THE RISING (Bruce Springsteen)

Can’t see nothin’ in front of me

Can’t see nothin’ coming up behind

I make my way through this darkness

I can’t feel nothing but this chain that binds me

Lost track of how far I’ve gone

How far I’ve gone, how high I’ve climbed

Twenty-five minutes past midday. The sun was high in the sky but that didn’t stop a freezing wind from sweeping the streets. The area was still sealed off. Webs of white dust were swirling in the chilled air, carried by the wind, landing on people, buildings and vehicles as if to remind everyone of what had happened. He walked past torn-apart stores, shattered streetlamps and cars hiding under inches of grey powder. You didn’t need to see what was left of the towers to face the devastation.

He patted at the dust in his hair and brought his fingers before his eyes. Those particles were the reason he was here.

Groups of workers and volunteers on their lunch break were leaving the sealed area. The security, although very visible, wasn’t as tight as he expected. The feeling that the worst that could ever happen had already happened was dwelling in everybody’s mind.

Norman leaned against a van and waited for the right moment to slip in. He had no pass, but was hopeful a chance would arise.

Ten minutes later, a group of volunteers shuffled back towards the restricted area, one of them with an accent he could easily place.

“Dorchester?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve just come over from there. I’m here to help.”

Three minutes later he was in the heart of Ground Zero. It was September 21, 2001.

Fluorescent orange spray-paint indicated whether a building had been searched and how many casualties had been found. Enormous wooden boxes labelled “Aircraft Parts” were placed outside every block.

A chill came over him, all those innocents… all those severed lives, shattered families, so much pain and loss, and for what?

He frowned. He agreed with the President’s words, “The people who knocked these buildings down will hear from all of us soon!” What he didn’t agree with was who those “people” were. Not the religious freaks and exotic terrorists who hated America, no, that was too easy, that was what THEY wanted us to believe. The American people knew better than that, and were no longer willing to buy another Hollywood-scripted moon landing, another Area 51.

As soon as he had a chance, he detached himself from the group of volunteers he had come in with and found himself alone at the centre of the biggest mass murder ever committed in America. He felt like a child left alone in some kind of giant, depraved toy store after closing time.

The volunteers were working hard, passing buckets of debris to one another, lifting melted metal beams – they were rescuers of the faith.

Not Norman. He wasn’t there to restore the universal faith, he was there to carry out the Task. And just before it got too dark to see, he did it.

All of a sudden, every piece of the puzzle clicked together. Mysteries were not such anymore. Lies had lost their power. The spell of deception was broken. He grinned. They’d made a mistake; like most people, they’d got something wrong. That’s why criminals get caught in the end.

The most spectacular cover-up since Pearl Harbour, hundreds if not thousands of people involved… Of course only a tiny number of them, the big guns, were aware of the whole framework of the plot.

Even so, how could they have hoped to get away with it? Eyes that wanted to see would see. Minds not willing to settle for a staged representation of the truth would not settle. Hearts too warm to let the chill official statements freeze them would not freeze. And so it happened. The Truth was unveiled, and it was vicious, as only man can create.

Ground Zero had crystallised all his work, and its Truth had come to him as a revelation. There was no need to be here any more. As darkness fell over that tombstone of humanity, smouldering fires appeared from the cracks of buildings, buildings that seemed like tortured captives begging their guards to end their pains.

****

It was cold at home, the kind of coldness which envelopes bodies and minds alike. Oswald was lying on his back, at first glance in the way dogs do when they want to let you know that they trust you completely and would love to play with you. For Oswald it was different, he knew that nobody was going to play with him, because his master didn’t love him anymore. He had surrendered, rolled onto his back like a dying bug, in puddles of his own urine.

One of his ear’s pricked up as the door was flung open. He roused himself and, staggering and starving, stood up and tried to bark, but the outcome was more like a miserable lament. Then a glint of moonlight hit the only face he wanted to see again.

Norman crouched in the darkness, placed the bag he was carrying on the floor, and held Oswald tight, caressing his head and back. Oswald yelped with pleasure and strained to get on his hind paws. Norman stroked his muzzle. Now that he had accomplished the Task, he was able to love him again.

Oswald lost his balance and collapsed to the floor. Norman turned on the lights, and groaned at how gaunt Oswald was. He rushed to the kitchen and flung open all the cupboard drawers: nothing. Putting his coat back on, he headed for the grocery shop.

Half an hour later, after Oswald had gorged himself on pork chops and a full bowl of dogfood, he wolfed down a couple of bowls of milk and water. Barely able to move, he crashed down in his basket as if intoxicated by a wild night of excesses and rested there, satisfied, staring at the ceiling. Within minutes he was asleep.

Norman unloaded packets of nachos, chocolate cookies and coffee from the grocery bag and made himself a pot of coffee. He flipped open his laptop, smiling. Now that he had found out the Truth, he only had to choose how and when he would spread the news to the country.

News outlets, broadcasters, TV shows – the whole world was waiting for him, a modern messiah fated to bring the word of truth to his fellow human beings.

Jay Leno, Larry King, David Letterman, Oprah Winfrey – they’d jump at the chance to skyrocket their ratings. If there was one thing you could count on in America, he chuckled to himself, it was that no one is going to shut the door in the face of a brown bag full of money.

The next morning he shaved, walked and fed Oswald, and then, cradling the cordless phone in his hands like a kitten he was afraid to hurt, phoned Letterman.

One ring, two rings…

“Hello, this is the CBS? How can I help you?

It was almost 4 p.m. when he walked across the corner of Broadway and 53rd Street in midtown Manhattan. The marquee of the Ed Sullivan Theatre was high and gleaming. Norman stopped beneath it and stared up like a member of some ancient cult worshipping a deity. He was ready, the time had come.

Unbelievably, the producers of the show had refused to have him as a guest – likewise Oprah, Leno and King – but they’d given him a free ticket for the Monday taping at 4:30pm. Not the outcome he had hoped for, not the outcome his discovery deserved, but after thinking about it – Norman gave a grim smile – maybe this way was best…

Ten minutes later he was sitting on a balcony overlooking the stage, in the front row, flicking through the show’s schedule. The right moment to strike was just after the interview with the Mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, who was winning his reputation leading the wounded city towards its salvation. Norman shook his head – ha! The irony of it. He was about to tell it like it was, right in Giuliani’s face.

As Giuliani waved to the live audience in the theatre, Norman felt a stabbing pain in the side. He was tense. Too tense.

The Mayor was leaving the stage and David Letterman was addressing the audience in his amiable way.

Norman got to his feet.

“Mr Letterman,” he shouted, “I’m a big fan of yours, and I have something extremely important to say to you and your audience about the terrible events of 9/11.”

Letterman looked at him, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, jeez fella, it’s already been a pretty rough week,” he protested, as the audience, still knocked sideways by events, chuckled uneasily.

“Please, David, let me go on, I only ask a few minutes, I’ve made a throughout investigation into it and I have very important findings to be shared with the public. You can always cut me later in the editing.”

Letterman shook his head, took the chair behind his desk and put it in the middle of the stage.

“All right, somebody bring our friend a microphone, please.”

A production assistant darted towards the front row of the balcony.

“Thank you so much, David, America will be grateful to you for this.”

“As long as they don’t sue me, I’m fine with that.”

More laughs, as nervous as before. An eerie sense of expectation spread over the theatre as Norman got hold of the microphone.

“So, as I said…“

“Your name, please, mister?”

“Yes, of course, I’m Norman Washington.”

“Thanks. Go ahead Norman, and don’t forget about my lawyer – he has a pretty high hourly rate.”

“Sure, sure.”

He held the microphone glued to his mouth, took a deep breath.

“Like any decent person in this country, I was shocked by the recent events of 9/11, and I wish the government had told us the whole truth about that terrible day. But they haven’t.”

“It’s getting worse by the minute” Letterman sighed, as people started booing.

“Norman, I’m sorry, but this is not the right place for this, there will be a 9/11 commission at some point. Thank you.”

“Please, David, just let me… .”

Before he could complete his sentence, the production assistant had whizzed past the balcony audience and snatched the microphone from his hand He found himself sitting back in his seat as Letterman went back to his desk to announce the next guest.

It was over. The system had hushed up the Truth.Again. But he wasn’t going to let them shut him up. He had another shot and was ready to play it all the way.