Out of Such Darkness

© Robert Ronsson, 2015

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Robert Ronsson lives in the Severn Valley with his wife Valerie. They have three children and two grandchildren. Robert retired early from his career in financial services to start writing full-time. His first novel
No Mean Affair
was published in 2012. Robert is on the organising team of his hometown’s blossoming literary festival and he and Valerie help run the community cinema.

Published by Patrician Press 2015

For more information:
www.patricianpress.com

First published as a paperback edition by Patrician Press 2015
E-book edition published by Patrician Press 2015

Copyright © Robert Ronsson 2015

The right of Robert Ronsson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Patrician Press.

All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-9930106-3-7

www.patricianpress.com

To Norah Geraldine Ireland and Cooper James Robert Byrne

Oh Fatherland, Fatherland,

Show us the sign

Your children have waited to see.

The morning will come

When the world is mine.

Tomorrow belongs to me.

(John Kander and Fred Ebb
Cabaret
1972)

On a late summer’s morning Jay Halprin drives his VW Golf Cabriolet westward along Route 22. The roof is down; the wind tugs at his greying hair; the sun flashes meaningless Morse in the rear-view mirror as the car speeds under the overhanging boughs. He will arrive at Burford Station in good time to catch his customary 07.14 train to Grand Central and he intends to be in his office shortly before 08.30. He will sweep into his allotted space in the station car park accompanied by the crunch of protesting gravel. His carton of take-out coffee awaits him in the drug-store.

Rachel Halprin, Jay’s wife, is at home tidying away the breakfast things as she contemplates an empty day. Her greatest challenge will be to find places in their rented house for the superfluous furnishings from England. She curses that the town’s swimming pool closed on Labor Day. Her afternoon visits had given her structure and routine. The sun will be warm enough later to sunbathe and swim – why did they close the pool? Her neighbours would tell her that you can’t trust the summer to stick around. It has packed its suitcase already. Fall is creeping up on Burford Lakes bringing lower temperatures and wet winds.

Jay and Rachel’s son Ben, having mastered the Pledge of Allegiance, is now familiar with everything he needs for a smooth passage through his seventh day at Jefferson High School. He stands on the street corner alongside neighbours Tyler and Peach Cochrane waiting for the school bus. His toes hang over the front of the kerb like a penguin on a cliff. He’s pondering whether or not to take part in the upcoming soccer trials.

The upheaval of the family’s re-planting in American soil is behind them. Tender root-tips are emerging, feeling their way through this fertile loam.

Jay, the agent of the family’s move, waits in the Burford Station drugstore line silently rehearsing his order – double-shot-American-black. He glances at the shelf of magazines. His camera-pan stops at the red masthead of the
Burford Buzz.

This is wrong. The editor, Melissa Rosenberg, told him that the magazine would be out on the second
Thursday
in the month. He checks the cover and finds the date. He’s right; the drug-store owner has put it on the stand two days before time. If Jay wants to read the interview ‘fresh off the press’ he should buy it today.

The dollars in his hand are only enough for his coffee so he feels in his pocket for more folded bills. Nothing. He curses under his breath remembering how, the evening before at the grocery checkout, he had handed over the bulk of his cash. He had intended to use the ATM when he arrived at Grand Central.

He pinches his lower lip between his forefinger and thumb and looks over the sharp-suited shoulder of the commuter in front of him. How long is the line? Jay’s train is due any second. If he crosses the square to the bank he’ll have to wait for the next one. But he needs to read the interview – to see what Melissa made of him.

A woman turns away from the counter with her coffee and a copy of the
New York Times.
The queue steps forward one pace. It’s two months since Jay moved to Burford Lakes but he’s yet to develop a newspaper habit. His daily routine is to buy only the coffee and to catch up with business reading while the train soothes its way past the copses and reservoirs of the northern suburbs of Manhattan. If Jay ignores the premature
Buzz
and catches his usual train, he will arrive at Grand Central in good time.

An alternative scenario comes to him. He’s in the station car park lounging in the cream leather seat of his car. The roof is down and his jacket is draped over the passenger seat. The take-out carton of coffee is in his right hand and, in his left, the
Burford Buzz
is open at the page where he had explained to his new neighbour why he and the family had come to New York; why they had chosen Burford Lakes as their home. The sun, still low in the sky, caresses his hair.

So it is that, as the 07.14 to Grand Central glides into the station, Jay strides away along one of the diagonal paths crossing Burford Station square. He passes under the statue of Chief Kisco in full ceremonial dress, pointing the way to the Bank of America.

Melissa Rosenberg meets her new English neighbor
and warms to the idea of a British invasion!

It’s been 125 years since Lord Percy led his Redcoat stragglers into the settlement of Burford Lakes and ordered it to be pillaged and burned to the ground. We guard our memories jealously so, despite being allies in the world wars of 1917 and ’41, we stay cool when the cry goes up that ‘the British are coming!’

These thoughts flashed through my mind as I stood on the steps of a tidy colonial house on The Ponds Estate waiting for Leslie ‘Jay’ Halprin to answer the door. Would this man, who had brought his family to our shores, be a true successor to Percy – taking the food from our mouths, destroying our livelihoods?

Based on my meeting with him, I have to say that nothing could be further from the truth – unless you’re a Brand Recovery Consultant, that is. And Jay told me that in New York they’re as rare as nuggets in a Croton River prospector’s gold-pan.

Jay’s delightful wife Rachel made tea in a teapot the English way and graciously departed to meet some of her new friends at the town pool. She’s wasted no time gathering round her a circle of Burford Lakes townswomen who share her taste for sunshine and exercise – but not too much of either!

But back to Jay: why is he here?

‘I was one of Europe’s top brand-recovery experts and Glenn Straub and Francois DuCheyne wanted me for their team.’ According to Jay, ‘Straub, DuCheyne is the world leader in brand management. My specialty [he says speciality!] is helping companies rebuild their brand after negative publicity.’

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked, casting a critical eye over the oddly-assorted sticks of patio furniture that gave the living room a transient look.

He beamed a broad smile. (All those bad things we hear about British dentistry certainly don’t apply to Jay!) ‘The neighbors here have been very kind. Rachel was – we all were – going stir-crazy cooped up in a hotel. We decided to move in here with just a television and a sofa-bed. The people around us were soon knocking at our door offering to lend us the things we need until our furniture arrives. Everybody has been so friendly. They’re even holding a welcome party for us.’

I wondered how long the Halprins intended to stay in our fair boro.

‘Who knows? Our first impressions are that we couldn’t have found a more welcoming locality than Burford Lakes. We have everything we need here. I can’t see why we shouldn’t make the move permanent.’

All work and no play would (possibly!) make Jay a dull boy so I asked him what he does in his spare time.

‘On the first Sunday we were here I heard the familiar shouts of men playing football [he means soccer!] somewhere behind the house. So I went to the end of the garden [backyard!] and discovered a pick-up game in the park. I only had to show an interest for a few minutes before theyinvited me to join in. I now play every Sunday.’

So there we have it. Here is one Brit whose diplomatic skills are definitely an improvement on Lord Percy. But it’s not all plain sailing – Jay offered a story to illustrate that there is some grit in the oyster and asked, ‘You sure you want to hear?’

I found the combination of Jay’s dark eyes, his winning smile and that quaint English accent irresistible – it was as if Hugh Grant himself was asking for my permission to keep talking. No way was I saying nay!

‘Well, one of our first big purchases was a car – a Subaru 4×4. At the dealer’s, I asked to see “under the bonnet”. The salesman gave me a very puzzled look in response.’

As all the good folks of Burford Lakes would! Jay’s joke made sense when he explained that, on his side of the pond, what we call the ‘hood’, they call the ’bonnet’!

We laughed together as the sun went down behind the trees lining the backyard. Rachel returned from the pool and my work was done. As I closed my notebook, the lady of the house poured me a glass of European Chardonnay (small at my request!) and long-time Burford Lakes residents and next-door neighbors Bob and Katy dropped by. Here is one Brit family that looks as if it’s going to fit right in. Once they get to grips with our ‘foreign’ language, that is!

Jay is half an hour behind his original schedule as he steps down from the train and joins the crowd hurrying up the ramp to the Grand Central concourse. He consults his watch. On a sunny day he prefers to walk the mile or so along Park Avenue to the subway at Union Square. The trains going south are more frequent there. He jostles through the commuters who scuttle like cockroaches across the marble floor.

Outside, on Park Avenue, he crosses to the western side, the sunny side. The city’s workers are making the most of the weather in shirtsleeves with jackets hooked by fingers over shoulders or folded into commuter backpacks.

The boulevards of New York fire up Jay’s system and it runs hotter than a pan of French fries. Jay has read
The Bonfire of the Vanities
by Tom Wolfe but the moral was lost on him. He loves this city – this cauldron boiling in the heat of capitalist enterprise. These commercial cliff-sides that tower over him, this special Manhattan muscle-bustle, the blue sky of September, the grid-locked yellow cabs that honk like geese: all these things come together to convince him that his decision was correct to take the job with Straub, DuCheyne.

Buoyed by NY fever and the
Burford Buzz
puffery, his chest is pumped and his stride is long. He swings his shoulders in a poor-imitation pimp-roll and hums the song by Sting –
Alien in New York
– while he imagines his arrival at the office. He’ll throw his briefcase onto the couch by the coffee table, move to the narrow floor-to-ceiling-window and scan the view across to Brooklyn. He knows he’ll never lose his fascination with the insect-scurries of the ferries criss-crossing the reflective surface of the East River. Nancy will enter the office. They’ll discuss the morning’s post and e-mails. Although he’s worked at Straub, DuCheyne for only a month he’s secured one new client already. Nancy – statuesque Nancy – will flash her perfect teeth and congratulate him on his progress with a possible new client in Texas. He’s making his mark. Not bad for a working-class lad from England.

A spark in the sky makes him look up as he passes Stuyvesant Square. It’s a flash of light reflected off the wing of an aircraft as it banks low towards the twin towers of the World Trade Center. How low Jay doesn’t register until his mind clears and, for a millisecond, he goes back twenty years and is in his Student Union bar watching in slow-motion as a stray dart embeds itself in the soft panel of a loudspeaker. Then, back in the present, the plane plunges into one of the towers.

Time freezes. He’s mistaken, surely. His eyes have betrayed him – there are billows of flame from the tower’s near side but there is no noise. Has this horror happened with no sound – distanced from reality – a video with the mute button on?

Jay’s heart jolts. There is a scream of engines and it’s as if the scene is being re-enacted with sound. The
whoooumpf
comes as the point of the aircraft pierces the building and the wings slice through its core. Then the roar, as a fireball bursts through the northern facade. Debris showers down, trailing fire and smoke.

Jay points up and looks around. The other southbound pedestrians who saw it are slack-jawed and gaping. People who had been coming towards him turn back. Their heads twist round and upwards, like tree-tops lashed by a storm-wind. An unrecognisable force jerks the New Yorkers around him into movement. They stagger towards the stricken tower.

Jay’s mind is tumbling with images he doesn’t understand. It’s crashing with stimuli that he’s not equipped to process. The majority of people around him are responding to an urge to get closer but his instinct is for flight. He turns against the streams of flocking New Yorkers and hurries back to Grand Central.

Within fewer than fifteen minutes, Jay is on a Brewster-bound train. The other passengers are brown-skinned, Spanish-speakers. For them this is the normal commute, leaving the city when the suits move in. They whisper mostly, chins sunk into their chests. The ones who had seen what Jay witnessed have passed on the news. Huddled in the carriage, they reflect his shame. They also are outsiders. They also are running away.

Iced water floods into Jay’s veins. Sweat damps his forehead and, under his shirt, cold dribbles of moisture track down his sides. He closes his eyes and slumps further down in his seat; he needs to feel the movement, the progress away from disaster. He shivers and, like a screening on the inside of his eyelids, he watches once more the missile plunge in and the plume of fire spew out. It was the nearer North Tower; he doesn’t doubt it.

He tries to count floors from the top but only has an impression – about one-fifth of the way down. There are 110 floors. So it must have happened around the 85th floor. The offices of Straub, DuCheyne are on the 95th.

His mind is in turmoil. Had one of his colleagues – Nancy perhaps – glanced out of the window and seen it coming? How fast do they fly? He had read somewhere that planes gobble up hundreds of metres per second. If she
had
seen it, Nancy wouldn’t have had time to scream.

He takes out his mobile phone and hits the office number. It’s busy.

The percussion of the wheels of the train as they cross points outside Fordham echo the rhythm of Jay’s startled heart.
Bm-ta-ta, bm-ta-ta, bm-ta-ta-ta-bm-ta
. His eyes are closed and, as he will remember it for the rest of his life, the clatter is not loud enough to mask the sound of light footsteps stepping in time to the train’s beat. Somebody, somebody who evidently doesn’t know, is skipping in the aisle. The sound stops level with him and Jay is aware that the light weight of a small person is now perched alongside him on the seat. When Jay opens his eyes nobody is there.