And in the major cities and larger towns, the restaurant industry was awash with so called students who were paid, not by the restaurateurs, but by the companies that brought them to Britain. Again, their documents were taken away, for ‘security reasons’, but in reality to ensure that the workers were unable to run away.
There were many different organisations dealing in this miserable human trafficking and all seemed to act independently from each other. In fact, there was a degree of collusion despite the intense competition between various organisations, most of which were unregistered. The heads of these illicit businesses were well known to each other, although they rarely met and communicated only when necessary and through third parties. Most had legitimate businesses which were used as a shield and, indeed, for money laundering purposes.
Mr Chao, whose family enterprise was created shortly after the Second World War, was well aware of all these matters and more. His family originated from Hong Kong and was involved in prostitution and drug dealing back in the ’50s and ’60s. Today his major interests were in property development and ownership. His dealings with the police stretched back to the days when he was moving the family business away from drugs. He was quite happy to create a good impression and build a close liaison with certain police officers, in return for a degree of protection. Mr Chao also retained an old-fashioned attitude to business. He had a total aversion to human trafficking, despite fully understanding the economics. He was aware of the importation of people through the container ports in London and his network of informants kept him fully updated of the movement of human cargoes.
His conversation with Chief Superintendent Bleasdale was generated by a rumour that there were a number of containers lying on the dockside in Tilbury that contained people, rather than the goods as specified on the bills of lading. The containers had been adapted to carry human beings and their final destination was already determined. Chief Inspector Bleasdale believed that Mr Chao was involved with this illicit trade. He was also aware of the appalling weather forecast. He had been to Mr Chao’s office in a futile attempt to avert a potentially appalling disaster. As it transpired, the tidal surge hit Tilbury some twenty minutes after his departure from Soho. No one, except the importers of course, knew that certain containers destined for Lincolnshire were actually carrying people rather than machine parts. Even Mr Chao didn’t know.
Milton and Pamela were having a lazy morning. They slept late, rose slowly and leisurely breakfasted together. Pamela came downstairs wearing Milton’s dressing gown. It was quite short, falling just to her knees and of a wraparound design. Its tie around belt had long since disappeared and she held it together across her body in a display of feminine modesty. When she entered the kitchen, Milton was busy with the kettle. The kitchen was clean and tidy as, before going to bed, all the pots and pans from their evening meal were cleared away.
“Well, hello!” Milton turner round as he heard the door open. " I’m just making tea."
“Smashing. Thanks.” Pamela looked at him thinking What a lovely man. He really is so considerate.
“Come on in and sit you down.” Milton pulled out a chair for her.
“Why thank you, kind sir,” she replied, continuing the game of antiquated courtesy.
“Would madam prefer cereal or toast?”
“Normally I just have a rushed cup of coffee and a slice of toast.”
“Oh!” Milton stopped in his tracks. “Would you prefer coffee rather than tea?”
“Tea is perfect,” she replied. She looked at him, wearing only his pyjama trousers, his torso black and muscular and, now, all hers. She sat down and watched him making the toast and setting the table for her. She tried to hold the gown together, but as she sat down, it opened at the knees. She needed both hands to pull her chair closer to the table and that allowed the garment to gape even more. Glancing at the window, she noticed that Milton was watching her in the reflection. He turned to look at her, with a big grin on his face.
“I rather feel, after last night, that the need for all this modesty has become a bit irrelevant.”
“I suppose you’re right!” Pamela replied, returning his smile. As he brought the butter and marmalade to her, he bent down and gently kissed her cheek. She reached up with her hand to pull his head closer to her. As her arm lifted, her shoulder pulled back and the gown slipped off even further, exposing her breast.
“Now, that’s what I like for breakfast.” Having put down the butter dish, he gently cupped her breast in his hand. With her other hand, she reached behind the chair, to find his expanding penis. She cupped his balls, as she felt his other hand opening the rest of the gown and then moving down to her stomach and beyond.
Milton broke the kiss and murmured into her ear, “You’d better eat your toast before it gets cold!” Reluctantly, she let him go and he proudly returned to the other side of the table.
“I should have asked,” Milton continued. “Did you sleep well?”
“Oh, yes, thanks. I’ve had the best night’s sleep in ages. Which is surprising, seeing as how you were so insistent on other activities!”
“Pamela, you are a lovely woman!” Milton looked at her, with a semi-serious expression on his face. “You are good company. You are good looking. Why the hell aren’t you married and raising a family?”
“I tried it once. And with a lovely fella. But it just didn’t work out. He had his friends, his career and his training schedules. I wanted togetherness, children and a home to look after. After a few years, we realised that we were poles apart mentally and called it a day. Since then, I suppose I’ve become more cautious and much more particular! I’ve been out with more than a few guys, even stayed the night with one or two, but no one has really sent shivers up my spine.” She looked somewhat crestfallen, then continued, looking up at him. “At least, until I saw you.”
“And how long ago was that?” Milton asked, disingenuously.
“Must be about six months now, when I first came to work at Waterloo.” She daintily ate some of her toast. “You walked across the forecourt with an air of authority. Actually, it was almost … ownership. Some person, a lady, stopped you and asked a question. You carefully listened to her before giving her your reply. She thanked you and disappeared. You then smiled to yourself and walked away. It was just an ordinary thing, but you made that lady feel as though she was the only person important to you and I knew then that I wanted to know you better.”
“I don’t remember that,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s something that happens all the time. Just one incident would hardly stick in the mind. But I do remember when I first saw you in the café. It was probably late in September. You were sitting at a table on your own and I remember wondering why someone like you should have no friends. I thought that you looked like a flower, but with no bees buzzing round. And I thought it rather sad, even a little strange.”
They continued chatting, comfortable with each other, when Milton suddenly said that it was nearly eleven o’clock. He stood up and switched on the radio.
After the news, the Environment Agency’s announcement was broadcast.
“That doesn’t sound good,” he remarked. “I think I’d better get up to Waterloo and see what’s what.”
“I know it’s my day off, but I think I should come with you,” she replied.
They both stood up and while Pamela went upstairs to get dressed, Milton washed up the breakfast dishes.
They were both ready by half past eleven and left Milton’s house together, to walk the short distance to Waterloo station. This normally took around twenty-five minutes. When they arrived, just before midday, the station was full, but everything seemed to be functioning as expected. Milton glanced over to the entrance to the Northern Line. It was busy and more people than normal were emerging.
“We need to get higher. Come with me this way. Quickly.”
He turned to Pamela, took hold of her hand and pulled her to a stairway which led up to
the pedestrian bridge over Waterloo Road.
Waterloo Station is built at least two stories above ground level but can be accessed from both Station Approach and Waterloo Road. Station Approach was built around the station itself, to allow a separate access for vehicles, mainly taxis. It runs from the south end of the station, gently rising and passing the roundabout with Spur Road, the vehicular access from Waterloo Road itself. Station Approach then turns around the building to the west to run parallel with, but one storey higher than Mepham Street. At the far end, it slowly descends to ground level where it joins the big roundabout at York Road. Here the traffic accesses the big circulatory system which connects Waterloo Road, Waterloo Bridge, York Road and Stamford Street.
Just to the south of the roundabout, the site of the BMI/Imax cinema, is the pedestrian bridge, which gives access from the station to the Pleasuredrome and the Waterloo East Theatre.
Milton pulled Pamela up to the access for this bridge, fighting a pathway through a growing number of people, who were trying to get down to the trains. It took a surprising amount of time to force their way halfway across the pedestrian bridge where they stood to one side, allowing the thickening crowd to surge past. Milton checked his watch. It was already half past one.
“Why’ve we come here?” Pamela looked at Milton with concern written all over her face.
“That guy on the TV, when we were having breakfast, from the Environment Agency, said there was likely to be local flooding from the rain and the wind we’ve been having.”
“Yes, I heard that, but…” Pamela’s voice tailed off.
“At the end of the statement he said, ‘Please keep calm at all times’. I’ve no idea why he said that, but all these people trying to get into the station are obviously wanting to get out of London. For London to be seriously flooded, there has to be an inflow of water up the Thames of massive proportions. The Thames Barrier should hold off a surge from the sea, but if it doesn’t, the consequences will be unimaginable.”
Pamela clutched his arm tightly. “Will we be safe here?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s happening, but at least we can see from here.”
Outside the wind was dropping and the rain had finally stopped. He took Pamela’s arm and they retraced their steps back towards the station. Instead of going down the stairs with the rest of the people, Milton led Pamela through a door. Inside, there was a stairway which led upwards to the offices on the top floor. At the top, they could see the river Thames from Blackfriars Bridge all the way to London Bridge. Their view of Tower Bridge, however, was partially blocked by the Shard.
“Look at the river.” Milton pointed to the north, towards the Victoria Embankment and the Strand.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hardly moving and it’s really high.”
“Could it be High Tide?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “But if the tide is still coming in, it looks like it might come over the top.”
“Well, over there the land rises quite steeply.” Pamela pointed from Blackfriars all the way back to the top end of Waterloo Bridge.
“It’s not like that on this side of the river,” Milton replied. “Well, not here. It’s all quite low lying right across to Southwark and Bermondsey.”
They remained in that top corridor, looking out of the window to observe the growing crowds, the slow rise of the river and the improving weather. At ten past three, Milton and Pamela were looking down river towards Tower Bridge when they both saw the surge burst through the twin towers. The wave continued to the south of the bridge and, as it swept over Southwark, it seemed to be coming straight at them. At first, the railway line that runs from London Bridge to Charing Cross, seemed to hold the surge in check. It had been built on an embankment, but with any number of bridges giving access from south to north. The water quickly erupted through each and every opening, before being joined by the surge which had now crossed Tooley Street, Thomas Street and Long Lane. It swept round the tower blocks, with the destructive containers, rolling over and over at its crest, which were cutting a swathe through the smaller buildings, rather like a combine harvester in a wheat field.
They watched as it carved its way over Southwark, destroying almost everything in its path, leaving only tower blocks in its wake. Even some of these blocks of apartments succumbed to the constant battering and simply collapsed. Pamela and Milton could hear screaming, as people were overcome by the water and simply swept away. She grabbed Milton’s arm as they remained frozen to the spot, stunned into inactivity.
The wave burst across Blackfriars Road, completely destroying the housing around the Ufford Street Recreation Ground and the Waterloo bus garage. The water surged around the tower blocks on the corner of Sandell Street, destroyed the Network Theatre and the Fire Station Restaurant, before hitting the pillars holding up Station Approach. Buses from the garage were swept into and along Waterloo Road, breaking the windows of the shops and cafes under Station Approach. Behind the buses came even more heavy containers, which had already been carried such a long distance up river from the freight terminals. They crashed into the pillars, some of which gave way, causing Station Approach itself to sag and this, because of the weight of the cast iron and glass, made the roof collapse in a shell burst of broken glass.
Above this destruction, Milton and Pamela could feel the vibrations of the collapsing Station Approach through their feet and they heard the bomb blast sound of glass breaking as the roof imploded. Behind the wave they could see a vista of dirty water, collapsing buildings, floating vehicles and, above all, bodies. There were drowned bodies everywhere, swirling around in the current, being carried hither and thither seemingly without purpose, just drifting, slowly and steadily towards the west, as the tide continued to flow into and across London.
In the Palace of Westminster there was a degree of confusion and panic. Already maintained in a state of readiness because of past terrorist attacks, the Members of Parliament and the Noble Lords were familiar with a restriction of movement, accompanied by interminable security checks. In reality, these only caused minor irritations. The greatest degree of intrusion came from the hide bound constrictions of parliamentary procedure, particularly as most members’ offices were now located on the other side of Bridge Street in Portcullis House. The distance between Portcullis House and the Palace of Westminster is not far – indeed some have suggested it would have been better for the health of our elected members if it were farther! – But following the passing of the surge up the river, the ground floors of both buildings were flooded and all power had been cut.
Behind the surge, the tide continued to flow and the water continued to rise. The mayhem in the entrance to Westminster Underground station was worsened by a double decker London Transport bus being washed onto its side, onto the pavement and into the pillars by the Caffe Nero. As the ingress of water into the underground system flowed under the Thames, the pressure of the water caused pedestrians trying to get into the station to be sucked down the stairwell towards the platforms.
In Downing Street, after calling a meeting of COBRA, the Prime Minister attempted to contact the Conservative Chief Whip in the Commons. The telephone system had ceased to function and the mobile phone networks were increasingly unreliable. From the rear of the building, he could see through the trees towards Horse Guards Parade. It was already under water and the water level was still rising.
“Well, we’re trapped here until the tide turns,” he remarked. “Do we have any open communication with anyone?”
“There is still radio coverage, with the Army. I can probably raise the Chief of the General Staff, but this might take some time.” The Chief Secretary to the Cabinet turned and left the room.
The Prime Minister returned to the Cabinet Room with the Home Secretary and the Minister for the Environment.
“We must assess the extent of the damage," he stated.”But without any form of communication, that is goin
g to be difficult. When is the tide scheduled to turn?"
“I’m just looking at my notes, Prime Minister.” The Environment Secretary carefully checked his file. “High Tide in the Pool of London is scheduled for 16.50 hours.”
“That means the tide will continue to come in for a further ninety minutes.” He sat down deep in thought. There was a gentle knock at the door and a senior civil servant in the Cabinet Office entered.
“Prime Minister, currently all communication by land line and the mobile phone networks has been interrupted by severe cuts to the electricity supply. Downing Street has switched to its old, diesel powered emergency generators. These will give us power internally for approximately six hours. We are now attempting to restore the old communications network that was installed during the Second World War. It hasn’t been used or even tested for over sixty years, so we aren’t particularly hopeful. The best option, at present, is radio and I expect to be advised within the next few minutes whether we have established a direct link with the Ministry of Defence.”
“Thank you.” The Prime Minister pulled a notepad towards him and started to write a list.
“We must first restore power. Get in touch with the Central Electricity Generating Board. While that is being done, we must assess the extent of flood damage. And we must look at the potential death toll. We need to have the Police and the Environment Agency involved as quickly as possible. Indeed, all the emergency services.” He paused.
"We will need additional hospitals and medical assistance. I expect that some hospitals will be out of action because they will have been inundated themselves, so we must set up temporary hospitals as quickly as possible. We will need supplies of food, clean water, clean clothes and warm blankets.
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