She shook her head and laughed. ‘No. That funny Irish way you talk — ’
‘I’m from Cork — that’s how we talk there,’ he replieddefensively. ‘Anyway your Indian accent sounds funny to me too. Sort of likeWelsh.’
She laughed. ‘Bob,’ she said, jabbing the support unit lightly in the ribs,‘do your impersonation of Liam.’
‘You wish me to replicate Liam O’Connor’s speech patterns?’
‘Go on.’
Bob’s eyelids momentarily fluttered and ticked as he retrieved data stored somewhere inhis tiny computer mind.
‘
Sal giggled. ‘Perfect.’
‘Argghh! Don’t be taking the mickey like that, Sal. Hang on…’Liam’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You’ve not been training him to do that,have you?’
She nodded, clamping her lips tightly.
‘Affirmative,’ said Bob dryly. ‘Sal Vikram assisted me in replicating yourspeech pattern, Liam O’Connor.’
Liam shook his head with a show of good-natured disgust. ‘Well, at least I don’tdress like some sort of carnival street beggar, all ripped clothes and messy orange paintsplashed over me front.’
‘Uh?’ Sal looked down at the neon logo on her hoodie. ‘Oh, that…It’s the logo for a rock band. Ess-Zed.’
‘Rock band?’
‘Bangra rock… my parents really hate it. Think it’s too western, tooAmerican.’
‘Oh,’ said Liam, nodding politely but not really understanding what she wastalking about.
‘But it’s ten times better than American stuff… much darker, with, like,hip-hop dance loops and scream- rap.’
Liam frowned.
He looked at her. ‘
Sal looked at him, her face half smile, half bemusement.
He shrugged and grinned. ‘Hey, I like music too. I like the brass bands. Marching bandsas well. I tell you, you can skip merrily along to that, so you can. And then there’sthe folk tunes where I come from. Would you have heard of “The Galway Races”?“Molly Malone”?… “The Jolly Beggarman”?’
She stared at him in silence.
‘No? I guess not.’ Liam shrugged. ‘Ah well… thoseare ditties you can really dance a sweat to. And then there’s…’
Sal listened to him chattering on about the dance halls back in Cork, secretly delighting inthe fact that he sounded like a walking antique — an old-fashioned young gentleman fromanother century, all manners and quaint charm — and so unlike the boys from her time.She loved the curious sound of his accent, despite teasing him.
Sal smiled.
Like some kind of odd family.
For the first time since she’d ‘died’, since she’d been plucked awayfrom the life she knew, she felt almost… almost
She looked out at the glittering lights of Manhattan, pleased that their field office washere… and now in this time, pleased that she was privileged enough to be seeing New YorkCity at its prime before the world started to change — the global crash, the depression- before it all began the long slide downhill.
The night sky above her was thick with churning clouds, bathed in amber light from the citybelow.
It looked like it was going to rain this evening.
A gentle breeze tossed hair into her eyes and touched the bare skin of her forearms, amurmuring breeze that seemed to quietly whisper in her ear a promise of more than just alittle rain.
CHAPTER 32
2001, New York
Sal looked up. All was still in the archway. Foster was asleep on an old sofabeside the kitchen alcove, stirring restlessly beneath a quilt. And Bob… Bob rested inone of the birthing tubes in the back room. She wondered what he dreamed about, ifanything.
She closed her diary, sat up and pulled on some clothes under her blanket and then climbeddown quietly. She grabbed a bin bag full of dirty clothes lying beside the bottom bunk andwalked across to the breakfast table.
One duty — collectively agreed — was that every other Tuesday would be a good day to take their meagre supply of clothes down to the laundromat in themorning to collect in the evening.
She checked their small fridge.
She sighed. One of the others had finished the last of it without saying. She shook her headand clucked like a mother hen.
She decided to stop off at the 24/7 store on the way back to pick up some half-fat milk, somebagels and some more Rice Krispies since Liam had discovered a passion for them and seemed todevour bowl after bowl of the stuff.
She punched the red button and the shutter whirred up, quietly rattling and letting in thecool morning air of the city. She breathed in deep and looked up at the clear blue sky. It wasgoing to start out as a lovely sunny day today… as always.
Sal dropped off the laundry with the sweet old Chinese lady who worked at the laundromat. Shewas a chatty old thing whom Sal was beginning to get to know well, always talking proudly- sometimes in broken English, sometimes in Cantonese — about her nephew whom sheannounced with pleasure ‘
Which, of course, she was. But Sal decided to politely steer their brief chit-chattyconversation in different directions with every visit… gradually learning a little bitmore about her and her family each time.
She headed across the bridge into Manhattan, enjoying the warm sun and watching the citystreets grow steadily busier. The air was thick with smells both pleasant and not so, butnothing quite as bad as she remembered in downtown Mumbai — particularly on the smog-heavy days. Entering Manhattan’s lower east side, her nosepicked out the acrid smell of exhaust fumes mixed with the delightful odour of freshly brewedcoffee and oven-baked bagels billowing from the various coffee shops and fast-food restaurantsshe passed on the way across to Broadway and up to Times Square.
