Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse Read Online Free PDF Page A

then.’ They stood. ‘My apartment’s not far. Where’s your bike?’
    ‘It was stolen.’
    ‘ Really ?’
    ‘Yeah.’ He followed Molly and the dog. ‘It cost me a thousand dollars. I loved that bike.’
     
    ***
     
    Nineteen-year-old Taylor Harrison did feel sorry for the bride but, like catering workers the world over, she was secretly pleased with the power failure and the chance to stand around for an hour while management tried to resolve the issue. She hated her boss, so was delighted that the woman was running about like a headless chicken, attempting to rescue two hundred and fifty steak dinners.
    Taylor stood at the gate of a courtyard, behind the kitchens, listening to the chefs curse and bang pans about, while sipping a soft drink through a straw and looking out over the golf course of the Fletcher Ridge Country Club in Connecticut. Her work friends, Paula and Kacie, were there with her, talking about boys. There was a rumour going around that all cell phones were not working, but as the waitresses’ phones were in their lockers it couldn’t be corroborated at that exact moment in time. Taylor checked her nails, adjusted her brunette ponytail, then smoothed down her apron. There was a smell of smoke in the air, she noticed, perhaps the management resorting to barbecue for the wedding food. Taylor lived in the staff quarters of the Club, worked quite a lot of hours between attending college. She hailed from Scranton, Ohio, the only child of dysfunctional, estranged, parents, so she rarely went back there. At the moment she was single, although not short of admirers and offers.
    She watched a group of golfers coming in off the course. She recognised Mr Ferguson, with his cronies. Ferguson was always extremely polite when being served in the restaurant or the bar, but spent far too much time at the Club to be a legitimate businessman. Taylor thought he was a gangster of some kind. As they got close, the sun bounced off Ferguson’s shaven head. He was a strong-looking man in his late forties, always immaculately dressed. He was laughing at something. Then he stopped and his group looked to their left. Taylor followed where they were gazing. Silently, almost in slow motion, a large helicopter was coming down in a spin. Taylor’s hand went to her mouth as the helicopter hit the ground with a terrible thud, throwing up earth like a meteor strike, breaking into three pieces and then bursting into flames. Instantly it was a fireball, not more than five hundred yards from where they all were. One of Taylor’s friends screamed, one of Ferguson ’ s colleagues started running towards the crash, before realising there was no point. Ferguson decided to enter the club through this staff area, the sooner to get into his car and leave before the police swamped the place. He locked eyes with Taylor briefly, and she saw that he wasn’t in shock like everyone else, then he was leading his people through the onrushing chefs and waiters, who were coming to see what had happened.
     

 
FIVE
     
    In the Springsteens’ office, Charlie McAlister woke up on a leather sofa, her head hurting, but when she put her hand up, she found what felt like a bandage in place. Instinctively, she reached for her phone in her back pocket, and was horrified to find that it refused to turn on. At least she could caress her One Direction phone cover, and run her little finger lovingly over her beloved Harry Styles’ hair. She had loved the boy band since they were put together on The X-Factor, in the UK, and knew they were currently in America at the same time as she was, which had been a great source of happiness to her. As the happenings of earlier in the day filtered back to her conscious mind, she hoped desperately that Harry and the boys were all right.
    It was a gloomy afternoon in a stormy New York City. Charlie sat up slowly. She panicked slightly at being alone, until she heard voices coming up the stairs and recognised Mr and Mrs