probably too good for him, considering the way he’d treated Valerie.
He could no longer feel his heart beating. And he was cold, terribly cold.
Death was supposed to last for eternity, and he could hardly stay in the dark the whole time. He plucked up his courage and managed to reopen his eyes.
To his amazement, he found himself leaning up against the traffic light on the corner of Charles Street and the West Side Highway.
Hell didn’t look anything like the way it had been described in catechism class at the Catholic school he’d gone to in Poughkeepsie, unless this crossing was the entrance to it. But considering the number of times Andrew had run past it, surely he’d have figured it out before this.
He was trembling like a leaf in the wind, and his back was covered in sweat. He glanced at his watch without thinking. It was exactly 7 A.M. —fifteen minutes before he’d been killed.
That made no sense at all. He glanced around. Everything looked just the same as it did every morning. Cars were streaming north on the opposite side of the traffic island. The cars heading south towards the Financial District were bumper to bumper, while joggers advanced along the Hudson River Park path at a brisk pace.
Andrew tried to collect his thoughts. The only good thing about dying, as far as he knew, was that it freed you from physical suffering. But he was feeling acute pain in his lower back, and seeing stars. Surely that meant his soul was still firmly anchored to his body?
He was short of breath, but he was obviously still breathing; how else could he be coughing? A wave of nausea overcame him, and he leaned forward to throw up his breakfast in the gutter.
There was no way he could continue; he swore he wouldn’t drink another drop of alcohol as long as he lived, not even a Fernet and Coke. Life had made him pay far too steep a price for him to get caught out again.
He gathered what strength he could and turned around. He’d get back home, have a nice long shower and a rest, and everything would be fine.
The pain in his back began to diminish as he walked, and Andrew persuaded himself he must have simply fainted for a few seconds—a brief loss of consciousness that had disoriented him totally.
And yet he could have sworn he had already reached Pier 40, several blocks past Charles Street, when he’d fainted. He would definitely go see his doctor to check it wasn’t anything serious.
He thought again of Valerie and decided to call the newspaper when he had rested up a little to say he would be late. Then he would jump in a taxi and head for his wife’s surgery ward at the NYPD stables. He needed to tell her he was sorry and ask her to forgive him.
Andrew pushed open the door of his building, climbed to the third floor, slipped his key in the lock and went in. The keys dropped out of his hand when he saw Valerie in the living room. She asked if he’d seen the shirt she had picked up from the dry cleaner’s the previous evening. She’d been looking for it ever since he’d gone out for his run and still hadn’t managed to find it.
She stopped searching to look at him, and asked why he was staring at her in that dazed way.
Andrew didn’t know what to say.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Help me look. I’m going to be late, and today really isn’t the day for it—we’ve got a health inspector coming in.”
Andrew didn’t move. His mouth was dry. His lips felt like they’d been glued together.
“I’ve made you some coffee. And get yourself something to eat—you’re pale as a ghost. You always overdo it when you go running,” Valerie said, taking up her hunt again. “But help me find that shirt first. You’ve got to make some room for my things in your closet. I’m sick of lugging my stuff from my place to yours: look what happens!”
Andrew took a step towards Valerie and caught hold of her arm to capture her attention.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but finding you here is the
He could no longer feel his heart beating. And he was cold, terribly cold.
Death was supposed to last for eternity, and he could hardly stay in the dark the whole time. He plucked up his courage and managed to reopen his eyes.
To his amazement, he found himself leaning up against the traffic light on the corner of Charles Street and the West Side Highway.
Hell didn’t look anything like the way it had been described in catechism class at the Catholic school he’d gone to in Poughkeepsie, unless this crossing was the entrance to it. But considering the number of times Andrew had run past it, surely he’d have figured it out before this.
He was trembling like a leaf in the wind, and his back was covered in sweat. He glanced at his watch without thinking. It was exactly 7 A.M. —fifteen minutes before he’d been killed.
That made no sense at all. He glanced around. Everything looked just the same as it did every morning. Cars were streaming north on the opposite side of the traffic island. The cars heading south towards the Financial District were bumper to bumper, while joggers advanced along the Hudson River Park path at a brisk pace.
Andrew tried to collect his thoughts. The only good thing about dying, as far as he knew, was that it freed you from physical suffering. But he was feeling acute pain in his lower back, and seeing stars. Surely that meant his soul was still firmly anchored to his body?
He was short of breath, but he was obviously still breathing; how else could he be coughing? A wave of nausea overcame him, and he leaned forward to throw up his breakfast in the gutter.
There was no way he could continue; he swore he wouldn’t drink another drop of alcohol as long as he lived, not even a Fernet and Coke. Life had made him pay far too steep a price for him to get caught out again.
He gathered what strength he could and turned around. He’d get back home, have a nice long shower and a rest, and everything would be fine.
The pain in his back began to diminish as he walked, and Andrew persuaded himself he must have simply fainted for a few seconds—a brief loss of consciousness that had disoriented him totally.
And yet he could have sworn he had already reached Pier 40, several blocks past Charles Street, when he’d fainted. He would definitely go see his doctor to check it wasn’t anything serious.
He thought again of Valerie and decided to call the newspaper when he had rested up a little to say he would be late. Then he would jump in a taxi and head for his wife’s surgery ward at the NYPD stables. He needed to tell her he was sorry and ask her to forgive him.
Andrew pushed open the door of his building, climbed to the third floor, slipped his key in the lock and went in. The keys dropped out of his hand when he saw Valerie in the living room. She asked if he’d seen the shirt she had picked up from the dry cleaner’s the previous evening. She’d been looking for it ever since he’d gone out for his run and still hadn’t managed to find it.
She stopped searching to look at him, and asked why he was staring at her in that dazed way.
Andrew didn’t know what to say.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Help me look. I’m going to be late, and today really isn’t the day for it—we’ve got a health inspector coming in.”
Andrew didn’t move. His mouth was dry. His lips felt like they’d been glued together.
“I’ve made you some coffee. And get yourself something to eat—you’re pale as a ghost. You always overdo it when you go running,” Valerie said, taking up her hunt again. “But help me find that shirt first. You’ve got to make some room for my things in your closet. I’m sick of lugging my stuff from my place to yours: look what happens!”
Andrew took a step towards Valerie and caught hold of her arm to capture her attention.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but finding you here is the
Similar Books
