that those tiny figures were in fact people. She looked closer. Some had taken their shirts off, waving them like flags to surrender. Then they started to jump. It was bizzare seeing these people, as small and unreal as toy soldiers, jumping to their death, with the polished steel of the building behind them still and gloriously shining in the sun.
When Anne hung up, Claire heard the bleak dialling tone and looked anxiously at the phone. She was alone. Alone with these TV images, which were repeated over and over again. And then the tower collapsed; it just sunk into itself like it had finally had enough of standing there being stared at by the whole world. Claire held her breath; it was incredible to be watching this historical event in real-time, like an evil game just invented as a cynical new form of entertainment.
She was sitting at the edge of the sofa, the tub of melted ice-cream in her hand. She would be unable to do anything for the rest of the day, glued to the sofa as if she were watching a thriller. In some twisted and disgusting way, it was also terribly entertaining. But in order to bear it she was in desperate need of a stiff drink. She rummaged in the kitchen for that old bottle of single malt whisky that was still unopened â a souvenir from their parents of a long-ago visit to Scotland. âSingle Maltâ. She read the golden letters on the label: something one was supposed to offer guests after dinner but then forgot about. It felt devious and completely out of character to pour herself a glass of whisky. Just when she sat on the sofa again, listening to a terrorism expert give a chilling analysis of the situation, her parents called. They were on holiday on a cruise ship. She had assumed that they were bronzing on a deckchair, blissfully unaware of what was happening in New York. But of course, the luxury liner had a high-definition plasma screen the size of a cinema.
Their voices came from afar; she could hardly hear them through the crackling of the phone line. The phone network was completely overloaded and it sounded like they were in some sort of a storm. âStay home,â they shouted. âI am home,â she shouted back. As soon as she hung up, a peculiar silence unfurled. Everyone seemed to be sitting in front of the TV, the whole population of Berlin, Anne and Karl in Hamburg, even her parents on their cruise ship, somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, were watching the twin towers collapse. Everyone was connected by the same images, simultanously taking in the same information, mysteriously bound together by these attacks that until that day had been unimaginable. This was new, in scale and impact, and targeted at the very heart of modern society.
At first she tried the whisky in tiny sips, the sharp taste burning her throat. Gradually it became smoother. A deep warming sensation ran through her body as though someone had wrapped a blanket around her. As the full scale of the atrocity slowly unfolded, she remained transfixed to the screen. She couldnât break away from it, as if the screen were a big magnet in her living room and she was forced to take in everything it showed. It was peopleâs crumbling faces that were the most disturbing, the collapsing twin towers mirrored in their panicked, wide-opened eyes.
She saw people running for their lives, covering themselves from the plumes of smoke worming their way through the streets. Downtown Manhattan was drowned in debris and ashes. Terrified people were screaming, crying, some were holding their heads in their hands as if they wanted to screw them off so as not to see, not to witness. A man in a suit with a briefcase was completely covered in ash. There was even ash on his eyelids. He looked confused, shouting into the camera, indecipherable sentences as if he had lost his mind.
Now she was drinking the whisky in big gulps. Maybe it was its numbing effect, or perhaps she had seen too much already, with the attack on the
When Anne hung up, Claire heard the bleak dialling tone and looked anxiously at the phone. She was alone. Alone with these TV images, which were repeated over and over again. And then the tower collapsed; it just sunk into itself like it had finally had enough of standing there being stared at by the whole world. Claire held her breath; it was incredible to be watching this historical event in real-time, like an evil game just invented as a cynical new form of entertainment.
She was sitting at the edge of the sofa, the tub of melted ice-cream in her hand. She would be unable to do anything for the rest of the day, glued to the sofa as if she were watching a thriller. In some twisted and disgusting way, it was also terribly entertaining. But in order to bear it she was in desperate need of a stiff drink. She rummaged in the kitchen for that old bottle of single malt whisky that was still unopened â a souvenir from their parents of a long-ago visit to Scotland. âSingle Maltâ. She read the golden letters on the label: something one was supposed to offer guests after dinner but then forgot about. It felt devious and completely out of character to pour herself a glass of whisky. Just when she sat on the sofa again, listening to a terrorism expert give a chilling analysis of the situation, her parents called. They were on holiday on a cruise ship. She had assumed that they were bronzing on a deckchair, blissfully unaware of what was happening in New York. But of course, the luxury liner had a high-definition plasma screen the size of a cinema.
Their voices came from afar; she could hardly hear them through the crackling of the phone line. The phone network was completely overloaded and it sounded like they were in some sort of a storm. âStay home,â they shouted. âI am home,â she shouted back. As soon as she hung up, a peculiar silence unfurled. Everyone seemed to be sitting in front of the TV, the whole population of Berlin, Anne and Karl in Hamburg, even her parents on their cruise ship, somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, were watching the twin towers collapse. Everyone was connected by the same images, simultanously taking in the same information, mysteriously bound together by these attacks that until that day had been unimaginable. This was new, in scale and impact, and targeted at the very heart of modern society.
At first she tried the whisky in tiny sips, the sharp taste burning her throat. Gradually it became smoother. A deep warming sensation ran through her body as though someone had wrapped a blanket around her. As the full scale of the atrocity slowly unfolded, she remained transfixed to the screen. She couldnât break away from it, as if the screen were a big magnet in her living room and she was forced to take in everything it showed. It was peopleâs crumbling faces that were the most disturbing, the collapsing twin towers mirrored in their panicked, wide-opened eyes.
She saw people running for their lives, covering themselves from the plumes of smoke worming their way through the streets. Downtown Manhattan was drowned in debris and ashes. Terrified people were screaming, crying, some were holding their heads in their hands as if they wanted to screw them off so as not to see, not to witness. A man in a suit with a briefcase was completely covered in ash. There was even ash on his eyelids. He looked confused, shouting into the camera, indecipherable sentences as if he had lost his mind.
Now she was drinking the whisky in big gulps. Maybe it was its numbing effect, or perhaps she had seen too much already, with the attack on the