American Devil

They’d driven back over from Long Island in the warmth of her little Honda with the dog licking his neck the whole way. They’d talked a little more about the case in sentences that seemed to get lost in the sound of the traffic, and at some point she realized that he wasn’t listening and the case drifted away into the darkness. She let him out just over the Triborough Bridge, but he only managed two or three steps towards his apartment before he felt the old familiar sense of dread. The horrible fact of being alone was that you went home dog tired but as soon as you were through the door the bright lights in your heart flickered on and you were trapped with your own carousel of memories. Home was a place you sometimes didn’t want to get to.

Four beers in and Harper was drumming his fingers to the country music and letting his memories pitch and recede like the tide. He watched the oddballs come and go with little curiosity and sometimes managed a smile of acknowledgement. Patsy Cline was soon drowning out all else in the bar with her sad stories. She’d just started an old song, ‘I Don’t Wa

Tom sipped his beer. He didn’t need memories now. He listened to Patsy Cline singing about love and the lack of it. The beer and music were doing all the work his heart needed.

Love felt like a hollow echo of some once perfect time and place. Perhaps it was just a fantasy that kept emerging from the deep to ruin your life. He felt so mad at Lisa, his teeth clenched. It wouldn’t happen again. He’d keep things tight and impersonal. His eyes lifted. A couple danced in the gloom. He watched their hands clasp and their hips touch.

Sometimes it was hard to admit that it wasn’t anger eating him up, but something else entirely. Levene had it right. It was plain old loneliness. It was never easy to open the door to need, but the beer was helping and Harper knew that what he wanted was nothing more than to hug up close to someone and let the world drift away. He drained his glass and listened.

As the song finished, an attractive brunette who’d been catching his glances sidled up to him at the bar and pulled up a stool. She was mid-thirties, wore tight denims and a top with a deep neckline.

‘You mind if I join you for a conversation?’

‘I never mind a conversation,’ Harper said.

She sat. For a moment, Harper wondered where she was from and what she did. He took in the heavy perfume, the lack of a ring on her wedding finger and the tired look in her eyes.

‘What you thinking about tonight?’ she asked.

‘Why love passes us by.’

‘My, that’s a big topic.’

‘How about you? Love pass you by?’

She smiled. It was nice. ‘Well, it stopped in the station a day or two.’

‘Same here,’ Harper said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Samantha. You?’

‘Tom.’

‘What do you do, Tom?’

‘Me, I don’t know. I really don’t know any more.’

She laughed. ‘Me neither.’

They talked for an hour - he told her all about Lisa; he heard all about her Frank. Then Tammy Wynette came on the jukebox, singing ‘Help me make it through the night’, and Samantha took his hand and led him out from the seat. She came up close to him on the dance floor and they slow-danced to the sentimental old song, her warm body comfortable against his.

It’d been years since Harper had felt another’s skin next to his own apart from Lisa’s. He felt strange, like a man doing something he shouldn’t. He was moving like a wooden marionette, and Samantha felt it.

‘It’s no big deal, Tom, just a dance: she’s not watching.’ She pulled him back towards her and leaned her head on his shoulder. Tom felt her hair brush against his skin. He remembered something Denise had once said to him. You want to get to somewhere new, let go of the ledge. Tom slowly moved his hand on to her back and let it lie flat against her shoulder.

‘Let’s enjoy tonight just for itself,’ she whispered.

That seemed the right thing to do. One hand off the ledge at a time. The two of them held each other tight and danced into the New York City night, momentarily parted from their loneliness.

Chapter Fifty-Three

East Harlem, 7-Eleven

November 26, 11.55 p.m.

Outside, snow had started to fall. The thick white flakes turned black as soon as they hit the wet street, but the tops of cars were gathering a blanket of thick snow. Inside the one lit all-night shop on a narrow and dilapidated row, wet footprints trailed from the door to the counter. A path made of ripped-up brown boxes continued around the two aisles. In the back room of the 7-Eleven, Maurice Macy danced from one foot to the other like he was desperate for a leak. He picked up a large stack of boxes of ti

Be

Maurice placed the three boxes on the floor of the shop and took out a knife. He ripped open the first box. Tins of prime cooked mince. He more or less lived on ti

And home made him shiver and sweat.

It had been like that for days now. Half the time, he had too much to do and could forget all about it. Put it out of his mind. He was normal old reliable Mo. Smiling, forgetful, helpful Mo. Serving the coffee, sweeping the store, helping an old lady get something off the high shelves.

Then it’d come to mind like a sudden vision and he’d shake. He’d shake because he suddenly remembered. And it was hard to remember. Too hard. All his life he’d been cold. He didn’t want to be cold again. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be warm now. Good and warm.

He left the boxes of mince and walked over to the till. The only way to stop his anxiety was counting. He liked to count. Counting was his best thing. He opened the till.

‘Just counting up, Mr Marconi.’

Be

Now he was cashing up, but little Lottie was still coming to mind. She’d been strong. She’d cried all night long. Low horrible sobs. All night long. Even when he warned her. Even when he held his hand over her mouth and really pleaded with her to be quiet.

‘Don’t be making me do this. Please don’t be making me do this.’

He didn’t like it when they got emotional. He liked just talking to them and holding them sometimes. Looking after them was nice. His hands started trembling. He liked to pet them, that was all. A sweat formed on his brow. He knew there would be trouble if she didn’t shut up.

Now Lottie was gone and he missed her something terrible. His boss, Be

Mo counted the nickels and dimes slowly and methodically - he didn’t want to have to start again. He would cash up and leave. He wanted to be out on the street. Feel the night air in his lungs. He needed someone warm, that was all. He couldn’t live alone any longer. Not any more. For years he’d been alone, locked up in those small white cells on Ward’s Island. He’d told the psychiatrists that he didn’t want to touch the girls any more and he thought he would be all right. But once he was out again, he saw them on the street and the old feelings came back. He wanted one. He wanted one of his own to keep. Lottie was so nice and warm. But she had gone now and he needed more.