Dead Man's Footsteps

back of a school classroom, in front of a small blackboard, and there were pictures stuck to the wall behind them. One depicted a bear with a striped scarf riding a bicycle. A man in a suit was standing over George Bush, whispering into his ear. Then the image changed to wreckage of a plane on the ground.
    ‘You’re OK,’ the man said to Ronnie. ‘I like you. You’re OK.’ He poured more vodka into his own glass, then held the bottle over Ronnie’s for a moment. He squinted, saw it was still full and set the bottle back down in the ice. ‘You should drink.’ He drained his glass. ‘Today we need to drink.’ He turned back to the screen. ‘This not real. Not possible.’
    Ronnie took a sip. The vodka burned his throat. Then, moments later, he tipped the glass back and drained it.The effect was almost instant, burning deep inside him. He poured another for himself and for his new best friend.
    They fell silent. Just watching the screen.
    After several more vodkas, Ronnie was starting to feel rather drunk. At some point he staggered off his stool, stumbled over to one of the empty booths and fell asleep.
    When he woke up, he had a blinding headache and a raging thirst. Then a sudden moment of panic.
    My bags .
    Shit, shit, shit .
    Then, to his relief, he saw them, still standing where he had left them, by his vacated bar stool.
    It was 2 o’clock.
    The same people were still in the bar. The same images were still repeating on the screen. He hauled himself back on to the bar stool and nodded at his friend.
    ‘What about the father?’ the Bond heavy said.
    ‘Yeah, why they don’t mention him?’ the other heavy said.
    ‘Father?’ the barman said.
    ‘All we hear is this Son of Bin Laden. What about the father?’
    Mayor Giuliani was now on the screen, talking earnestly. He looked calm. He looked caring. He looked like a man who had things under control.
    Ronnie’s new best friend turned to him. ‘You know Sam Colt?’
    Ronnie, who was trying to listen to Giuliani, shook his head. ‘No.’
    ‘The guy invented the revolver, right?’
    ‘Ah, OK, him.’
    ‘Know what this man said?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Sam Colt said, Now I’ve made all men equal! ’ The Russian grinned, baring his revolting teeth again. ‘Yeah? OK? Understand?’
    Ronnie nodded and ordered sparkling mineral water and coffee. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, he realized, but he had no appetite.
    Giuliani was replaced by stumbling grey ghosts. They looked like the grey ghosts he had seen earlier. A poem from way back at school suddenly came into his head. From one of his favourite writers, Rudyard Kipling. Yeah. He was the Man .
    Kipling understood about power, control, empire-building.
    If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs… If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same…
    On the screen he saw a fireman weeping. His helmet was covered in grey snow and he was sitting, visor up, cradling his face in his hands.
    Ronnie leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the barman. He turned from the screen. ‘Uh huh?’
    ‘Do you have rooms here? I need a room.’
    His new best friend turned to him. ‘No flights. Right?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Where you from anyway?’
    Ronnie hesitated. ‘Canada. Toronto.’
    ‘Toronto,’ the Russian repeated. ‘Canada. OK. Good.’ He fell silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Cheap room?’
    Ronnie realized he could not use any cards – even if they had any credit left on them. He had just under fourhundred dollars in his wallet, which would have to tide him over until he could convert some of the other currency he had in his bag – if he could find a buyer who would pay him the right money. And not ask questions.
    ‘Yes, a cheap room,’ he replied. ‘Cheaper the better.’
    ‘You’re in the right place. You want SRO. That’s what you want.’
    ‘SRO?’
    ‘Single Room Occupancy. That’s what you want. You pay cash, they no ask you questions. My cousin has SRO house. Ten minutes’ walk. You want I give you the address?’
    ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Ronnie replied.
    The Russian showed him his teeth again. ‘Plan? You have plan? Good plan?’
    ‘ Carpe diem! ’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘It’s an expression.’
    ‘ Carpe diem? ’ The Russian pronounced it slowly, clumsily.
    Ronnie grinned, then bought him another drink.

45
OCTOBER 2007
    Major Incident Room One was the larger of two airy rooms in the Major Incident Suite of