Episode 1: Twin Towers

TRUE STORY is not a true story. It is a work of fiction. Similarities to any person, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

PART 1

September 11, 2001, 8:14 a.m.

Steklova Middle School

Lowell, Massachusetts

            Tears stream down Andrew McLaughlin’s freckled face, blood dribbling from his prominent nostrils, staining his teeth as he lets out another long, pained wail. He sits slumped against the red brick of the school building, messy, light-blonde hair clinging to his forehead in the early morning drizzle. He brings his shaking hands up in front of his face and lets out another wail as the rain stings his grazed palms, bits of dirt peeping out from the raw grooved lines carved by the unforgiving asphalt of the playground when he’d put his hands out to break his fall.

            She’d been so fast. How could she be so fast?

            A sizeable crowd of shocked schoolchildren surround Andrew, mouths agape, muttering between themselves. They have never seen the great Andrew McLaughlin like this, cut down to a bloody, trembling wreck, wailing like a child.

And by a little girl, no less.

Andrew and his twin brother, Craig, are usually the ones dishing out the punishment – two pale, gangly terrors buoyed by their unusual height and dastardly duality. They are the school bullies and it was their teasing that set the little girl off.

Of course, she’s a bit of a strange one herself. Amma Portland. The new kid. Small and quiet with long, jet black hair. She’s wicked smart and has been hopped ahead all the way from Grade 2 to Grade 7. She’s half the height of the McLaughlin twins, and yet she made light work of Andrew and was last seen in pursuit of Craig.

John Darin – the school loudmouth and the only kid in school whose parents have allowed him to get an earring – steps forward from the gaggle and points a finger at the fallen bully.

“He pissed his pants!” he gleefully exclaims, repeating the observation as his audience erupts in raptures, drowning out Andrew McLaughlin’s wails even as they reach crescendo.

Meanwhile, inside the school building, Amma Portland’s pursuit of a screeching Craig McLaughlin continues through the hallways. She eventually runs him down and pounces, wrapping an arm around his neck and sending him crashing into the metal lockers. She gets three good shots into his guts and a couple to his face before Mister Jamison – the kindly old English teacher – finally catches up and pulls the thrashing Tazmanian Devil of a little girl off the cowering boy.

*

            “Sadako?” Mrs. Elwood repeats, screwing up her face.

            “Yes, Mrs. Elwood. It’s from this Japanese movie called The Ring. Well, it’s really called Ringu. It’s about this videotape of a spooky little girl and if you watch it, you’re supposed to die.”

            The headteacher listens to John Darin’s explanation of what the McLaughlin twins had been saying to spark such a furious reaction from little Amma Portland. The twins are still being tended to by the school nurse just outside the office, their blonde heads like two glowing lights though the opaque glass. Their parents have been called and are on their way. Amma’s father, Graeme, has already arrived and is sitting beside her on the small couch at the back of the room.

            “They’re gonna remake it with American actors,” John enthuses. “I’m pretty sure it’s based on a true story.”

            “Okay,” Mrs. Elwood says, adjusting her jam-jar-bottom glasses on her barely-there nose, curly red hair bounding around atop her round face. “And Sudoku…”

            “Sadako,” John corrects.

            “Sadako. That’s the spooky little girl?”

            “Yes, miss. She’s brushing her hair in the mirror, then there are these people crawling through the woods, like zombies or some shit…”

            “Language.”

            “Sorry, like zombies or something and then there’s this eye, and…”

            “Okay, I get the idea. And how do you know all this? Have you watched this movie?”

            “No, miss. The twins told me.”

            “And how do they know about it?”

            “I guess their cousin, Todd, got a copy of it and they watched it at their uncle’s place one weekend. Todd is, like, an adult. He’s, like, maybe fifteen, so…”

            “What the hell is going on here?” Tom McLaughlin says in his booming voice as his six-foot-plenty frame comes barging through the door. Through the glass, the fuzzy shape of Martha McLaughlin can be seen shooing away the nurse and fussing over her baby boys. “Is this the little sonofabitch that attacked my boys?” Tom says, lurching towards a terrified-looking John Darin.

            “Mister McLaughlin,” Mrs. Elwood says, rising from her seat behind the big oak desk.

            “Little punk. What, did you jump them from behind or something?”

            “Mister McLaughlin,” Mrs. Elwood just about shouts this time, plunging the room into silence. “Would you please calm down and take a seat? John, you are dismissed.”

            The small boy with the earring nods rigidly, chancing a glance over at Amma and Graeme Portland before scurryin out of the room.

            “I didn’t tell ‘em anything, I swear,” he can be heard saying as he passes the twins outside. “The alien dad is in there.”

            Tom McLaughlin takes a seat in front of the headteacher’s desk, pouting like a scalded child.

            “Mrs. McLaughlin, you can bring in the boys now,” Mrs. Elwood calls out. “Tell them to bring their chairs with them.”

            Martha McLaughlin is a good inch shorter than the beanpole boys she shepherds in. They look sheepish, chins stuck to chests, as they place their seats and sit in them, Martha taking the last available chair in the room, by her husband’s side. Andrew snorts, still fighting back tears. Craig picks at a dried bloodstain on the front of his Red Sox hoodie.

            Mrs. Elwood props herself against corner of the desk. The twins have seen this before – it’s her command position.

            “Now, my understanding is that Craig and Andrew were teasing our new student here, Amma.”

            The McLaughlins look over at the little girl on the couch, arms crossed, hazel eyes staring straight ahead between two sheets of jet-black hair, face locked in an angry grimace.

             “A little girl? Boys, is this true?” Tom McLaughlin asks. One twin shrugs, the other cowers. Neither removes their chin from their chest. “And, what?” Tom continues, trying to piece the story together. “The little punk out there leapt to her defence?”

            Mrs. Elwood shakes her head, still trying to figure it out herself.

            “It would seem that Amma here is more than capable of defending herself,” she says.

            In unison, the adults in the room look over at little girl.

            She stares dead ahead.

            Then her father, who has so far remained silent, speaks. But not to Mrs. Elwood or to the McLaughlins or really even to the room. He stares off into the distance, a look of great consternation appearing on his face.

            “She took down the twin towers,” he says to no one.

            “Is that supposed to be funny?” Tom McLaughlin asks.

            But before anyone can say another word, the office door bursts open again, the school nurse returning, this time ragged and breathless, tears welling in her eyes.

            “The World Trade Center is down,” she says, face as pale as her white scrubs as everyone present looks to her for an explanation.

            “It’s gone. They flew planes into it. The twin towers. They’re gone.”

September 9, 2021, 10:25 p.m.

Boston Bank Center

Boston, Massachusetts

            Tears stream down Amma Portland’s face as she stumbles backwards along the springy canvas. Her opponent – the big Polish southpaw, Maria Slawinski – just connected well with a right cross to her nose. Fuck, it better not be broken.

She blinks to clear her eyes and resists the urge to blow air out through her nostrils. If it is broken and she does that, her eyes will swell shut within seconds. Game over.

Instead, she vies for time, left arm outstretched to maintain distance, right hand cocked and ready to pop. It doesn’t appear as thought Maria is coming at her hard. Typical Maria. Powerful but slow.

Amma has time to get her bearings, circling the ring, keeping her opponent at arm’s length long enough for her vision to clear.

When it does, she sees Maria winding up her big overhand left, or “the bomb” as she likes to nickname it. Good name because it takes just about as long as a bomb to deliver.

Her vision restored, the wild, arcing left comes at Amma in slow motion, giving her ample time to step left, drop her shoulder, and thrust her right fist upward into the big Pole’s jaw in a devastating uppercut.

Maria Slawinski falls like a great oak, face-first into the canvas, the referee waving his arms in the air to signal the end of the fight and placing himself between Maria and the wiry frame of Amma Portland to prevent the fallen fighter taking any more punishment.

He needn’t have bothered. Amma is already marching over to her corner, biting at the tape on her wrists, signaling to her corner team to help get her gloves off.

“Get in here,” she says. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

The gate opens and her team comes piling into the cage, Alison first, followed by young Milo Crews, and finally his dad and her trainer, Big Joe.

“Hell of a fight, Amma,” Big Joe booms between heavy breaths. “Hell of a fight.” He places a finger gently to her chin and examines her face.

“Is it broken?” Amma asks.

“Nah, don’t think so. Don’t blow, just in case.”

Amma nods, ignoring the stool that Alison has placed in her corner. Milo finishes cutting the tape with his trainer’s scissors and tugs to remove her glove.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?” Alison asks, her soft voice barely audible above the noise of the crowd.

“Does she ever sit down?” Milo asks, moving onto the other glove.

“Not really,” Alison concedes, dabbing Amma’s lean, defined shoulders with an ice pack.

“Water,” Big Joe says, poking the oversized straw of a sports bottle into Amma’s mouth. She sucks, rinses, spits bloody liquid onto the canvas.

The crowd applauds politely as Maria Slawinski’s team and the medical staff manage to get her shakily over to her corner stool, a doctor shining a tiny flashlight into her still-glazed eyes.

Milo gets the second glove off and passes Amma a towel, which she wipes herself down with before being ushered to the centre of the cage by the burly referee. The ring announcer has also now entered the cage and offers Amma a fist bump of congratulation before looking over to the corner, where Maria Slawinski is just about managing to make her way over to the centre of the cage.

“Good shot,” she manages to blurt without moving her shattered jaw, before the ring announcer does his thing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has called a stop to this fight after two minutes and thirteen seconds of the first round. Presenting your winner by knockout: Amma ‘The Truth’ Portland!”

The referee raises Amma’s hand and she humbly takes the applause before bowing to Maria and high fiving her opponent’s team, the ring reporter moving in for an interview.

“I’m here with Amma ‘The Truth’ Portland. Amma, another fight, another knockout victory. How long can we expect this streak to keep going?”

“Well, until I lose, I guess.”

“Your thoughts on the fight? Slawinski is a well-ranked, experienced opponent. Many expected her to give you more problems, but another relatively straightforward outing for you…”

“She’s tough. I just managed to stay away from her big left – I knew that was her most dangerous weapon – and I was able to slip that and find the sweet spot with an uppercut.”

“Is that something you trained coming into the fight?”

“Yeah, we knew she was powerful but maybe telegraphed that overhand left a little, so I was able to slip that and find the target.”

“And what’s next for Amma Portland? You clearly have a lot going on in your life with your wildly popular podcast. Do you think you’ll make a run for the title?”

“I mean, it’s possible. I just take it a fight at a time.”

“And who would you like to take on next?”

“Whoever they put in front of me.”

*

            Amma Portland walks the few blocks from the Boston Bank Center to her apartment on the waterfront. Her still-wet, jet-black locks poke out from underneath her hood, which covers half of her face. Underneath, she listens on her Bluetooth earbuds to the edit of her latest podcast ep, which her PA and producer, Alison, had sent to her prior to the fight. She listens to herself and tries to ignore the stinging pain in her nose and cheekbones.

            “Everyone – if they were old enough – remembers where they were on the morning of September 11th, 2001. That day, the world changed forever. You don’t need me to tell you the story of 9/11, but as we approach the twentieth anniversary of that historic tragedy, I want to take a look at a couple of the many stories it set in motion.

            “Over the next few days, my dad and I are going to take a little road trip to the Big Apple to talk to a couple of people for whom that fateful day would change the course of their lives for the next twenty years.

            “We’ll talk to Melvin Sams – a one-time janitor at the World Trade Center who was detained on suspicion of collusion with terrorists and is about to walk free having spent the last twenty years in a psychological care facility. We’ll talk to retired doctor Hilary Greenwood, who oversaw Melvin’s care and who has been a driving force in the campaign for his release. And we’ll talk to Kyle Masters – a former New York City firefighter who became a soldier and served three tours in Afghanistan.

            “On September 11th, 2001, I was just a little girl. Seven years old. And I will never forget it. I was in the principal’s office, about to be suspended for getting into a fight with not one, but two eleven-year-old boys. But when the school nurse burst in and told us about the events unfolding just a couple of hundred miles down the coast, well, everyone just seemed to forget about my little dust-up with the McLaughlin twins. I guess events like 9/11 have a way of putting our petty squabbles into perspective.”

“I’m Amma Portland and I’m about to take you on a journey of terrorist plots and lives given over to fighting an invisible enemy. A tale that involves the twin towers of reconciliation in tragedy’s wake and the search of truth. Towers that we all live in the shadow of. True story.”

PART 2

September 10, 2021, 9:53 a.m.

Joe’s Coffee Shop

Lower Manhattan, New York

            “Our road trip to New York was… not bad. We left super early, which any regular listeners will know is not a problem for my father, Graeme. He was a military man and is conditioned to an early rise. I, on the other hand, could have used another hour or two in bed, especially after my fight last evening, but – hey – time waits for no one.”

            Amma pauses her recording and gestures across the table to her father.

            “Dad, you have a little something right there.”

            Graeme Portland stares blankly back at her, chewing on his breakfast bagel.

            Amma laughs to herself and reaches across, wiping the ketchup from the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

            “We have another military man coming here. Got to look your best,” she says, before hitting record again on her phone.

            “We made good time. A little over five hours all in, from Boston to New York, including hotel check-in. Then it was a short trek to the coffee shop where we are scheduled to meet Kyle Masters.

            “Kyle is an interesting guy. A ground zero firefighter during 9/11, he witnessed first-hand Melvin Sams creating a scene at the North Tower of the World Trade Center on September 10th, 2001. That’s the day before two planes were flown into the twin towers and the world was changed forever. And what he heard Melvin Sams saying will send shivers down your spine.”

            Amma hits stop and saves the file. The sound won’t be studio quality, but with her clip-on microphone, it will be sufficient. Besides, the background ambience of a busy New York coffee shop will provide some nice texture for the episode.

            She sips her black coffee and watches her father messily devouring his bagel. He hardly seems to notice the hustle and bustle of the coffee shop. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice much of anything most of the time. He’s just happy to be in her company, largely lost in his own world.

            The world around him is moving quickly, a steady stream of New Yorkers from all walks of life flowing through amid the clanking coffee pots, hissing steamers, and hollering baristas. He’s the calm little centre of this mad world.

            Kyle Masters isn’t hard to spot, even amid the crowd. At least six-foot-seven, he towers above the busying people as he walks in the door. A strikingly handsome African American man, he’s forty-five but could easily pass for ten years younger. He walks a little hunched for a military man, hands in pockets, guarded, with a serious expression on his face.

            “Mister Masters,” Amma calls out. Kyle spots them and makes his way over.

            Amma stands, shaking his hand.

            “Amma Portland. Thanks for meeting with me.”

            “Kyle Masters. Yeah, my pleasure,” he says, rounding the table.

            “This is my father, Graeme Portland.”

            “Oh, nice to meet you, sir.”

            Kyle reaches out a hand, but Graeme ignores him, blissfully continuing on with his breakfast.

            “He doesn’t say much,” Amma explains. “You’ll have to excuse him.”

            “The strong, silent type, eh? That’s all good,” Kyle says with a smile, sitting in a chair that his large size makes look like something you might see in a Kindergarten. He really is a giant of a man with a muscular build but a surprisingly soft tone and delicate way.

            “Graeme is also ex-military.”

            “Is that right?”

            “Flew in the Gulf War. He was an Air Force test pilot for a lot of years.”

            “Well, indeed it is an honour, sir. I bet you have a few stories to tell.”

            Graeme raises his eyebrows as he takes another big bite of bagel. His expression gives away nothing.

            Kyle chuckles.

            “I get it, I get it. You could tell me, but you’d have to kill me.”

            “What can I get you, honey?” The waitress had approached in stealth mode.

            “Oh, um, a Cappuccino, please. Easy on the foam. And, uh, you got those blueberry muffins today?”

            “Sure do.”

            “Yeah, I’ll take a blueberry muffin. Thank you.”

            “My pleasure. Top-up, honey?”

            “Yes, please,” Amma replies and the waitress pours fresh, steaming coffee into her mug.

            “You mind?” Amma asks, sliding her phone to the middle of the table and passing Kyle a wireless, clip-on microphone.

            “Oh, no, not at all,” Kyle says, clipping the mic to his lapel.

            On closer inspection, for all his age-defying good looks, there’s a deep sadness behind the man’s eyes. I bet he has some stories to tell.

            Amma hits record.

            “I’m here with Kyle Masters. Kyle is a former U.S. Army Sergeant who served three tours in Afghanistan. But Kyle wasn’t always a soldier. Before he joined the Army, he was a young New York City firefighter. He was there at Ground Zero that fateful day twenty years ago. And he was inside the North Tower of the World Trade Center the day before the terrorist attack. Kyle, can you tell us what you saw and heard on September 10th, 2001?”

            “Well, Amma, we were there conducting some routine fire safety checks when we heard a disturbance down in the lobby.”

            “A disturbance?”

            “Yes, ma’am. It appeared that a man – a janitor at the World Trade Center – was shouting and hollering, generally causing a scene.”

            “This man was Melvin Sams?”

            “That’s right, though I had never met Mister Sams at that time. He was just this strange little guy shouting up a storm.”

            A pause as the waitress returns with Kyle’s breakfast.

            “What was Mister Sams saying?” Amma asks.

            “Well, at first it just sounded like a lot of gibberish. He was saying things like, ‘they’re coming’ and ‘it has been foretold’. Y’know, a lot of crazy stuff like that, or at least it sounded crazy at the time.”

            “And at this point, was anybody interacting with Mister Sams – trying to calm him down?”

            “Yeah, a couple of security guards had taken an interest at this point, but he was holding a mop…”

            “A mop?”

            “Yes, ma’am, he was holding a mop. It was soaking wet, like he’d just taken it out the bucket without squeezing it. Water was dripping all over the floor and he was kind of trying to keep the security guards away, poking at them with this wet mop.” He chuckles softly at the memory before blowing on his cappuccino. “Then one of the security guys up and slipped on the mop water that was on the floor. It was quite the scene.” He sips from his coffee mug.

            “What else was Mister Sams saying?” Amma asks.

            Kyle’s expression turns serious.

            “That’s when he started saying: ‘There’s gonna be an attack. They’re gonna fly planes into the towers. Everyone’s gonna die. You gotta warn everyone. Everyone’s gotta get out.’” He eyes Amma over the top of his coffee mug. “It’s gonna happen tomorrow. September eleventh.”

            “Finished,” Graeme says, bluntly.

            Amma and Kyle look at him. He’s sitting bolt upright with a serious expression on his face, his plate empty save for a few crumbs.

            “Finished,” he repeats.

The word sounds like an instruction.


PART 3

September 10, 2021, 10:27 a.m.

Outside Joe’s Coffee Shop

Lower Manhattan, New York

            “Thanks so much for your time, Mister Masters,” Amma says, offering an elbow to bump.

            “Kyle, please,” the gentle giant replies, holding out a hand. Amma hesitates for a moment, but then shakes the man’s hand.

            A flash. The desert. Heart pounding. Sweat pouring. People screaming. Running. From something. Something in the desert.

            Amma tries to keep her composure. She’s gotten better at it after all these years. But even when you know it’s coming, seeing something from someone’s past – feeling their pent-up, locked-down feelings – it can create quite the jolt.

Kyle doesn’t seem to notice and Amma instinctively turns to check on her father.

She hadn’t been sure how Graeme would respond the busyness of New York City, but she needn’t have worried. Even as the streams of people flow by on the busy sidewalk and cabbies honk in futile protest, he seems almost oblivious, clutching a brown paper bag filled with muffins that Kyle had bought him on the way out having seen them catch the man’s eye. He’s chewing on one, fixated on the baked good like there was nothing else in the world.

He eats like a horse, but he never seems to put on any weight.

            “There is one other thing,” Kyle says. Amma smiles and waits for the man to elaborate. “When the planes hit. That day and for a while after, we were at ground zero. Me and my crew. We saw… some things. Horrible things. Things you never forget. It was that experience that inspired me to enlist with the Army. I wanted to fight back, y’know? And I saw things out there. In the desert.”

            “I know,” Amma says. Kyle looks a little uneasy at being so vulnerable.

            “Did you maybe want to get dinner?” Kyle asks. “To talk about the desert. The things I saw. For your podcast,” he hurries to clarify.

            “I would,” Amma says, looking at her father as finishes his muffin and dips into the bag for another.

            “Oh. Mister Portland is welcome to come along, too,” Kyle says.   

            “That’s very kind of you,” Amma says, watching as Graeme drops a muffin on the ground then stoops, picks it up, wipes it off, and goes right on eating it.

            “Actually, Dad has plans to visit with a family member while he’s in New York.”

            “Oh…”

            “Yeah, so, maybe tomorrow evening. It might be kinda late because I want to get some shots of the Tribute in Light…”

            “Right.”

            “…for my social media channels.”     

            “Of course.”

            “So, maybe, like, nineish?”

            “Nine is fine. Nine is good.”

            “Well, great.”

            “Great!”

            They shake hands again.

            A flash. Silhouettes of light in the night. Ghostly forms watching in the dark of the desert. Waiting. They can’t move on.

            “Birdie,” Graeme says through a mouthful of muffin.

            “That’s right, dad. You’re going to stay with Aunt Birdie.”

            “Birdie,” Graeme repeats, this time with a scowl.

September 10, 2021, 2:30 p.m.

Queens Family Court

Queens, New York

            Melvin Sams sits, smiling serenely, in the front row of the small courtroom, flanked by his lawyer and Doctor Hilary Greenwood. He is dwarfed by the two, his small and slender frame making his head look a little too big for his body. His left eye twitches uncontrollably as the wiry female judge reads out her verdict from behind the wooden dock.

“In light of the testimony given by Doctor Greenwood and the guidance of our medical advisory committee, it is the opinion of this court that Melvin Albert Sams presents no danger to himself or the public at large and has shown satisfactory evidence of a rehabilitation conducive to his reintroduction to society. Mister Sams is to be released from the Freshmount Psychiatric Hospital with immediate effect. He will go into the care of Mister and Missus Lovell until such a time he is able to support himself.”

The judge gestures subtly in the direction of the Lovells. They are the middle-aged couple sitting at the back of the courtroom. He wears a dark cowboy hat and a double-breasted jacket, his thick, black moustache dominating a long, narrow face. She has braided grey hair falling down from beneath a patterned headscarf and wears a long, loose-fitting floral dress.

“Mister Sams,” the judge continues, speaking directly to Melvin now. “We expect you to stay out of trouble and wish you the best in your new life. Court dismissed.”

With a knock of her gavel, the few people in the courtroom begin to disperse and Amma makes her way over to Melvin and his caretaker of the past twenty years.

“Hi, Doctor Greenwood. I’m…”

“Amma Portland,” the doctor finishes Amma’s sentence, holding out her hand, which Amma shakes.

A black SUV. Mysterious people dressed in black. Melvin, malnourished and crying.

 “I recognize you from your pictures online, though this is new.” Doctor Greenwood gestures to her nose and cheeks, and Amma is reminded that her face is still bruised from the fight.

“Oh, yes, sorry about my appearance. I had a fight last evening.”

            The doctor raises an eyebrow.

            “Oh, it was an organized fight. I’m a mixed martial arts practitioner.”

            “I see. I guess you’re going to tell me ‘I should see the other gal’, right?”

            “I sure wish I’d seen her right cross,” Amma says with a wry smile.

            “Well, Amma Portland, this is Melvin Sams.”

            “Hello,” Melvin says, reaching out a hand, his eye still twitching, his smile seemingly permanent.

            “Hi, Melvin,” Amma says, reaching down to shake his hand. He stands only about five feet tall and a has a natural stoop to boot. “Congratulations on your release.”

            “Thank you,” he says, looking over at the approaching Lovells.

            “Melvin. Are you ready to go?” Silvanus Lovell asks him. He speaks with an accent – maybe southern European – his voice deep and assured.

            “Yes,” Melvin says, still smiling.

            “Mister and Missus Lovell, my name is Amma Portland…”

            “We know who you are,” Silvanus says, calmly.

            “Oh… then perhaps you know that I have a podcast and I’m doing a piece about Melvin and the events surrounding September the eleventh, 2001. I’d love to have the opportunity to speak with Melvin, with your permission, of course. You’d be welcome to be in the room…”

            “I think Melvin needs some time to adjust to life on the outside, don’t you?” Silvanus says.

            “Of course, but I’m only in town…”

            “The answer is no. For now. You understand,” Silvanus says.

            Amma nods. He isn’t going to budge.

            “Melvin will need to collect his things,” Doctor Greenwood says. “I packed him a suitcase this morning. We’ll need to go get it from his room, then we’ll meet you out front of the hospital.” She’s doing her best, but the emotion is detectable in her voice.

            “Very well,” says Silvanus. “We’ll see you shortly, Melvin.”

            Melvin smiles and looks out towards the window as the Lovells take their leave.

            “They’re an interesting couple,” Amma says.

            Doctor Greenwood is about to say something but checks herself.

            “You can wait for me in the hospital lobby,” she says. “We can talk once Melvin is…” The doctor chokes up and takes a moment to gather herself.

            “Sounds good. Nice to meet you, Melvin.”

            Melvin looks up at Amma, his smile broadening.

September 10, 2021, 3:28 p.m.

Freshmount Psychiatric Hospital

Queens, New York

            Freshmount Psychiatric Hospital is a block away from the courtroom. Amma decides to leave her car in the court parking lot and walk over. The hospital looks much like you’d expect a place of that ilk to look – a beige block with a hundred windows. Large and foreboding, with a sense that a thousand untold stories lie within. Sad stories. Tragic stories.

            “Melvin’s story is a very sad story,” Doctor Greenwood says, dabbing her eyes and doing a good job of fighting them back.

            Her office has the musty smell of an old building and the furniture doesn’t seem to have had an update in the last couple of decades. What a place to come to work every day.

            “He was in here twenty years,” Amma says.

            “Yes. And in my opinion that was twenty years too long,” Doctor Greenwood replies.

            “You don’t think he’s a paranoid schizophrenic?”

            Doctor Greenwood goes to speak, then stops herself. She eyes the phone sitting between us on the desk.

            “Melvin has a mild degree of intellectual disability, but nothing that should have kept him confined for two decades,” she says.

            “What about the paranoia?” Amma asks. “Wasn’t Melvin initially confined because he caused a scene at the World Trade Center?”

            “Not here,” Doctor Greenwood says. “Not at first. He spent the first eighteen months… elsewhere.”

            “Elsewhere?”

            “At another facility. I don’t have any details but he told me he was questioned, that bright lights were shined in his face, that he was left in a dark cell for days at a time.” The tears begin to appear again. “When he came here, he was skin and bone, incommunicative. It took a solid year to get him to even talk to us. Longer for him to begin to trust us.”

            “Who would do such things to a person?”

            “The people who brought him here. They rolled up in a black SUV with tinted windows and just about dumped Melvin out on the sidewalk.”

            “What did they look like?”

            “They…” Doctor Greenwood pauses and gives a look that suggests what she’s about to say is going to sound ridiculous. “They looked like the Men in Black.”

            “From the movie?”

            “I mean, they were dressed in black suits. Very tailored. They even had the shades. And they looked…”

            “What?”

            “They looked almost too perfect. Almost too well turned-out.”

            “Did you ever see these people again?”

            “I’ve seen people. Over the years. Sometimes in the black suits. Sometimes just dressed as civilians. I mean, I suspect they’re around all the time, but I don’t always notice them. There’s just something… different about them.”

PART 4

September 10, 2021, 9:11 p.m.

Millennium Hotel Downtown

Lower Manhattan, New York

            “The events of September the eleventh, 2001 changed the world in so many ways for all of us. It started wars, put national security to the forefront of everybody’s mind, and saw the birth of a new enemy – one without form or specific identity. For the last twenty years, our enemy has become fear itself.”

             A laugh from across the room causes Amma to pause for a moment. She looks up at her father, sitting on the furthest of two queen beds in his pyjamas, wearing a set of over-ear headphones and glued to a tablet that he’s clutching in his hands.

            Graeme senses his daughter looking at him and looks back in trepidation. He brings a finger to his lips and motions, “Sshhh”.

            Amma smiles and mirrors the motion. Graeme nods and goes back to watching his show.

            “For the last twenty years, our enemy has become fear itself,” Amma says, staring out of the high-rise hotel window at the bright lights of New York City. She sighs, nudging the phone on the table, debating hitting the ‘stop’ button and starting over. She elects to carry on.

            “We live in its grip. It lurks around every corner. It takes on many names and many guises, but the constant is the fear. Fear of what’s out there. Fear for our safety and for that of our loved ones. Fear of our comfortable lives being disrupted, of being hurt – or worse.

            “It’s as though the events of 9/11 reached out like a giant hand and stopped the globe from spinning, pausing everything, then sending them spinning in a new direction altogether.

            “Our perceptions changed. Our lives changed – for some, in small ways, for others in bigger ways, but life changed in some way for all of us.

            “For Melvin Sams, that day marked the end of his freedom. He would be incarcerated and interrogated and wouldn’t see the light of day for fully twenty years.

            “For Kyle Masters, that day marked the end of his innocence. A twenty-four-year-old kid engulfed in the flame and smoke of a terrorist attack, forever scarred. He would enlist with the military and spend much of his prime fighting ghosts in a faraway desert.”

            Amma pauses and watches her father again for a moment, his eyes aglow as he stifles a laugh with one of his big daddy hands.

            “That day…” Amma searches for the words, again turning her attention to the churning city below. “That day marked the beginning of the Age of Fear. When the twin towers fell, so fell the curtain behind which we all once hid, leaving us exposed to the cold, hard truth of the world beyond.

            “September the eleventh, 2001 marked the end of freedom, the end of innocence, and the end of trust.”

September 11, 2021, 6:07 a.m.

Aunt Birdie’s Townhouse

Near Central Park, New York

            Birdie Bancroft opens the old wooden door of her townhouse and pauses to look carefully at her visitors from Boston.

            “Ah, there you are,” she says, grabbing Amma by the shoulders. “So lean,” she says, pulling her niece in for a hug. “Hmm. Healthy lean, though. Strong.” She pulls back again, studying Amma at arm’s length. “But look at the bruises on that pretty face,” she shakes her head. “I might have something for that.”

            “Hi, Aunt Birdie,” Amma smiles. “Sorry to bother you so early.”

            Birdie wafts away the apology.

            “Oh, it’s no bother. You know me. Up with the birds!”

            As if on cue, the chirping of tiny birds begins to emanate from behind Birdie, echoing through the hallway of the old townhouse.

            “And will my dearest brother be joining us today?” Birdie asks, leaning to look past Amma towards Graeme, who remains at the bottom of the few steps that lead up to the front door, fiddling with a small notebook, flipping the pages back and forth as though he’s trying to find something.

            “Dad? Dad!” Amma shouts, getting her father’s attention.

            “Hello, Graeme,” Birdie says, wiggling her fingers in a wave.

            “Birdie,” Graeme says with a grimace.

*

            Once inside, the three sit at the small, round table in the centre of Birdie’s dining room. Amma hadn’t had the heart to turn down the offering of tea, but blows on it with intent, willing the steaming hot beverage to cool so she can get on with her day.    A couple of ornate bird cages hang from the ceiling, one containing a few tweeting cockatoos, the other a solo myna bird by the name of Hector.

            “Still not saying anything are we, Graeme Portland?” Birdie asks. Graeme tries his best to ignore her, busying himself with dipping ginger biscuits into his tea and gnawing at them like a beaver.

            “Not saying anything! Not saying anything!” Hector repeats.

            “Birdie,” Amma protests. “You know he can’t help it.”

            “Hmm,” Birdie responds. “It’s a fine thing when you can get more conversation out of a bird than your own brother.”

            Hector laughs hysterically and punctuates the laugh with a high-pitched whistle.

            Amma grimaces at the bird.

            “Uh-oh!” it says.

            “He hasn’t been the same since…” Amma lowers her voice so her father won’t hear “…the incident,” she whispers.

            “Ah, yes, your little brush with them upstairs,” Birdie blurts, causing Graeme to drop a ginger biscuit all the way into his tea. He looks back and forth between the two women.

            “Them upstairs! Them Upstairs!” chirps Hector.

            “Birdie,” Amma says, her eyes imploring her aunt to take things down a notch. Birdie raises a hand in concession.

            “Flew a little too close to the sun, didn’t you, brother dear?” Birdie says as Graeme continues to ignore her, messily fishing the soggy remains of his biscuit from the hot tea.

            “Icarus! Icarus!” says Hector.

            “That bird is weird,” Amma says.

            Birdie shrugs and drinks her tea.

*

            “Thanks for taking care of him, Birdie,” Amma says, hugging her aunt on the doorstep. “You be good for Aunt Birdie, okay, Dad?” she adds as Graeme skulks in the hallway, looking like a miffed teenager.

            “You go and do your thing, Amma dear,” Birdie says. “We’ll be fine. Maybe play a little bridge, eh Graeme? Oh, or Scrabble, perhaps. See if we can’t remind you of a few words.”

            Amma turns, making her way down the few stone steps and onto the busy sidewalk.

            “Ammy!” Her father’s voice makes her turn. He’s emerged from the hallway and is peering down from over Birdie’s shoulder. “Ammy, they’re coming,” he says. “They’re coming to see the lights.”

            With that, Graeme turns and heads back into the townhouse, leaving Birdie to offer Amma a reassuring smile. As she turns to leave, Birdie calls after her.

            “Be careful out there,” she says. “You never know what sorts a day like today will attract.”

PART 5

September 11, 2021, 7:38 a.m.

Lovell House

Staten Island, New York

            “The Lovell House is a character unto itself. It appears to be a Colonial home, its clapperboard siding coated in a dull gray, along with its central flared chimney and four small spires, which stick up on either side like devil horns. It has a fearful symmetry, its two identical dormers standing like stoic twins, staring out from their porthole windows, beyond the twisted trees that look like they’ve been there as long as the home itself, past the ornate fence. Staring at me, across the street. Trying to look like I’m not looking back. This place appears… menacing.”

            Amma pauses for a moment and takes off the seatbelt that suddenly has her feeling pinned, restricted, as though the house’s glare caused it to tighten across her chest. She takes a deep breath, adjusts the clip-on microphone.

            “This is now the temporary home of Melvin Sams, who was just a young man of twenty-three when he was imprisoned after trying to warn people of an impending terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. That was in 2001.”

            Amma pauses again, watching a solitary red leaf dance across the tree-lined street in the breeze.

The fall is coming.

            “Yesterday, one day shy of twenty years later, Melvin was released into the care of the Lovells – a mysterious couple that I traced to this foreboding, aged home. I have to say; this whole thing feels rather… odd.

            “Who are the Silvanus and Unity Lovell? What is their interest in Melvin Sams? Why…”

            A knock on the window causes Amma to jump and she reaches instinctively for the bear mace that she always carries on her belt. She looks up to see a man crouching outside, his face close to the window. He’s a handsome man of around fifty with intense, dark eyes and a wide Cheshire-cat smile. His slightly-greying black hair hangs in neatly parted waves and he’s dressed smartly – all in black. He motions his hand for Amma to roll down the window. She rolls it down just a couple of inches.

            “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” the man beams. Amma doesn’t answer. She eyes the phone on her lap and decides to keep recording. “Slight chill in the air though.” He looks off down the street. “There’s just something about mornings like these. The golden softness of the light, the rigidity in the trees’ waving branches, the way the air just seems to kiss you on the cheek.” The man touches a hand to his cheek. There’s something off about this guy. Something weird in his words and his ways. Something manic.

            “I’m talking too much,” he says, shaking his head dramatically. “Argh, I always do that. Always with the chit-chat, the this-and-that. It’s a New York thing. Course, I’m not from New York; not originally anyway. I mean, who is, right?”

            Amma catches something in the man’s eyes. Something deep and fleeting. A mere millisecond in among the flowing rhetoric; the slightest glint beyond the façade. Something terrifying. This man is dangerous.

            Amma tightens her grip on the bear mace and readies herself for a fight.

            The Manic Man senses the shift. He knows the show’s over. He senses he’s been found out in some way and his expression grows serious for a moment. But then it’s back to the smile.

            “Amma Portland,” he says, shaking his head. Amma’s whole body tightens at the mention of her name. “As I leave and breathe. The Amma Portland. You’re not from around here either. Oh, no. You’re don’t belong on these streets, in these times. You are…” he takes a huge intake of breath, his arms erupting in a show of wild gesticulation. “…a magnificent specimen. A true modern heroin. A true doubter, a true believer, a True storyteller – and don’t we all need a little of that in these times, in these days, in this post-truth world in which we are forced to live?” He lets out an exasperated sigh. This guy is all theatre.

            “Go ahead,” he says. Amma raises her eyebrows. What? “Go ahead and ask.”

            “Who the hell are you?”

            “How’s your dad? He doing alright? I mean, as alright as can be expected after his brush with…” he grits his teeth and points skywards. “Wow. I mean, what a mind grinder. And then what they put him through back at the base. All the probing and poking and testing. Makes you wonder what was worse – the aliens or the humans, am I right?”

            “How do you…”

            “No, wait, too soon. Now’s not the time. Though it’s been great to make your acquaintance after all this time, after watching you grow up, from afar, but now. No, now is not the time.”

            Amma doesn’t say a word. For once, she is speechless. She watches as the manic man moves close to the window. He speaks more softly, more slowly now.

            “Here they come. They are special. Like you, but not like you, but special all the same. These Lovells and, of course, Mister Sams. It’s good…” he pauses as though to think about the validity of what he’s saying. “It is good,” he seems to have managed to convince himself. “It’s good that you’ve met. Your meeting would in any case be inevitable, but it is very important…” his tone changes now. He punches each word through the window towards Amma with impactful intent. “…that you do not interfere. Mister Sams has somewhere to be today. The timing is critical.”

            “Where does he need to be?” Amma asks.

            The manic man takes a step back and looks to the skies before letting out a crazed laugh.

            “Where indeed, where indeed,” he says, leaning in again. “You must be like me, like I’ve been with you all these years. A bystander. An interested onlooker, an at-a-distance observer, but never, ever an interferer. Never a spanner in the works, a gremlin the machine. Be a ghost – like the ghosts your new boyfriend saw in the desert. What’s his name? Kyle?”

            “What do you want from me?” Amma asks.

            “Amma Portland. I want you to save the world. At least that. But that comes later. Have a nice day. Watching them. I will be watching you. As always.”

            With that, the manic man stands and straightens out his jacket. Just as he’s about to walk away, he pauses and leans in again.

            “Oh, and the twin towers – not the now-demolished former World Trade Center, but the two tall, blonde twin boys that you mangled when you were just a little girl…”

            A shiver shoots the length of Amma’s spine.

            “…Craig is dead now. OD’d at nineteen. Andrew is serving four consecutive life sentences for a botched robbery. They were never the same after what you did to them.”

            Amma looks, disbelieving, into the manic man’s eyes and for a moment they seem to change – colour or shape or… she can’t be sure – but something. Something changes right there in the man’s eyes.

            “Keep your distance, Amma Portland. And I’ll keep mine.”

            Amma watches as the man walks off down the tree-lined street. He seems to move too quickly – like some strange force is carrying him along, like he’s lighter than air. When she can move again, she’s cloaked in static, little lightning bolts shooting up at her fingertips from her clothing, fine pieces of hair raised from her head.

            Before she can summon another thought, movement across the street draws her attention. She watches as Silvanus and Unity Lovell shepherd Melvin Sams out of the house. They disappear momentarily behind the foliage and then a large, dark car emerges, making its way down the gravel driveway.

            Amma slides herself low, but as the car turns out onto the street, Melvin Sams waves casually at her from the back seat, that same vacant smile etched on his face. It’s as though he knew she would be there.

            Amma recognizes the car as a very well-maintained black Imperial Crown – and Italian-designed classic from the ‘50s. Not too many of those around these days.

            Once Amma is satisfied that the sleek car has rolled far enough up the road, she starts the engine of her rental and begins to follow the Lovells and Melvin Sams into the city.

Part 6

September 11, 2021, 8:30 a.m.

Hamilton Avenue

Brooklyn, New York

            “What do you mean it’s corrupt?” Amma says, craning her neck to keep sight of the sleek black Imperial Crown. It is pretty distinctive among the flock of vehicles making their migration north from Brooklyn to Lower Manhattan, but the volume of traffic lining up to enter the Battery Tunnel is pretty intense, even on a Saturday.

The city that never sleeps.

            “Well, I don’t mean that it’s the unruly dictator of a banana republic, Amma,” Alison snaps. Amma can’t help but chuckle to herself. She loves it when her soft-spoken friend and PA gets a little salty.

            “Okay, I’m sorry, Ali. Just… what’s wrong with the recording?”

            “It’s weird. The whole thing has this static hum running through it. I can hear your voice just fine, but when he – well, I assume it’s when he’s speaking – it’s just this awful mix of feedback and statics and what I can only describe as the Devil’s own choir singing the demonic hits. I mean, it’s… scary.”

            “Shit,” Amma says as the black Imperial Crown pulls a lane switch and manages to eek an extra couple of car lengths’ distance from her.

            “Amma?”

            “Yeah, I mean, he was there. He was talking. Is there anything you can do to clean up the file? See if you can hear his voice coming through in there somewhere?”

            There’s one of those pauses that Amma knows is going to be followed by Alison’s unique brand of softly delivered vitriol.

            “Amma, I am a professional administrator and a self-taught podcast producer, not a military codebreaker.”

            “Fair enough,” Amma says, straining to keep sight of her target and willing the traffic to move along more quickly.

            “Speaking of, would you like me to book you and Gray a return flight? Amma?”

            “Um, no, not just yet. We may stay an extra day. Lemme get back to you, okay?”

            “Okay.” Another pause. “Who is he?”

            How does she do that?!

            “How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

            “Well, okay, who is she?”

            Amma shakes her head. The traffic begins to move again.

            “It’s the soldier guy, isn’t it?”

            “Seriously, you’re a goddam psychic.”

            “We all have our powers, Amma,” Alison says in her best mysterious voice. “You seeing him tonight?”

            “Maybe. Yes.”

            “Oh, to be Amma Portland,” Alison jests. “With men – and women – falling at your feet wherever you go.”

            “Alison…”

            “And all the while, you have the perfect man right her in Boston…”

            “Alison…”

            “Bryce ‘Think Twice’ Mason – mixed martial artist, successful business owner, and all-round gorgeous hunk of man, who just so happens to be head over heels in love with you…”

            “Alison, we’re not doing this again…”

            “Think Twice. What a nickname. I sure as heck wouldn’t think twice.”

            “Then why don’t you ask him out yourself, Al?”

            “Hmph. Because he only has beautiful, otherworldly, slate-blue eyes for you, Amma Portland.”

            “I’m hanging up.”

            “‘Kay. You’re sure about that flight?”

            “Yeah, it’s all good. I’ll let you know when I know what we’re doing.”

            “Okay. Is Gray there? See ya soon, Gray!”

            “He… isn’t here.”

            “You dumped him at Birdie’s?”

            “I didn’t dump him at…”

            “You dumped him at Birdie’s.”

            “Okay, I dumped him at Birdie’s. You know how he gets with crowds – and I’m trying to tail somebody right now.” Amma peers ahead, catching sight of the black Imperial Crown disappearing into the dark of the tunnel. “And not doing a particularly good job at it. Ali, I really have to go.”

            “Fine.”

            “I’m heading into a tunnel.”

            “Oh, what, really? Are you going to do the fake static sounds now, too?”

            Amma makes said fake static sounds.

            “Sorry… Ali…you…breaking up.”

            “Oh, ha-ha.”

            “Seriously, though, I’m about to enter the Battery Tunnel. I’ll call ya later.”

            “‘Kay. Be careful, Ammy. And if you can’t be careful, y’know, be…”

            “Tougher than the other guy.” The two women say the words in unison and with thick Boston accents, just like Benji Brights – Bryce’s business partner at the gym back in their home city.

            The two laugh.

            “But, really, be careful, okay?”

            “Always, Ali cat. Oh, and Al…”

            “Yup?”

            “There’s a guy I know might be able to clean up that audio file. He’s in town there. Would you mind checking with him? I’ll DM you the details.”

            “A trip into town sounds perfect.”

            “Great. I really am going into that tunnel now.”

            “I believe you.”

            “Later, Al.”

            “Bye, Am.”

            Amma pays the toll and enters the confines of the Battery Tunnel, looking down at her phone momentarily to send the details of her audio guy to Alison.

            When she looks up, she’s blinded by a bright light. Assuming it’s the headlights of an oncoming car, she reflexively stamps on the brake pedal and braces herself for impact. But the impact never comes. There’s a momentary screeching of tires and then there is nothing, save for a vague sensation of weightlessness; of floating upwards in space, accompanied by a feeling of complete peace and calm.

            Then the flashes begin. Slowly at first. A carousel of memories. She’s a child hiding in her bedroom and listening as her parents argue, her mother screaming at the top of her voice, the sound of a dish or a vase being broken. She’s a little younger, on a swing, her father pushing her and she flies back and forth in the flickering sunlight.

            Then, memories that are not her own. She’s a fighter pilot chasing an object at great speed. She’s sweating profusely, the G-force incredible as she tries to match its otherworldly maneuverability. It’s right there, a metallic disc-like craft with blurred blue lights. The sunlight reflects off its surface, leaving a memory of its shape on her eyes.

            And then it is gone.

            She’s in a dark place, feeling terrified. There are beings around her – small and spindly with oversized heads. She’s bound to some kind of table. She can’t move. They are all around her, studying her, poking at her.

            “Miss? Are you okay?”

            The acrid smell of burnt tire rubber stings her nose. Honking horns echo off the tunnel walls. She’s back in the car – jackknifed across two lanes of the tunnel.

            “Miss?”

            She looks up at the man peering at her through the window.

            Am I okay?

            She checks herself over, little sparks of static leaping up from her clothes and pricking her fingertips as she does so.    

            “I’m fine,” she says before putting the car into gear and attempting to drive away. But there is no power. The engine is dead.

            She turns the key back and twists it to restart the car. It turns over a few times before begrudgingly growling back to life.

            She nods at the man and straightens the car up, heading down the tunnel once again. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she sees that fine hairs are standing up from her head and her face looks unusually pale.

            “What that hell?” she mumbles to herself as she continues on towards Lower Manhattan.

Part 7

September 11, 2021, 10:27 a.m.

World Trade Center Complex

Lower Manhattan, New York

            “One World Trade Center is a towering colossus reaching high into the New York sky – a shimmering symbol in glass and metal of America’s refusal to be bullied by terrorists. It soars 1,776 feet. ‘1776’. The year that saw the signing of the Declaration of Independence, when America officially stated its independence from British rule. 1776. The beginning of a bloody war that would rage almost twenty years…”

            Amma cranes her neck and shields her eyes from the morning sun. From down here, she can barely see to the top of the giant building.

            “…a bloody war that would last almost twenty years…” she whispers back to herself, adjusting the microphone clipped to her lapel. She’s struggling to find her flow. She’s distracted, looking about the mulling crowds in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Melvin Sams or the Lovells.

            She looks back up at One World Trade Center. She’d always thought it a little lacklustre when she’d seen it on television. Well, as lacklustre as one of the world’s tallest buildings can be. After all, it’s hard to live up to the iconic ‘Twin Towers’. OTC is two become one.

            “Two become one…” she whispers to herself, the words beginning to come to her again.

            “One World Trade Center is two become one, on the one hand diminished; an acknowledgement that something has been lost – something irretrievable, something that can never be rebuilt. But at the same time, its oneness is its message. We will stand together as one. We will not be defeated. You may knock us down, but we shall rise again.”

            She looks up at the mighty tower, shielding her eyes from the sun.

            “It is a marvel of engineering and a testament to the will of humankind to push ever onwards, ever upwards, in spite of all the resistance. From a cubic base, the tower rises to form eight isosceles triangles. At its centre, a perfect octagon. It is…”

            Amma’s flow is disturbed again as an unseen passerby bumps into her.

            “Hey!” Amma yells, but the man in the black hoodie just carries on without acknowledging her. Hands in pockets, eyes forward, he marches off into the crowd.

            “New York City,” she says to herself with a roll of her eyes, but as she checks to make sure her mic is still attached, she catches sight of Silvanus and Unity Lovell. They are across the street with their backs to her, but it is unmistakably them. Amma has always been very keen sighted and they are a distinctive couple, even among the eclectic throng of downtown New Yorkers – Silvanus with his long, black ponytail dangling from behind his dark cowboy hat, Unity with her braided grey hair and long, floral dress. They are standing at the side of one of the two giant reflecting pools that sit in the footprints of where the Twin Towers once stood. They appear to be reading the names etched into the brass panels on the side of the pools. Either that, or they are in meditation or prayer.

            Amma makes her way across the street. There is an unusual atmosphere today. It’s the twentieth anniversary of the terrorist attacks and the weight of that can be felt in the air. There are many people gathered at the memorial today, but few voices. The eternal fountains that flow into the footprints of the former towers seem louder. As Amma approaches and the fractured sun flickers between the leaves of the surrounding trees, it is as though this place is encased in an invisible bubble, muffling even the cacophony of the ‘City that Never Sleeps’.

            The closer Amma gets to the Lovells, the less background sound she hears, until there’s almost nothing but that ever-flowing water.

            She pauses a few feet behind the Lovells, unsure of how to approach. She doesn’t want to disturb them or appear disrespectful.

            “Hello, Miss Portland.” Silvanus Lovell is the first to speak, without turning to look at her.

            How did he…

            Unity does turn, pulling her headscarf back to reveal the work of art that is her hair – a confusion of grey braids adorned with all manner of beads and trinkets. She is a pretty woman, her face wearing the lines of aging, but emanating a disarming radiance. Her eyes are slate gray – almost translucent. Almost not there at all.

            “Are you okay, my dear?” Unity asks. Her voice is motherly and soothing. “Are you lost?”

            “No, I, uh…”

            Silvanus also turns, lifting the brim of his hat to reveal kind, brown eyes below eyebrows as thick and black as his moustache.

            “She seeks Melvin,” he says with a knowing smile.

            “Ah, yes. Of course,” Unity says.

            “Is he here?” Amma asks.

            “Yes,” Unity says, looking skyward momentarily. “He’s still here.”

            Amma tries to find words. She wants to ask questions, but they won’t seem to come. There is something about the Lovells – an otherworldly quality that she couldn’t quite describe.

            “Have you eaten?” Unity asks.

            “Excuse me?”

            “Oh, look at her, poor dear,” Unity says to Silvanus. “She hasn’t eaten yet.”

            “This is New York City,” Silvanus says in that deep voice, with that thick southern European accent. “There are many fine eateries here. More than you could ever stomach!”

            “Oh, Silvanus,” Unity scalds. “Amma is a guest in our city. Be a good host and recommend a place for her to eat lunch.”

            “Of course, you are right, mother,” Silvanus say, pointing down the street. “Two blocks that way. Bauer’s Bagels and Smoked Fish. You can’t miss it.”

            “We’d love to join you, but unfortunately we can’t stay today,” Unity adds and the mysterious couple begin to leave.

            Unity places a kindly hand on Amma’s shoulder on her way past, elevating the feeling of comfort, reassurance, and calm still further.

            Visions of the past. Flashes of ancient Rome, deserts layered with the sands of time, tending to soldiers in the Civil War, the World Wars, Ground Zero on that day.

            “You are very kind,” Amma says, almost involuntarily.

            “You and Melvin will find each other,” she says softly into Amma’s ear. “When the time is right.”

            “When they put on the lights,” Silvanus adds, pointing skywards.

            And the Lovells take their leave.

September 11, 2021, 12:03 p.m.

Bauer’s Bagels and Smoked Fish

Lower Manhattan, New York

“In their presence I felt… safe. Protected. They emanated a palpable energy of parental love and care. Silvanus and Unity Lovell exude a feeling of belonging out of time. Their clothes, their ways – everything about them – seems to exist on another plane. There is a timelessness about them; a deep and ancient wisdom, a sense that they have seen much and traveled far.”

“Will it be the special today, miss?”

Amma looks up at the waiter. He appears young at first glance, but emerging crow’s feet suggest a few decades on the clock. His well-manicured beard comes to a sharp point at the chin. His eyes are dark and kind.

“So, you are open then?”

When Amma had found Bauer’s Bagels and Smoked Fish, it had looked closed. The sign was old and weather-beaten, the inside dark. When she’d entered, nobody had been around, but she was encouraged by the intoxicating aroma of fresh-baked bread and smoked salmon and so took a seat, recording some commentary for her podcast to kill the time.

The man smiles.

“We are very open here.”

“O…kay. Can I see a menu?”

“I really must recommend the special.”

“What’s the special?”

“The Bauerbagel. Nova Scotia smoked salmon, plain cream cheese, beefsteak tomatoes, red onions, and capers – all served on a fresh-baked poppyseed bagel. Pickle and ‘slaw on the side.”

“Sounds delicious. Can I get it gluten free?

“Of course, miss. There will be an extra charge for that.”

“That’s fine. And can you please stop calling me ‘miss’?”

“Of course, m… Anything to drink?”

“Just water with a slice of lemon is fine.”

“Coming right up.”

“Thank you.”

Amma looks around. Her phone is still recording.

“I could say the same about this place, with its uneven, creaky floors, aged wood paneling, and antique furniture. A place out of time. And judging from the lack of patrons during the New York lunch hour, out of fashion…”

“Your bagel, m… Your bagel. And a lemon water.”

“That was fast.”

“We aim to please.”

Amma looks around the empty restaurant.

“Right.”

The waiter smiles and nods before disappearing into a back room as quickly as he had appeared. Amma pauses her recording and gets to work on lunch. It really is a treat – a sloppy, creamy, seafoody mess on as good a lightly toasted gluten-free bagel as she has ever tasted. Even the pickle is sublime. She doesn’t see the waiter – nor anyone else for that matter – the whole time it takes her to eat.

Once she’s finished, she collects her things and makes her way to the old, worn bar.

“Hello? Excuse me. I’d like to pay now.”

The waiter appears from the back, looking a little confused.

“Ah, yes. Of course, you are all finished.”

“I’ll pay debit,” Amma says, reaching into her purse.

“Oh, no,” with a chuckle. “Your meal is already paid for,” he says, sliding a piece of folded paper across the bar to her. “Besides, we only take cash here,” he adds with a smile.

Amma unfolds the piece of paper and reads the words written in an ornate calligraphy.

Lunch is on us.

Melvin waits at The Oculus.

Time is short.

Soon, the lights go on.

- Silvanus and Unity Lovell

            When Amma looks up, the man is gone, along with him the smell of fresh-baked bread and smoked fish. Now, the place feels musty and dank. The upholstery of the antique chairs is stained and torn. Tables sit slanted on broken legs. Mould peeks out from the gaps in the walls.

            Amma makes her way to the door and walks out. Something is off. When she’d walked into Bauer’s it was the middle of the day, but now the sun is falling below the towering skyscrapers.

            Amma takes out her phone and gasps at the time. It’s 6 p.m.

Part 8

September 11, 2021, 6:33 p.m.

World Trade Center Complex

Lower Manhattan, New York

            “The Oculus looks like something from an Alien movie, with its clinical whiteness and collection of giant, spiny wings reaching high on either side, coming to a point at a long, narrow skylight that runs the length of the transportation hub. The white marble floor is uninterrupted by anything other than commuters busying through. There are no beams or support structures of any kind; just those great, white wings drawing your gaze ever upwards. This is what a cathedral may look like in a future – or a place – far, far from here.”

            Amma pauses for a moment, taking in the scene and scanning the Oculus for any sign of Melvin Sams. By New York standards, the World Trade Center Transportation Hub is relatively quiet this evening, but there are still more than enough people to provide that steady, ambient hum of activity that will add texture to her recordings when the podcast episode is complete. She makes her way along the marble floor as people hurry by in all directions.

            “Sometimes, I feel like the slowest-moving person in New York. Here, everybody is in a hurry. Everybody has some other place to be. It’s not just the city that never sleeps; it’s the city that never stands still.”

            Amma finds a bench and sits for a moment, hoping the altered perspective might reveal Melvin Sams to her – passing through on his way somewhere else, or peeking from behind a white beam. She leans her head back and looks up at the beautiful symmetry of the structure.

            “Everything in New York is about bigness, about height. This city suggests that spreading out far and wide will never be enough for humankind. We must always look up. We must always reach higher. We must always hurry, hurry, hurry.”

            She tilts her head to the side and spots someone on one of the high, cantilevered balconies, leaning against the railing. This person is different from the rest. This person isn’t moving.

            “But as my old man always said – when he said anything at all – ‘If you rush through life, you’ll miss all the good parts.’”

            Amma rises to her feet, keeping her eyes locked on the unmoving figure on the balcony.

            “Or – even worse – you’ll get to the end too fast.”

            She squints a little, drawing the figure into focus. She’s always had excellent eyesight – both near and far. Her mother used to say she had a zoom function. Not too far from the truth.

            “Hello, Melvin,” Amma says, and even at this distance she can tell he’s looking right at her.

            As she rises to her feet, Melvin mirrors her movement, rising to stand. Amma feels suddenly dizzy.

That’s weird. Maybe I stood up too fast.

            She gathers herself and moves forward, in the direction of the balcony, but as soon as she takes a couple of steps, Melvin hops up onto the railing. Amma stops dead in her tracks and watches as he dangles his legs casually over the side and passersby continue passing on by.

Why isn’t anyone doing anything?

            A loud ringing in her ear makes Amma jump. It takes moment for her to tune into what’s happening, but then she answers the call that’s coming in on her earpiece.

            “Hello?”

            “Amma, I got that recording cleared up.”

            Amma remains perfectly still, never taking her eyes off Melvin, who continues to sit casually, high above.

            “Okay, great. Can you make out what the man is saying?”

            “Well, yes and no. The interference is cleared up pretty good and you can hear the voice, but…”

            “But what?”

            “But it isn’t English.”

            Amma digests Alison’s words for a moment.

            “What do you mean ‘it isn’t English’? He talked in a strange way, kind of in riddles, is that what you…”

            “No, Amma, the voice, it’s speaking in another language.”

            “That’s impossible. I was talking to him…”

            “Well, yeah, you were talking back to him in English, but the language he was speaking to you? That is most certainly not English.”

            “But, I was there…”

            “Yeah, you were there. Completely understanding every word of… whatever this is.”

            Alison plays the recording back to Amma. She’s right. The manic man’s side of the conversation is in a completely different language – and not one she recognizes.

            “Do you know what language that is?” Amma asks.

            “Honey, I have high school French, most of which I’ve long forgotten. That’s about the extent of my multilingualism.”

            “Right,” Amma says, distracted by Melvin Sams as he raises one hand and gives her a little wave. She gingerly waves back.

            “So, I mean, unless you want to know how to ask for directions to the nearest patisserie, I’m not gonna be much help to you.”

            “Jacquelin.”

            “Jacquelin?”

            “At the university. She’s a linguistics expert.”

            “I’m sorry, do I know this person?”

            “No. She’s an old friend.”

            “And does this old friend have a surname?”

            “Sullivan. No, Perez. She got married.”

            “Jacquelin Perez the married linguist. Got it. Are you okay, Ams? You sound distracted.”

            Another wave of dizziness washes over Amma. The great wings of the Oculus seem to be closing in on her, like two giant sets of fingers coming together to take her in their grasp. She shakes her head and tries to blink the illusion away. As she does, she could swear she sees the shape of Melvin Sams falling from the balcony to the white, marble floor below.

            “Oh my God,” Amma yelps.

            “Amma? Are you okay? What is it?”

            As the great hall comes back into focus, there is no sign of Melvin up on the balcony.

            Amma springs into action, moving fast now – like a real New Yorker – over to where she saw Melvin fall.

            “Ali, I have to go.”

            “Okay.”

            “Get the voice recording to Jacquelin…”

            “Jacquelin Perez. I got it.”

             “Bye.”

            Amma hangs up and rushes over, bracing for what she might find when she gets there. She can picture it now – the mangled remains of Melvin Sams, his blood a shock of red against the white marble floor. The people gathered around. The yelps of shock. The urgent conversation.

            But when she gets there, she finds none of that. No Melvin. No gory scene. No concerned citizens.

            The dizziness is returning, the great white wings of the Oculus throbbing high above her as she looks up towards the balcony.

            No Melvin.

            She spins as an older man in a business suit hurries by her.

            “Where the lights come on,” he says to her as he passes.

            “What did you…?” Amma goes to say, but when she turns the man is lost in the crowd.

            “The lights…” Amma says to herself, making her way towards the entrance of the transportation hub, along the white marble floor, the wings of the Oculus becoming white waves in her periphery.

            Something is wrong. Was I drugged?

            “Focus,” she says to herself, pushing forward, her footsteps lacking grace but not speed.

            “The lights,” another stranger says on her way past.

            “Go to the lights,” says yet another. Their voices echo and Amma can’t be sure if they are really speaking or if it is all in her head.

            She can’t be sure if she really sees Melvin Sams at the entrance to the transportation hub, looking back at her with that ever-present vacant smile. She can’t be sure if that’s really him disappearing into the crowd along Church Street or always just a little too far ahead of her as she follows along Trinity Place.

September 11, 2021, 7:08 p.m.

Battery Parking Garage

Lower Manhattan, New York

            Amma uses the cold metal rail to pull herself up the concrete steps of the Battery Parking Garage just in time to see the Tribute in Light switch on – eighty-eight powerful vertical searchlights shooting blue-tinged beams high into the New York sky in an eerie ode to the twin towers.

            She looks high above. The sky looks strange, with ominous black clouds swirling at the peak of the lights’ unerring beams. The clouds move fast. Too fast, as though time in the skies above New York City is misbehaving again and moving as it sees fit.

            Amma stands still for a moment, the hypnotic swirl of the clouds holding her in place.

            Is that…?

            She sees something through the clouds. A definite curved edge, dark and hard to pick out, but unnatural among the churning clouds. And then another. Dull, metallic. Lights. Not the great beams shooting from the roof of the garage, but strange white lights along the edge of the curved objects, flashing in a repeating pattern.

            Somebody catches Amma’s shoulder as they hurry by, spinning her around to face the edge of the parking garage, where she again sees Melvin Sams, sitting on the four-foot concrete wall that lines the perimeter of the roof.

            Amma makes her way towards Melvin, who sits with his back to her, legs again dangling over the drop. As she gets close, he turns and smiles at her. She’s almost up on him when he casually eases himself over the edge.

            “No!” Amma screams.

The parking garage isn’t the tallest building in New York City, but it is nonetheless multiple storeys high.

            She runs over, placing her hands on the wall and peering down over the edge.

            “It’s okay,” she hears Melvin’s voice say as the ground spins beneath her. “It can’t hurt you.”

            Suddenly, an unseen hand reaches up from below, grabbing Amma by the scruff of the neck and pulling her powerfully over the side.

            There is a sensation of falling and Amma opens her mouth to scream. But nothing comes out.

            When she opens her eyes, all she can see are those swirling clouds. She can hear the sound of flowing water and can feel that she’s lying on a hard surface. She jolts upright to find she’s on a bench near the giant square footprints of the twin towers, their waters ever flowing in memory of those lost twenty years ago to the day.

            She instinctively reaches for the back of her head, running her hands across her shoulders, her ribs, her legs, conducting a mental check for any signs of injury. There are none.

            “How did I…?”

            “The answers lie above,” says a gruff voice from her right. She turns to see a homeless man with a dirty, bearded face and a broad, toothless smile. He’s pointing up at One World Trade Center. “Up there,” he says. And then he’s gone.

            Amma climbs to her feet and makes her way to the grand entrance of the great tower.

            There, in the doorway, she sees Melvin Sams once again, still with that same vacant smile, beckoning her this time to follow him inside.

            Amma enters the grand lobby just in time to see the elevator doors closing behind Melvin. She rushes over, but it’s too late. The elevator is already in motion – headed for the top floor.

            Suddenly, all the lights go off with a deep groan. It becomes dark inside the tower for a moment, but still the elevator rises. Amma claws in the dark at the buttons, but none of them seem to be responding.

            As she searches for a stairwell, she is offered some light in the dark from outside of the building. Frantic, bright white lights shine in through the plentiful windows, offering haphazard illumination.

            Finding the door that leads to the stairs, Amma begins her ascent. Her head still spinning, time begins to lose all meaning. She just climbs, pulling herself up with the railing, legs like pistons, one step at a time. She climbs and climbs and climbs.

            The frantic white lights create a strobe effect within the confines of the stairwell. Below, endless steps left behind spiral into the abyss. Above, step upon step, stairwell upon stairwell reach above into blinding light.

            She climbs.

            And climbs.

            And climbs.

            She climbs for time interminable. Her legs are wracked with pain. Her heart hammers in her ears. And just when she thinks she can go on no longer, she sees a doorway at the top of the next flight of stairs, blinding light emanating from its beckoning shape.

            Amma grits her teeth and pushes on up the last few stairs, immersing herself in the light, entering the doorway.

            She is struck by a burst of cool air and the sound of wind whipping in her ears. Around her are the huge, circular shapes of One World Trade Center’s great communications array.

I’m on the roof.

Ahead of her is a wall, atop which stands Melvin Sams, his kindly smile illuminated by a confusion of bright flashing lights. Once again, Melvin is close but just out of reach.

“Melvin!” Amma shouts.

“It’s okay,” she hears Melvin say without moving his lips. She hears his voice in her head and all around her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

With that, the swirling clouds part and the hulking form of a dull metal object gracefully and silently emerges, those white lights pulsating around its flawless perimeter.

“You’re special, too,” she hears his voice say. “You’ll see. One day.”

Melvin Sams spreads his arms wide and there is a blinding flash, accompanied by what sounds like a loud crack of thunder.

When Amma opens her eyes, Melvin and the object are gone. The clouds continue to swirl and the wind continues to whip as another figure emerges from the shadows. It’s the dark silhouette of a man, his mess of curled hair blowing in the breeze.

The Manic Man.

“What’s happening here?” Amma demands to know. “Where’s Melvin?”

The Manic Man comes close, wearing his tailored black suit and a matching trench coat – along with that Cheshire cat smile.

“Where are any of us, Amma?”

“But, he… I saw…”

“We see what we want to see, don’t we?”

Amma looks into the man’s dark eyes. They seem almost black and of incomprehensible depth.

It’s as though a whole universe swirls in there.

“You have nothing to fear, Amma. No, no. Quite the opposite. You have everything to embrace and to cherish. You’re here,” the Manic Man raises his arms wide and takes in a theatrical breath. “On top of the world.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Questions. So many questions. You, Amma Portland, ask them like no other. Always have. Always questioning. And like no other you can find the answers. Heck – you may even be the answer!”

The Manic Man suddenly turns and runs full force towards the wall, scaling it like a cat and standing tall above. Amma can only stand and watch.

So many questions and yet unable to think of anything to ask.

“See ya ‘round, Amma Portland,” the Manic Man says just as a gust of wind blows dirt into Amma’s eyes. By the time she blinks the wall back into focus, the Manic Man is gone.

September 11, 2021, 9:05 p.m.

Inglenook Restaurant

Lower Manhattan, New York

            “Just like that?” Kyle Masters asks as he butters his bun.

            “Just like that,” Amma says.

            “I mean… you don’t think he jumped?”

            “I don’t know what to think.” Amma pauses as a waiter dressed all in white refills her water glass. She watches Kyle trying to process everything she’s told him, his brow furrowed.

            “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she says once the waiter has left them. “You must think I’m crazy.”

            “No,” Kyle says – and means it. “I do not think you’re crazy. I think you’ve had a very traumatic experience.”

            Spoken like a man who knows what it means to have a traumatic experience. A man who’s been to war.

            “I’m sorry,” Amma says. “I didn’t mean to…”

            “No,” Kyle shrugs. “It’s okay.”

            Amma smiles. Kyle has a natural warmth; an ability to put her instantly at ease. He has great taste in restaurants, too. This place is stunning and the food looks amazing.

            “Could someone have drugged you?” he asks.

“I mean, I didn’t eat or drink anything that could have been laced with drugs. I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime,” Amma says.

            “Or, had you?” Kyle replies.

            Right. The lost time.

            “Well, it sure felt like lunchtime when I was eating my smoked-fish bagel.”

            “But if it was six when you left the bagel place, you can’t really be sure, right?”

            “Right,” Amma concedes.

            “Or, maybe it was just bad fish,” Kyle says with a smile.

            Amma chuckles. “Maybe.”

            Her phone vibrates on the table and Alison’s name appears on the screen.

            “Do you mind if I…?”

            “Not at all.”

            “Hey, Ali.”

            “Hey, Ams. I found your Jacquelin Perez.”

            “And?”

            “She listened to the recording. She said she couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, but that is sounded like ancient Aramaic.”

            “No shit,” Amma says.

            “She took a copy and is going to look into it some more.”

            “Okay.”

            “I’m disturbing your date, aren’t I?”

            “It’s fine…”

            “Is he dreamy?”

            Amma looks up at Kyle as he chews on his buttered bun.

            “Maybe a little.”

            Amma pulls the phone away from her ear as Alison lets out a piercing shriek.

            “Okay, I’m gonna let you get back to Sergeant Dreamy. Just one more thing…”

            “Uh-hu.”

            “Maxine Mayers called you out on Cage TV.”

            “Maxine who?”

            “Exactly. Mad Max Mayers. She’s young, unranked, but there’s a bit of buzz coming out of Florida about her. What do you want me to do?”

            “Set it up. Let’s fight.”

            “She’s a nobody, Ams. It’s not gonna help your ranking…”

            “Nobody calls me out, Alison. Let’s set it up.”

            “O-kay. I’ll get on it. You get on Sarge Dreamy.”

            “Goodbye, Alison.”

            “Bye, babes.”

            Amma puts down the phone, mouths a sorry to Kyle.

“Now,” she says. “Tell me about what happened in the desert.”

End of Episode 1: TWIN TOWERS

Don’t miss Part 1 of TRUE STORY – Episode 2: GHOSTS IN THE DESERT – coming Friday, November 12, 2021.

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TRUE STORY is not a true story. It is a work of fiction. Similarities to any person, living or dead, are purely coincidental.