“It’s shocking how the media capitalizes on people’s misery,” she said, from over the top of her magazine. Getting no response from her partner who was buried in the financial pages of his newspaper, she went on. “Remember what happened after Princess Diana died. The tabloids dredged up all those stories about her alleged love affairs.” She nudged his arm. “Are you listening?”
“I thought it was a rhetorical question,” he mumbled. “Anyway, didn’t most of those stories turn out to be true?”
“It’s not the point. It was pure sensationalism, just to sell more papers.”
“Yes, but it’s the public who creates the demand in the first place. Anyway, Diana’s been dead for years.”
She sighed. “It’s not really about her. It’s about the slew of so-called docu-dramas and pulp fiction that hit the market right after the 911 terrorist attacks? They showed human nature at its worst.”
“They also showed a human need to create myths out of horrific events, to try and understand or at least cope with them.”
She wasn’t so easily put off. “It doesn’t justify exploiting personal tragedies. I remember the film footage of families lining up for the victims’ death certificates. It was skewed in such a way to make viewers think they weren’t too unhappy about losing their relatives.”
“Well, they didn’t all look heartbroken.”
“So much for the camera never lying!” she shot back. “It lies 24 times per second!”
“Do the math,” he said, putting down his paper. “Among those victims, there must have been some whose relationships were bad. It might sound callous, but it wasn’t necessarily a tragedy for all their nearest and dearest. They say, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.”
“It’s a terrible thing to say. But to even suggest some people might see it as an opportunity to walk away and take on new identities is even more callous.”
“Well, if they did, it would be hard to prove otherwise. They never recovered all the bodies. But what’s brought all this back? We’re more than a decade on from it.”
“I’ve just read something along those lines, and it really chilled me,” she said. “It reminded me of dear old Reg. He worked in the south tower. Remember? Poor Cindy was so heartbroken she couldn’t stay in their apartment and went straight back to Canada.”
“Heartbroken? I wouldn’t be too sure. Reg told me they were having problems.”
“Maybe. But after he died, it was too late to fix them. Perhaps it’s why she couldn’t face coming back to pack up her things. A friend did it for her.”
“A friend? Male?”
“Of course not! Her friend, whose name escapes me now, phoned after the move, and she said Cindy would get in touch once she’d settled into her new place. She never did though. I wasn’t surprised. She needed a completely fresh start.”
“So why are you upset now?”
“It’s about one of the finalist’s entries in Pictorial’s short story contest. They’re running them this month. Did you read it?”
He knew when he was cornered. “No, but I will, if you want me to.”
The magazine was in his hand before he knew it.
***
The Perfect Crime
It seemed a day like any other as the man got ready for work. There were the usual petty aggravations: the tie matching his suit had a grease stain, and his one and only clean shirt needed ironing. Just one thing marked the start to this day as different. He tripped over his wife’s old cat. They despised each other, he and the cat, but she knew his routine and usually scurried out of his way when she saw him coming. Today she panicked and ran the wrong way, so there was a collision of soft fur and hard leather. She screeched her hatred and retired into a corner where her baleful yellow eyes wished down unimaginable evils upon his head. He returned the glare before remembering she could outstare him any time. Angry at losing this minor battle and even angrier for having engaged in it, he rushed out of the door without breakfast or even coffee. His wife turned her back on him as the door slammed.
His foul temper lasted for several stops on the subway journey to downtown. He usually read the paper — the one oasis in his otherwise crazy day — but today he found himself reflecting on his life. It was a day like any other, so why dwell on things he usually kept firmly shut away. However, an unbidden memory of youthful aspirations hit him with a dull sensation of pain.
They’d once planned to have kids. No way they could afford them on one income. Not in New York City. Ditto for buying a house. Nor had his career plans panned out. He’d slogged for the company, got some promotions but never the big one. It would come. All in good time. It would come, along with the big bucks.
Then his wife would realize why his job had to come first. She used to accuse him of thwarting her dreams, her ambitions, but she had to understand: a man’s career comes first. He had no idea about her life anymore, or even what she thought about. She never told him. He never asked. The rows had long since ended though, sometimes in an unguarded moment, she would wear a look he couldn’t fathom. It seemed to border on hatred. It didn’t bother him. He felt the same about her. He’d even had moments of fantasizing about getting rid of her. It’s all it was – fantasy. He would never get away with it. He didn’t even own a gun.
His train arrived at the World Trade Centre. As on countless other days, he craned his neck to gaze up at the twin towers. The September sun beamed out of a clear blue sky, almost blinding him with its glitter on steel and glass, and he felt a sense of his world righting itself – order restored. His pulse quickened. The sight of this place never failed to thrill him with something akin to love. This was his home, his dreams – The Dream – enshrined in those towering monuments. Gliding upwards in the crowded elevator, he imagined the penthouse suite where the sycophants in suits would already be fawning around the big man. He hated them. How he hated them. How he wished he were one of them.
His tiny cubicle was on the 100th floor of the south tower. He liked to get in early to feel the office come alive as the secretaries made coffee, gossiped, and wrote their personal e-mails with more dedication than they gave to anything else. He was already on his second coffee, sorting out important e-mails from the welter of junk mail. He stood up and looked around. Everything was as it should be.
A pain slammed into his chest, piercingly sharp. It took his breath away. The room spun around. He stumbled, grabbed the desk for balance, sat down heavily. Wave upon crimson wave rolled behind his eyes. Now the pain resolved into a dull ache. He was drifting to a far-off place with no desire to resist. So, this was a heart attack. Not so bad, and if it was the end …. He closed his eyes. Accepting.
Through a haze, distant voices, getting persistently louder, penetrated his consciousness and dragged him back to a commotion, which seemed to close in around him. He opened his eyes. He was alone – ignored. He came to his feet unsteadily. People were running to the windows facing the north tower. Even from where he stood, he saw the fire. He forgot the ache in his chest when someone shouted about a plane smashing into the tower.
The men were riveted, staring in disbelief at the flames, but the women were moving away from the windows, unable to watch. Some of them nervously picked up coats and purses, murmuring that they should leave.
The floor supervisor appeared, hands outstretched to reassure along with his calming Texan drawl. Nothing to panic about. A plane off its bearings. Tragic. Firemen already on the job. No need to evacuate. Quite safe. “Get back to work!”
The women looked at each other, but sheepishly moved towards their desks. The men pointedly sat down. So would he have done, but for an irresistible inner voice screaming at him to get the hell out of there.
Some people were milling around, still uncertain. He backed away to the side door. No one saw him slip out to the emergency stairs. Heart racing, he tore down them. Feet thundered on the stairs above and below him. Twenty floors down, his heart almost exploding from panic, he abandoned the stairs for the main elevators. He raced across the hallway as the doors were closing, forced his way inside the crowded cage and began a terrifying descent. Stark fear was on most faces, but no one spoke or looked at each other. Around the 30th floor, an almighty jolt shook the cage. A woman cried out but stuffed her hand into her mouth to stifle the sound. The elevator juddered to the ground and slowly, agonizingly slowly, the doors ground open. People scrambled out, shoving slower ones out of the way, racing for the exit doors. He almost knocked a woman off her feet but kept running. He felt like a jerk, but what the hell. It was every man for himself. Heart thundering, he reached the street.
He looked upwards for the second time on that oh so ordinary day, astonished at the massive north tower blaze, and even more bewildered at the fireball now erupting from the south tower – his tower. Its centre was below his office. On the ground – pandemonium. Fire trucks, police cruisers, ambulances, media trucks cluttered the entrances, people and cables everywhere. Police trying and failing to force the crowds away. Their eyes, like his, were fixed on the twin infernos. They stood, collectively holding their breath, as the unthinkable, the indescribable horror, unfolded.
The south tower, HIS tower, slowly imploded. It seemed to give a sigh, then in slow-motion crumpled in upon itself. For an eternal moment, there was a hush, then a mighty roar, and a tidal wave of dust, debris, glass raced towards him, smothering everything in its path. His feet urged him forward, but he could not outrun this avalanche of death. And he kept stopping, turning back in morbid fascination, refusing to believe the evidence of his eyes. Dust seared his lungs, choking him. Blinded, staggering in this maelstrom, a sliver of something sliced into his head. He stumbled, fell. Numb, he put his hand up to the blood streaming down his face. He couldn’t rise. He would die, and he knew it. His premonition of death was about to be fulfilled.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, jerked him to his feet. A fireman he vaguely knew. A moment of recognition. The fireman pulled back his hair, checked the source of blood – a flesh wound – then shoved him into a shop doorway, turned and disappeared into the fog of ash and destruction. He jiggled the door handle. Locked. He flattened himself against the wall of his narrow shelter, arms over his head, as the detritus of corporate America swirled past.
Infinity passed before he emerged, still dazed, into an eerily silent, unrecognizable world coated in yellowish/white powder. He clambered over steaming rubble and caught a glint of buried glass. For no apparent reason, he scrabbled to unearth a paperweight engraved with the name of one of the mercantile giants. It was unscathed and looked as if it had been carelessly tossed away, though once upon a time it may have graced the desk of some up-and-coming executive — someone not like himself. He stuffed the piece of junk in his pocket. Then joining a long procession of silent survivors, he started walking.
Dimly, he heard a second ominous roar, the same as the first and, like those around him, he ran as far and as fast as his legs would carry him. He needed no telling that the horrendous noise was from the collapse of the north tower. How many had died, he wondered, then shoved the thought away as his feet slowed. He had to get out of the city.
He plodded on until hours later he reached the small park next to his building. Footsore, exhausted he sank onto a bench. Almost there. He had survived. His wife would be relieved. Perhaps they could work out their problems and start over. Cold truth sobered him. They loathed each other. This catastrophe changed nothing. So, why was he rushing from one hellish place to another?
Why not disappear? No one would be any the wiser. Thousands must have died today. They would think he was one of them. If he didn’t have the guts to kill her, he could at least escape, make a fresh start somewhere far from New York. He’d always wanted to live in the country, perhaps buy a small farm, find some decent woman who appreciated him. A second chance to get it right.
He stood up and limped out of the park. He stopped and thought again. Why should he surrender his few worldly goods to the ungrateful woman who gave nothing to the marriage or to him? Still, it would be a small price to pay for his freedom. Ah, but there was the life insurance. The company policy was generous. Why should she cash in on it and live in luxury while he scrabbled to rebuild his life out of nothing? The life insurance decided him. He turned around.
But, when he entered the lobby of his building, a wave of foreboding hit him. He should turn back. He still could. He hesitated, then forced his feet up the stairs past apartments where he could hear CNN blaring a ‘War on America’ message. On to his own third floor apartment. He could hear the TV through the thin walls. Same channel.
The cat saw him first, arching her back and hissing from a safe distance. His wife turned, glass of wine in hand, face frozen as if she’d seen a ghost. It’s what he must look like. Or a monster from a horror movie with the blood and ash congealed around his head. He moved towards her. She backed away, speechless. Hand trembling, she set down the glass, next to another half-empty one. He fell into a chair and babbled out his story: about his premonition, about the fires, how none of his co-workers could have made it out, how everyone above the 70th floor must be dead.
He laughed hysterically. “All that dust. Fantastic disguise – could have robbed a bank.” Choked on tears. “Geez, it was quite the day! I could’ve been a goner!”
Her voice flat, she finally spoke. “I know. I saw it all. I thought for sure you were dead. I hoped you were.”
The last dregs of adrenalin drained away. He was aware only of crushing fatigue and a merciless throbbing in his head. He didn’t care about her cruel words. In her place he’d have felt the same. She wanted to be rid of him as much as he wanted to be rid of her. What a relief! He’d get a second chance after all. They’d sort out a divorce. Not today though. His body screamed for rest.
Through half closed eyes, he saw the other woman come from the bedroom – his bedroom. He’d never seen her before. Her face was grim, bloodless. She touched his wife’s arm. They moved closer to speak in half-whispers. “Blows our plans. What the…” From fragments, he knew they’d planned to kill him when he came home from work. “Insurance – disaster a gift – now what?”
He saw the woman draw the gun, but he was immobile in his chair, helpless. Their voices lowered even more. He strained his ears to catch their words. “A good plan – even better – thousands incinerated — never find bodies — everyone glued to CNN – wait until dark – the body.”
His tongue was stuck to his palate. He couldn’t speak, could only offer a mute appeal to his wife, but her mouth tightened, her eyes hardened.
She nodded to the woman, “Just do it,” and turned her back on him.
She didn’t hear his gasp of surprise as the bullet slammed into his body, and pain spread deep within his chest. Nor did she see the waves upon crimson waves of blood enfold him as he drifted to a far-off place – or his look of surprise give way to a smile as he remembered that the fireman had called him by name.
***
“Well?” she demanded, before he had even put down the magazine.
He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. It’s just another fictionalized theory on what could happen in such circumstances. I agree though. This one is a bit far-fetched.”
“It’s worse than far-fetched. So, you still think it’s okay to publish such rubbish, regardless of how it might cause distress to the survivors?”
“I’m not in favour of censorship, if that’s what you mean,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
“It’s still exploitation by any other name.” She jabbed her finger at the magazine. “And, if that story wins the contest, I’m cancelling my subscription!”
Believing she’d had the last word, she turned away to clear the table, which was just as well as she didn’t hear his half-uttered groan of relief that the magazine had not printed his name.
by 
Leigh Armitage
Latest posts by Leigh Armitage (see all)
- An Ill Wind - September 19, 2020
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