He rejoined the procession of ghosts, following them on to a road where they seemed to disperse in different directions. He stopped again as a thought struck him, and as it took hold he suddenly wanted some peace and quiet. Turning off, he walked along a deserted side street, past a row of office buildings, the wheels of his bag still bump-bump-bumping along behind him.

Totally absorbed, he walked through almost empty urban streets for a long time, before finding himself at the entrance ramp to a highway. A short distance in front of him was a tall, girdered advertising hoarding rising into the sky, emblazoned with the word kentile in red. Then he heard the rumble of an engine and the next moment, a blue four-door pick-up truck stopped alongside him.

The window slid down and a man in a chequered shirt and a New York Yankees baseball cap peered out of the window. ‘You wanna a ride, buddy?’

Ronnie stopped, startled and confused by the question, and sweating like a hog. A ride? Did he want a ride? Where to?

He wasn’t sure. Did he?

He could see figures inside. Ghosts huddled together.

‘Got room for one more.’

‘Where are you going?’ he asked lamely, as if he had all kinds of options.

The man spoke in a nasal voice, as if the bass on his vocal cords was turned up to max. ‘There’s more planes. There’s more planes any moment. Gotta get away. Ten more planes. Maybe more. Shit, man, it’s just friggin’ started.’

‘I – ah – I have to meet-’ Ronnie stopped. Stared at the open door, at the blue seats, at the man’s dungarees. He was an old guy with a bobbing Adam’s apple and a neck like a turkey. His face was wizened and kind.

‘Jump in. I’ll give you a ride.’

Ronnie walked around and climbed into the front, next to the man. The news was on, loudly. A woman was saying that the Wall Street area of Manhattan and Battery Park were impassable.

As Ronnie fumbled for his seat belt, the driver handed him a bottle of water. Ronnie, suddenly realizing how parched he was, drained it gratefully.

‘I clean the windows, right? The Center, yeah?’

‘Right,’ Ronnie said distantly.

‘All my fuggin’ cleaning stuff’s in the South Tower – know what I’m saying?’

Ronnie didn’t, not exactly, because he was only half listening. ‘Right,’ he said.

‘I guess I’ll have to go back later.’

‘Later,’ Ronnie echoed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

‘You OK?’

‘Me?’

The truck moved forward. The interior smelled of dog hair and coffee.

‘Gotta get away. They hit the Pentagon. There’s ten fucking planes up there right now, coming at us. This is yuge. Yuge!’

Ronnie turned his head. Stared at the four huddled figures behind him. None of them met his eyes.

‘A-rabs,’ the driver said. ‘A-rabs done this.’

Ronnie stared at a plastic Starbucks beaker with a coffee-stained paper towel wrapped around it in the cup holder. A bottle of water was jammed in next to it.

‘This thing, it’s just the beginning,’ the driver said. ‘Lucky we got a strong president. Lucky we got George Dubya.’

Ronnie said nothing.

‘You OK? Not hurt or nothing?’

They were heading along a freeway. Only a handful of vehicles were coming in the opposite direction, on an elevated section. Ahead of them was a wide green road sign divided into two. On the left was written EXIT 24 EAST 27 PROSPECT EXPWY. On the right it said 278 WEST VERRAZANO BR, STATEN IS.

Ronnie did not reply, because he did not hear him. He was deep in thought again.

Working through the idea. It was a crazy idea. Just a product of his shaken state. But it wouldn’t go away. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder if it might have legs. A back-up plan to Donald Hatcook.

Maybe an even better plan.

He switched his phone off.

Abby watched the tip of the iron crowbar in terror. It was jerking sharply, blindly, left then right, levering the doors apart, just a couple of inches each time before they sprang shut again, clamping tight on the tip.

There was another huge crash on the roof and this time it really did feel as if someone had jumped on to it. The lift swayed, thumping the side of the shaft, throwing her off balance, the small canister of pepper spray dropping with a thud from her hand as she tried to stop herself smashing into the wall.

With a loud metallic screech of protest, the doors were opening.

Cold terror flooded through her.

Not just opening a couple of inches now, but wider, much wider.

She ducked down, desperately scrabbling on the floor for the spray. Light spilled in. She saw the canister and grabbed it, panic-stricken. Then, without even wasting time to look up, she launched herself forward, pressing down on the trigger, aiming straight into the widening gap between the doors.

Straight into powerful arms that grabbed her, yanking her up out of the lift and on to the landing.

She screamed, wriggling desperately, trying to break free. When she pressed down on the trigger again, nothing came out.

‘Fuck you,’ she cried. ‘Fuck you!’

‘Darlin’, it’s all right. It’s OK, darlin’.’

Not any voice she recognized. Not his.

‘Lemme go!’ she screamed, lashing out with her bare feet.

He was holding her in a grip like a vice. ‘Darlin’? Miss? Calm down. You’re safe. It’s OK. You are safe!’

A face beneath a yellow helmet smiled at her. A fireman’s helmet. Green overalls with fluorescent stripes. She heard the crackle of a two-way radio and what sounded like a control-room voice saying, ‘Hotel 04.’

Two firemen in helmets stood on the stairs above her. Another waited a few stairs down.

The man holding her smiled again, reassuringly. ‘You’re all right, love. You’re safe,’ he said.

She was shivering. Were they real? Was this a trap?

They seemed genuine, but she continued gripping the pepper spray tightly. She would put nothing past Ricky.

Then she noticed the surly face of the elderly Polish caretaker, who was puffing up the stairs in his grubby sweatshirt and brown trousers.

‘I not paid to work weekends,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s the managing agents. I speak to them about this lift for months! Months.’ He looked at Abby and frowned. Jerked a finger with a blackened nail upwards. ‘Flat 82, right?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘The managing agents,’ he wheezed in his guttural accent. ‘They no good. I tell them, every day I tell them.’

‘How long you been in there, darlin’?’ her rescuer said.

He was in his thirties, good-looking in a boy-band sort of way, with black eyebrows almost too neat to be real. She looked at him warily, as if he was too handsome to be a fireman, as if he was all part of Ricky’s elaborate deception. Then she found she was shaking almost too much to speak.

‘Do you have any water?’

Moments later a water bottle was put in her hand. She drank in greedy gulps, spilling some so that it ran down her chin and trickled down her neck. She drained it before she spoke.

‘Thank you.’

She held out the empty bottle, and an unseen hand took it.

‘Last night,’ she said. ‘I’ve been – since – I think – in this sodding thing – last night. It’s Saturday now?’

‘Yes. It’s 5.20, Saturday afternoon.’

‘Since yesterday. Since just after 6.30 yesterday evening.’ She looked in fury at the caretaker. ‘Don’t you check the bloody alarm’s working? Or the bloody phone in the thing?’

‘The managing agents.’ He shrugged, as if every problem in the universe could be blamed on them.

‘If you don’t feel well you should go to A and E at the hospital for a check-up,’ the good-looking fire officer said.

That panicked her. ‘No – no – I’m really fine, thank you. I – I just-’