‘Good. You’re a great person, Vivien.’
‘You, too, sir.’
‘I’m going to be president for another four years. You, fortunately, will stay the way you are for the rest of your life. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The voice disappeared and Vivien stood for a few moments at the desk, not knowing what to say or do. She put the receiver down and looked around. She read curiosity on the faces of those present. And she had no desire to satisfy it. This was her moment she had no intention of sharing it with anybody.
A knock at the door came to the aid of her decision.
The mayor turned in that direction. ‘Come in.’
A man of about thirty appeared in the doorway. In his hand was a newspaper.
‘What is it, Trent?’
‘There’s something you ought to see, Mr Mayor.’
Gollemberg gestured, and Trent approached the desk. On it he placed a copy of the
‘What’s the meaning of this?’
Vivien, like all the others, stared open mouthed.
The front page was entirely taken up with a huge headline.
Beneath it were two photographs, quite sharp despite the limitations of newspaper reproduction. The first showed a young man holding a big black cat. In the second John Kortighan, his face turned slightly away from the camera, was sitting on a stool, clutching a gun, and staring with empty, absent eyes at a point somewhere to his right.
Everyone present turned to look at Russell, who as usual had chosen the chair furthest from the centre of the action. Feeling their eyes on him, he assumed an innocent expression.
‘We had an agreement, didn’t we?’
Vivien found herself smiling. It was true, of course. He was within his rights, and nobody at this point could accuse him of breaking his word. All the same, looking at that front page, she was puzzled by one thing. She decided to satisfy her curiosity.
‘Russell, there’s something I’d like to know.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘How did you manage to get that shot of John, if in all the time we were together I never saw you with a camera in your hand?’
Russell stood up and went to the desk. ‘There’s something I inherited from my brother. He taught me how and when to use it.’
He put a hand in his pocket and took it out, fist closed. Then he held out his arm. When he opened his fingers and allowed everyone to see what he had in his hand, Vivien could barely stop herself laughing. There on his palm was a miniature camera.
The True Story of a False Name
It was raining at my mother’s funeral and Vivien held my hand.
As I heard the rain beating down on the umbrella, I saw the coffin enter the grave in the small cemetery in Brooklyn where my grandparents are already buried, and felt sorry that I’d never really known Greta Light. But I think I’ll make up for that in time, thanks to the memory of all the words we said to each other and the games we played and the happy moments we shared. Even though I tried to ruin everything, I’ll be able to get through with the help of my aunt, who’s an incredible woman, and a strong woman, in spite of the tears she was crying – but then everyone cries at the thought of death.
The priest talked about dust and earth and resurrection.
When I saw him, and heard those words, I thought about Father McKean and everything he’d meant to me and others like me. It was terrible to find out what was behind those eyes and what he was capable of doing, terrible to discover how evil can even reach places you’d think it could never reach.
They explained to me that his conscious mind wasn’t responsible for his actions, but only that part of him that was in the grip of something wicked that he had no control over.
As if there are two different souls inside one body.
That wasn’t hard to accept. It was easy to understand, because I’ve felt it myself.
I saw that sick part go down into the grave together with the body of Greta Light, my mother. Two corruptible parts, destined to return to the earth and turn back to dust. She and Father McKean, their true, living essences, will always be close to me and the person I will become. As I looked at Vivien’s eyes, I realized, through the grief and the tears, that I had glimpsed the right path.
My father didn’t come to the funeral.
He phoned me and said he was on the other side of the world and couldn’t get back in time. Once, I would have missed him. I might even have cried. Now I have more important things to cry about.
I have a family. And he’s chosen not to be part of it.
When it was all over and the people were already walking away, I stood there in the rain with Vunny in front of the freshly moved earth that smelled of musk and rebirth.
After a while she turned her head, and I saw where she was looking.
Standing there in the rain was a tall man, without a hat or an umbrella, but wearing a dark raincoat. I recognized him straight away. It was Russell Wade, the guy who followed the case with her and is publishing a series of articles in the
He used to appear in the papers because he’d been involved in some pretty dubious things. Now he seems to have found a way to turn everything around. That means that anything can change, when you least expect it and if you really want it. Vivien gave me the umbrella to hold and I saw her walk towards him in the driving rain.
They talked for a while and then he walked away. As he was going, I saw my aunt stand there watching him.
When she came back, I saw a new kind of sadness in her eyes, different from her sadness over Mother’s death.
I squeezed her hand and she understood. I’m sure that sooner or later we’ll talk.
Now I’m here, still at Joy, sitting in the garden, and the sky is clear of rain. In front of me is a stretch of water reflecting the sun. It seems like a good omen. I’ve understood many things in this place, in the simplest possible way. I’ve learned them day by day. While I was trying to understand the guys I was living with, I think I started to know myself.
I’ve discovered that the community isn’t going to close, thanks to the government taking an interest. Even though Vivien has suggested I go live with her, I’ve decided that I’ll stay here in future, and lend a hand, if they want it. I don’t need Joy any more but I like to think Joy needs me.
My name is Sundance Green and tomorrow I’ll be eighteen.
I press the button on the intercom and my secretary replies with her usual efficiency.
‘Yes, Mr Wade?’
