Free Out of Such Darkness by Robert Ronsson Page A

receiver as the first voice is saying, ‘It can’t be him, then.’
    ‘This is Francois DuCheyne’s mother.’ This new voice has an accent. Jay is trying to place it – possibly South African? She curtails her vowels as if she has cut them with shears and she hammers her consonants into place.
    ‘I’m calling to offer my condolences, Mrs DuCheyne, to you of course but also to Mr DuCheyne’s wife.’
    ‘Thank you. She is here but I am sure you will understand that she is unable to take calls.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And you are?’
    ‘My name is Jay Halprin. I work with your son.’ He emphasises the present tense.
    ‘My daughter-in-law remembers you but …’
    ‘I wasn’t in the building.’
    Her voice emerges as a feeble, high-pitched whisper. ‘What?’
    ‘I missed my train. I was still Midtown when it happened.’ He counts to twenty beats before the response comes.
    The voice regains its edge. ‘You have been very fortunate.’
    The MC interrupts:
Fortunate is not the word I’d use.
    ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask this because I haven’t heard from anybody. Is Mr DuCheyne missing?’
    ‘We are assuming he is. We have been told that there are no survivors from the ninety-first floor and above. We are thinking that the worst has happened. But we are planning to go to Ground Zero and post a “missing person” notice.’
    ‘Of course …’ Jay doesn’t know how to proceed – how to change the subject to the business. He decides to be direct. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs DuCheyne … but, because of your son’s … absence, there are things to do with the firm I need to attend to – perhaps with your son’s attorney?’
    ‘We don’t have to do that with any haste, though, do we?’
    ‘Perhaps only for the peace of mind of the employees – and their families.’
    ‘Let us leave it until next week, shall we? Call again then.’
    ‘I’ll do that. And I’m so sorry, Mrs DuCheyne.’
    ‘For what? You have nothing to reproach yourself for.’
    But Jay is thinking, as he replaces the phone, that he would feel more comfortable had she rebuked him.
    The call to Glen Straub’s house follows the same pattern except that he speaks to the presumed widow. Again, Jay is guarded and sticks to the present tense. Again, news of his survival seems to disconcert rather than be the cause for celebration. As he finishes, Rachel signals that she’s ready for their trip to the beach.
    They stop at the florists in the nearby mall. The shop has sold its stock of wreaths. The lilies are expensive but Rachel purchases six and they head for Greenwich.
     
    The kiosk is at the end of a two-hundred-yard-long causeway that joins mainland Greenwich to its residents’ beach park. The border-crossing barrier is raised and unmanned; anybody can enter now that the season has finished. Rachel drives the VW through and turns left into the car park that overlooks East Beach. The roof is down and they sit for while watching the steel-grey water lapping against the coarse sand. It looks as if the ocean is washing up to a construction site. There’s no wind but the maritime smell is tainted with the tang of smoke from a distant fire. Or is this Jay’s imagination?
    ‘Come on!’ Rachel opens the car-door and swings out her legs. Jay turns to the back seat and picks up the lilies. He sighs. He catches up and takes her hand as they reach the beach.
    They turn right and head almost due south trudging along the strand between the timid waves and the high-water line. Their shoes make dry impressions as they head towards the wooded knoll about half a mile away which marks the end of the beach. They walk in silence but there is no silence for Jay:
Both the women you spoke to are bereaved but they haven’t admitted it yet. They can’t accept that Francois and Glen, leading lights in global brand management, are nothing but dust, leaving only you. As if the world needs a brand-recovery expert any more than it needed