrated. It was a text from Chrissy. That was a no-brainer. He would answer it presently.
Back on the platform, this time the B and D lines. Will could see the guy further up, swaying from one foot to the other. He quickly sent Chrissy a text back, saying he had been held up, and wouldn’t be long. How true that was, he had no idea.
A train came in. Its destination was 145th Street. Will watched carefully as the man stepped back a couple of paces. Clearly he was not going to board. A couple of minutes later, another: also for 145th. Again, the man remained on the platform. Will’s phone vibrated again: it was Chrissy saying ok. Will sniffed: she was obviously not missing him.
The next arrival was a D train, headed for 205th. The guy got on, Will once more following, once more four cars down. Will propped himself up against the door. He yawned. Now he was getting tired, as well as hungry. In all this excitement, he had forgotten he had not eaten since one.
From Columbus Circle, the train tracks the western perimeter of Central Park, then St Nicholas Avenue, until it makes a right bend after 145th St to head across the Harlem River to the Bronx. At every stop, Will leaned out of the open doors, and each time, he could not see the guy in the hood.
As the train headed further into the Bronx, Will stared out of the window at the lights and buildings and traffic outside. The line was elevated now, and he looked down at the streets, with their cars and trucks and buses and pedestrians, wishing he was home now. But he had reached the point of no return now: he needed to find out where this guy came from. After all, the bastard had come a long way to stand outside Will’s house.
They passed the Yankee Stadium, its upper seating stands rising above the tracks. Will was thankful the Yankees were not playing a home game tonight, otherwise there would be no way he could follow this guy through the crowds there would be on this train.
Deeper into the Bronx, now they were on the Grand Concourse route. Still the guy was not getting off. Will checked his watch: it was getting near ten. Now he was starting to have doubts about the wisdom in what he was doing. By following the guy this far, was he getting out of his depth?
182nd-183rd Streets station and the guy in the hood got off. Will followed, more than a little apprehensive, not knowing this part of the city very well - not at all, in fact - especially at 10pm. He trailed up the steps to the Mezzanine level, through the gates – this time the man just vaulted over the smaller gates. As Will passed through the gates, he caught sight of the man’s legs as he ran three steps at a time to street level on West 182nd. As Will reached the street, he looked around. No sign of him. Godammit.
He did a 360 and made him across Grand Concourse, heading west along 182nd. Will stabbed urgently at the crossing button and waited impatiently for the walk sign to flash. The traffic was too heavy to pre-empt the sign. Eventually he could cross and ran over the crossing to the west side. This was not going well: in the darkness and crowds and an unfamiliar area, he had lost him again.
Will hurried down the street and stood at the corner of 182nd, looking around. On the corner was a restaurant: Will peered in the window – there was no sign of him there. He ran his hands through his hair: after getting so far…
Then he spotted him again. Halfway down the block, there was an ice cream shop, with a kiosk window onto the street. The man in the hood was in line, buying an ice cream. Thank God it was a warm night, thought Will. He paused a moment to let the guy buy his ice, then turned towards the restaurant window, with the pretence of studying the menu, in case he should come back this way. He did not; licking his ice, he walked, at a much slower pace, down 182nd.
Will followed westwards along the street, past the Geel Community Center, where he made a right. Then he stopped at the corner, to check his bearings. This was Creston Avenue: he had no idea where he was headed, but surely it could not be that far?
He decided to give it another five minutes, after which he would head back home to the Village. Now the street was quiet, devoid of pedestrians. Will thought he could make out the guy in the distance, walking slowly. Will slowed down too, but not so he would draw attention to himself.
Then the guy had gone. Will paused for a beat, in case he reappeared. He did not. On this side of the street were apartment blocks, five or six floors high, the metal fire escape stairs hanging out over the sidewalks. Will walked slowly forwards: he must have gone into one of these buildings. This had to be as far as he could go tonight: there was no way he was going to find out which apartment the guy lived in. Not at this time of night.
It was the same the other side of the street: apartment buildings five, six floors high, overhanging fire escapes. As he walked slowly along, Will was conscious of the roar from some of the air conditioning outlets protruding from the windows.
He heard voices, and gazed up to where the sound was coming from. Through an open third floor window, a couple were arguing. Will could not make out what the argument was about, but the woman seemed to be winning. It struck him that for a warm night, there were surprisingly few windows open, and surprisingly few lights on. This was a mainly residential street, after all.
A car stopped across the street and manoeuvred into one of the few empty parking spaces. Will paused, leaning against one of the small trees planted at intervals along the sidewalk. Somebody got out of the car, slamming the door shut. The car lights flashed as the doors locked. Will remained still as the driver, whose build suggested a man, walked away from the vehicle and towards one of the buildings.
Will stepped away from the tree, and looked up at the apartment building where he thought the guy in the hood had gone in. Between two of the buildings was a small flight of steps, leading up to the entrance doors.
A sudden movement.
A figure leapt out of the darkness of a doorway. Both men crashed to the ground. A knee pushing down on the small of the back, the stink of stale tobacco, and the rough yanking back of the head with a fistful of hair.
‘Now you’ll tell me why you’re following me, motherfucker!’
TWENTY-TWO
‘Hey!’
Will felt the vibration and heard the ringtone as he ran across the road, coming to a brief halt to avoid being hit by a passing car. He assumed it was Chrissy, given up on texting and actually calling him: it had been some time since he had messaged her saying he would be late home. No time to pick up now, though.
He pushed himself through the space between two parked cars and leapt onto the sidewalk. Ten feet away from him somebody - looking very much like the person he had seen getting out of the car a few seconds ago - was lying face down on the ground. The guy wearing the hooded sweatshirt - the guy Will had been following all the way from Greenwich Village - was on top of him, one knee pressing down on his back, and had the man’s hair in one hand.
It was the expression on his face that Will would remember for many days: a mixture of surprise, anger, and hatred. He took one look at Will, stepped backwards off the man on the ground, and ran up the street. Will’s first instinct was to run after him, but he quickly decided he should assist the guy on the ground. He stepped over to him, crouched down and put his hand on the other’s shoulders.
‘Get off me; leave me alone,’ the man snapped.
‘It’s okay, pal; he’s run off,’ Will reassured him.
The man looked up and into Will’s face. ‘He has? Where…?’ He frantically looked around as he spoke.
‘Up the street. Are you okay? Come sit over here.’ Will helped him get off the ground and over to the apartment building entrance steps. ‘You okay?’ he asked again, sitting next to him.
The guy was middle aged, looking in his forties. Blond hair, through which he ran his hands. ‘Yeah, guess so.’
‘No broken bones?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied breathlessly. ‘Just shaken up, I guess.’
At that point a woman came out of the building and down the steps. Will could not tell whether she was wearing a housecoat or a nightdress. ‘Oh, my goodness - whatever’s happened?’
The man looked up at her. ‘This gentleman here just saved me from a mugging.’
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God. What did the son of a bitch take?’