Dead Man's Footsteps

forcefully.
    Lorraine looked at the phone handset beside her. Ronnie had not called. Thousands of people were dead. These people were happy? People jumping out of skyscrapers. A bloody nose ?
    She picked up the phone handset, pressed it to her sodden cheeks. Call, Ronnie darling, call. Please call. Please call .
    Mo had always been protective towards Lorraine. Although only three years older, she treated her as if there was a whole generation between them.
    They were actually very different people. Not just their hair colouring – Mo’s was almost jet black – and appearance, but their attitude to life and their luck. Mo had a shapely, rounded, naturally voluptuous figure. She was gentle. Life fell into her lap. Lorraine suffered five years of humiliating, cripplingly expensive – and ultimately unsuccessful – in vitro fertilization treatment. Mo could get pregnant by just thinking about her husband’s dick.
    Mo’d had three children, one after the other, who were all growing up into nice people. She was happy with her quiet, unassuming draughtsman husband and her small, pleasant home. Sometimes Lorraine wished she could be like her. Content. Instead of the yearnings – cravings – she had for a better lifestyle.
    ‘Lori!’ Mo shouted excitedly from the kitchen.
    She came running into the room and, for a moment, Lorraine’s hopes soared. Had she glimpsed Ronnie on the news?
    But Mo’s face was a mask of shock as she appeared. ‘Quick! Someone’s stealing your car!’
    Lorraine leaped off the sofa, jammed her feet into her loafers, ran to the front door and pulled it open. There was a low-loader truck with amber flashing lights on the roof, parked just past her short driveway. Two men, rough-looking types, were winching her convertible BMW up metal ramps on to the truck.
    ‘Hey!’ she shouted, running down towards them, livid. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
    They carried on winching up the car, which moved steadily forward, jerking along the ramp. As Lorraine approached, the taller one stuffed a grimy hand into his front pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘Are you Mrs Wilson?’
    Uneasy, suddenly, her confidence eroding, she replied, ‘Yes?’
    ‘Your husband is Mr Ronald Wilson?’
    ‘Yes, he is.’ Her defiance was returning.
    He showed her the documents. Then, his tone softening, almost apologetic, he said, ‘Inter-Alliance Autofinance. I’m afraid we are repossessing this vehicle.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘No payments have been made for six months. Mr Wilson’s in breach of the terms.’
    ‘There must be a mistake.’
    ‘I’m afraid not. Your husband’s ignored three warning letters that have been sent to him. Under the terms of the hire purchase, the company is legally entitled to repossess this vehicle.’
    Lorraine burst into tears as the rear wheels of the blue BMW went over the top of the ramp and on to the flatbed. ‘Please – you’ve seen the news today. My husband is there.He’s in – in New York. I’m trying to get hold of him. I’m sure we can sort this out.’
    ‘He’ll have to speak to the company tomorrow, madam.’ There was some sympathy in the man’s voice, but he was firm.
    ‘Look – I – please leave the car here tonight.’
    ‘I’ll give you a number you can call tomorrow,’ he said.
    ‘But – but – I won’t have a car. How am I supposed to manage? I – I’ve got things in the car. CDs. Parking vouchers. My sunglasses.’
    He gestured. ‘Go ahead. You can take those.’
    ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks a million.’

53
OCTOBER 2007
    Shaking in terror, Abby watched the creeping shadow, heard the squeak of a trainer on the shiny hall floorboards, followed by the rustle of paper.
    Then Ricky appeared.
    He stood in the doorway and leaned casually against the jamb, his leather motorcycling jacket unzipped, a grimy white T-shirt beneath. He had several days’ growth of stubble and his hair was greasy, and looked as if it had been flattened down on his head by the helmet. He seemed different from the last time she had seen him. He no longer had the air of a relaxed surfer dude, but one of a haunted man. He had aged in just a couple of months. He had lost weight and his face was haggard, with black rims and heavy bags beneath his eyes. He smelled rank.
    Christ, how had she ever fancied him?
    He was smiling, as if reading her mind.
    But it wasn’t a smile she knew. Not a Ricky smile. It was more like a mask he had