Dead Man's Footsteps

and smiled wryly. Home from home. Sort of! It would have been fun to have someone take his photograph beside it. Lorraine would be amused. On another day, under different circumstances.
    He sat down on the bench beside the sign and leaned back in the seat, unfastened his tie, coiled it and put it in his pocket. Then he opened the top button of his shirt. Theair felt good on his neck. He needed it. He was shaking. Palpitating. His heart was thumping. He looked at his watch. Nearly midday. He began patting dust out of his hair and clothes and felt in need of a drink. He never normally drank in the daytime, well, not until lunchtime anyhow – most days. But a stiff whisky would slip down nicely. Or a brandy. Or even, he thought, thinking about those Russian signs, a vodka.
    He stood up, gripped the handle of his bag and carried on pulling it along behind him, listening to the steady bump-bump-bump of the wheels on the planks. He saw a sign on a shop ahead. The first shop in the parade. In blue, red and white were the words: moscow and bar. Beyond was a green awning on which was a name in yellow letters: TATIANA .
    He went into the Moscow bar. It was almost empty and felt gloomy. There was a long wooden counter to his right, with round, red leather bar stools on chromium feet, and to the left, red leather banquette seats and metal tables. A couple of men who looked like heavies from a Bond movie sat on bar stools. Their heads were shaven, they wore black, short-sleeve T-shirts and they were silently glued to a wide-screen television on the wall. Mesmerized by it.
    Shot glasses sat in front of them on the counter, along with a bottle of vodka wedged into a bed of ice in a bucket. Both held cigarettes and an ashtray filled with butts sat beside the ice bucket. The other occupants, two young hunks, both wearing expensive-looking leather jackets and sporting large rings, were seated at one banquette. They were both drinking coffee and one was smoking.
    It was a good smell, Ronnie thought. Coffee and cigarettes. Strong, Russian cigarettes. There were signs around the bar written in Cyrillic, banners and flags from footballclubs, mostly English. He recognized Newcastle, Manchester United and Chelsea.
    On the screen was an image of hell on earth. No one in the bar spoke. Ronnie began watching as well; it was impossible not to. Two planes, one after the other, flying into the Twin Towers. Then each of the towers coming down. Didn’t matter how many times he saw it, each time was different. Worse.
    ‘Sir, yes?’
    Broken English. The barman was a shrimp with a fuzz of cropped black hair brushed forward, wearing a grungy apron over a denim shirt that needed ironing.
    ‘Do you have Kalashnikov vodka?’
    He looked blank. ‘Krashakov?’
    ‘Forget it,’ Ronnie said. ‘Any vodka, neat, and an espresso. You have espresso?’
    ‘Russian coffee.’
    ‘Fine.’
    The shrimp nodded. ‘One Russian coffee. Vodka.’ He walked with a stoop as if his back was hurting.
    A man was hurting on the screen. He was a bald, black guy covered in grey powder, with a clear breathing mask over his face, attached to an inflated bag. A man in a red helmet with a visor, a red face mask and a black T-shirt was urging him forward through grey snow.
    ‘So much shit!’ the shrimp said in broken English. ‘Manhattan. Unbelievable. You know about this? You know what happening?’
    ‘I was there,’ Ronnie said.
    ‘Yes? You was there?’
    ‘Get me a drink. I need that drink,’ he snapped.
    ‘I get you a drink. Don’t worry. You was there?’
    ‘Some part of that you don’t understand?’ Ronnie said.
    The barman turned away huffily and produced a vodka bottle. One of the Bond heavies turned to Ronnie and raised his glass. He was drunk and slurring his speech. ‘You know what? Thirty years ago I’d have said comrade to you. Now I say buddy . Know what I mean?’
    Ronnie raised his glass seconds after the barman put it down. ‘Not exactly, no.’
    ‘You gay or something?’ the man asked.
    ‘No, I’m not gay.’
    The man put his glass down and windmilled his arms. ‘I don’t have no problem with gays. Not that. No.’
    ‘Good,’ Ronnie said. ‘I don’t either.’
    The man broke into a grin. His teeth were terrible, Ronnie thought. It looked like he had a mouthful of rubble. The man raised his glass and Ronnie clinked it. ‘Cheers.’
    George Bush was on the screen now. He was wearing a dark suit with an orange tie, sitting at the