For Kirsten at the epicentre it had been immediate and not just deafening, but positively bowel-loosening. The erstwhile members of the congregation of the Hallgrimskirkja were in a state of deep shock. A fine layer of dust covered them, and one by one they slowly took their hands from their ears, finally sure that the noise was subsiding. It still cracked and resonated, though now from a distance. Their ringing eardrums added an extra high note as the wall of sound diminished. Kirsten wanted to get out and see what had happened. She helped Magnus, a fellow lecturer at the university, open the door. The sight that met them was extraordinary: Reykjavik looked as if it had been peeled open like a thousand empty sardine cans. Multicoloured corrugated sheeting was everywhere. Roofs and wall claddings had been peeled off the buildings by the force of the shockwave. Even the famous acid green house was now naked, its sheets joining in a great square pointillist work laid out over the city.
Kirsten Gunnarsdottir
Above, the sky looked as if it had been ripped from horizon to horizon. The meteor trail was so vast that its collapsing vacuum tube had sucked out any moisture in the morning air into a deep, dark, swirling mass. Wilson, moving at 30,000mph, had pushed the air into rolling billows, a series of tight and endless smoke rings moving east, as if still drawn to their creator. The morning sun lit the underside of this vast tube with a yellow hue. The rest was the ethereal clear-blue sky that is particular to the northern climes.
‘Va!’ Wow! was the only word issued, again and again but all unheard due to the Icelanders’ temporary deafness, which would soon affect half the population of the rest of the world. Magnus was tugging on Kirsten’s sleeve, but she ignored him as she searched the screen of her phone for a signal. What about Elin? Was she safe? Magnus tugged again, mouthing, then pointing down across the harbour.
A very large hunk of rock hurtling through the atmosphere is not something meteorologists have ever witnessed, nor could predict. The immense pressure of the shockwave pushes down on the land and the sea, while its trailing wake sucks it back up, like running a stick through a pond.
A peculiarly high-walled tsunami was now heading for land.
Far away, once the glow had subsided behind the tree-silhouetted horizon, an eerie quiet had settled over the field of telescopes in Michigan. After experiencing the most extraordinary observation any of the astronomers had ever seen, their appetite only whetted, the gathered throng had collectively missed out on the climax. Akin to listening to a football crowd from outside the stadium, they all wished that they had been in among the action.
All they could do now was follow events through their phones, tablets and laptops. There was a hubbub of activity inside the dome, but only room for the core team. One of the trailers outside the perimeter was serving coffee and had erected a large screen, lighting up the faces of those gathered around. This was the Pure Channel’s media centre at Peach Mountain. Although unwelcome because of the bad press they had given to the administration over the years, Pure had set up shop and its reporters were interviewing anyone with a woolly hat and bad clothes sense, on the assumption they were an astronomer. Because so many systems had failed through interference and the shockwave, and only patchy reports were coming out of the epicentre, even interviews with these bit players were going out live.
Ford had been either on the phone or checking data for almost three hours. Communication with Iceland was difficult, but he had compared notes with Jess Jensen in Sweden, whose team mirrored the Michigan set-up but were watching the meteor leave the Earth behind. Even in broad daylight it had been visible and spectacular. There was enormous relief because they would have been right in its path, had it taken a slightly different trajectory or broken up.
Finally, drained and needing air, Ford picked up the special boxes he had brought with him. Standing on the balcony of the dome, he could see his team of amateurs, still chatting in groups or packing up their equipment. Most of them recognised Ford and he caught their attention. ‘I just want to thank you all for an amazing job! To express my sense of relief that we are all still here, I’ve brought a little something to keep the cold out…’
Opening the boxes, he laid out three dozen plastic cups and two bottles of single malt. There could not have been a more welcome offering, even for stargazers well used to cold and frosty nights. The diminishing levels of adrenaline had let the cold in and the warm shock of the aromatic liquid was like a comforting blanket.
Ford clanked the empty bottles, drawing the crowd’s attention once more. ‘From what we can see, Wilson has been and gone mostly intact, but there may still be some surprises. We have had reports of…’ He broke off, distracted by a high-pitched whistle that suddenly enveloped the gathering. The dark trees surrounding them appeared to shiver and rustle.
As the whistle grew louder, it was joined by more earthy tones and a deep growl that seemed to shake the soul. Increasing in volume and intensity, the cacophony of sound was suddenly and violently overlaid with a cracking, splintering wave, accompanied by a slam of air that hit them like a wall, and ebbed and flowed like furnace bellows.
Chapter 2
Mo and Jane
Alim and Mo
As the train clanked through the underbelly of London, Alim Azim felt a curious mixture of excitement and relief. He resisted the temptation to put his feet up on the opposite seat and instead installed his travel bag and coat there, with his suitcase on the floor of the carriage.
He always felt that this route was the back door into the city. Staring through the dirty rain-flecked window, he enjoyed the transition: the Sussex countryside and then the North Downs and the only bit of tunnel on the whole journey. He viewed the landscape as a history book and he was now passing through millennia of deposited chalk, then emerging into the wide river valley of the metropolis itself. Much of his life was spent searching for rocks in bleak, remote and old landscapes. The continuous metamorphosis of a big city fascinated him. As the train snaked through a changing cityscape there was always another new development to spot.
A slight tingling of his skin and nervous smile gave away his three reasons to be excited: first, the news that the world might end this morning; second, that he had an amazing specimen to show Simon; and third, that he was going to pick up his son, Mo, for one of their precious short breaks together.
Some months ago he had booked a breakfast table on the 35th floor of the Shard. Quite by chance, he and Simon would witness ‘the big event’ from the best vantage point in London. Originally the arrangement was purely for the usual business with Simon, but now it was the perfect setting for testing his mystery specimen.
This was a regular trip for Alim – some business first, then seeing Mo, his nine-year-old son.
His niche was the Precambrian era, a long and spectacularly boring time when bacteria and simple forms comprised life on Earth.
This ‘first life’ really intrigued him. Having appeared, it did so little for such a long time. Why?
Precambrian Era
The 4-billion-year era before recognisable fossils are found. Consisting of 90 per cent of the Earth’s history, ending with the Cambrian explosion, 600 million years ago, when all the precursors of modern life developed.
What was going on to produce such a comfortable place for bacteria and stromatolites that they hardly evolved until the Cambrian explosion?
Bang! After almost 4 billion years of slumber, that great change produced all the precursors of life we recognise today.
His quest was not easy: he had to travel the world searching for ancient rocks, as aeons of plate tectonics and erosion had turned it into a real-life detective story. Alim was now one of the leading lights in this limited field – and also an emerging authority on what life could be like elsewhere, often consulted by planetary scientists imagining what life might be like on Titan, or Enceladus, or newly discovered exoplanets.
For all this recognition, his family in Bangladesh were not at all happy with his career. ‘If you are going
to get a doctorate, be a doctor! What’s the point in scratching around in old dirt?’
His free tabloid’s headline screamed ‘The End of the World!’, jolting him back to the recent hysteria about ‘Asteroid Wilson’ until he realised it was referring to Croydon. As the train clanked and jolted, across the carriage he could see a fine view of Tower Bridge, and with that his thoughts went to Mo on the other side of the river in Hermitage Basin.
Croydon
London, England
51.4N 0.1W
Altitude: 200ft
Points of interest: None
Geology: River valley, near chalk downland
London felt strange today. It was as if the city was draining its energy back to the suburbs. The government had advised people and businesses to work from home where possible.
There was anxiety in the air. There had been almost too many reassurances about the asteroid. The original news about exceptionally bad weather had cut no ice with a population uncertain, at the best of times, whether the next day would bring rain or shine. When news of the imminent visitation had finally been revealed, it had been met with distrust, which had now given way to excitement, as this was also a chance to see an extraordinary event. With a day off, people were heading to any vantage point that had a clear view northwards.
Unfortunately, as Alim stepped off the train, lugging his heavy suitcase, he could already see spots of rain dotting the glass roof of the platform. As an experienced weather watcher, he prepared himself for a damp squib of a spectacle.
Titan and Enceladus
Emerging from the great brick arches of the station undercroft, he passed the anxious queues for the viewing gallery of Europe’s highest building. What mugs they were – far cheaper to have breakfast in the Shard’s bistro. He turned the corner to see Simon waiting for him by the lifts.
‘Simo!’ He beamed, offering an outstretched hand.
‘Limo!’ came the rhyming retort. Thirty years on and they were still two grown-up public school boys.
Titan
The largest moon of Saturn has a thick atmosphere and stable lakes of liquid (methane).
*
Enceladus
Sixth largest moon of Jupiter, vents geysers of water into space from a warm liquid ocean under its crust of ice.
Their table was tucked in the floor-to-ceiling glazed corner with the spectacular panorama of London laid out before them. Even better, they had some privacy. This was fortunate, because the bar was packed and a party atmosphere prevailed. The bar staff were calling it the real ‘Restaurant at the End of the Universe’, and a large screen was following the action. Alim took in the cloudy view. Fat chance of witnessing anything today! At least he could get on with business.
Once settled, they finally looked at each other over the croissants. ‘Well, Limo. What have we got in the bag of wonder?’ Simon’s joy was not in knowledge specifically, but in the deal. He was an instinctive man who possessed the gift of great memory. He started in real estate, then progressed to antiques, until he discovered the lucrative market in antiquities and fossils.
Alim was his main supplier; he supplemented his research grants by picking up other specimens on his travels. No one was interested in his period.
Today he had a mixed bag and one mystery item, which was so perplexing, it was like having a secret that you couldn’t quite believe yourself.
Glancing up at the grey sky, Alim was tempted to check out the live stream from Pure News, but all it showed were studio pundits and badly dressed astronomers in the woods of America.
Simon tapped on the bag. ‘Open up then, frendo.’
Alim had a habit of packing his finds in newspaper, then in his spare clothes to protect them. Out would come the shirts, socks and vests, then the screwed-up Sydney Post or the Greenland Guardian would tumble aside, before finally the objects themselves emerged one by one.
This was their routine. They would agree a price, and Simon would rewrap the items in the paper and then place them into his own large navy duffle-style bag. Then Alim would show on his tablet the items he couldn’t carry, before returning his clothes to the suitcase.
Suddenly there was a roar from the bar. The other diners, having given up on the cloud-obscured view, had gathered around the TV.
The views on screen were extraordinary, cutting from the original beacon over America to the fireball over Iceland. As the images got more impressive, the pictures broke up. Then the screen cut back to the studios and a headline: ‘ASTEROID JUST MISSES!’
Simon expelled a long breath. ‘Sheee… it, close!’ Then it passed him by. ‘OK, Alim Azim, old man! What’s in the photos?’
Alim had also been utterly distracted by the images on the TV, but in the absence of live feeds from the epicentre, the coverage now had the air of half-time at a Cup Final.
He and Simon returned to business. Flicking thorough images on his tablet, Alim showed a number of larger specimens that were for sale, and Simon expressed interest in two. Alim had held back the one image he was most interested in. He often kept the best till last and as he announced the ultimate image, Simon’s anticipation was palpable. The look of disappointment was superimposed by an exasperated smile. ‘You’re trying to sell me a sea slug?’
Sea Angel
Alim encouraged him to look closer and give his opinion. Magnifying the image, Simon viewed it with renewed scrutiny. It was not often Alim could put a fossil past him that he did not recognise.
‘Mmm, you’ve got me there… It looks like a sea angel, but with tiny bones. Cretaceous maybe, but a weird mix-up.’ To Simon it was a puzzle. He didn’t even recognise the rocks.
Sea Angels
Swimming Sea Slug
Clade: Gymnosomata
Distribution: Worldwide
Carnivores
Suddenly there was another gasp from the bar. They turned back as the views of a flattened Reykjavik came through. The camera was catching the high waves deluging the harbour. It turned to the face of a pretty woman who had managed to compose herself to shout a few comments to the struggling reporter.
The studio then cut in. They appeared visibly shocked by the sheer scale of the space rock that had missed Earth and how close it had come to complete disaster.
‘Bloody English weather! That would have looked amazing!’ Simon dramatically waved his hand across the grey skies.
‘Final opinion, Simo?’ asked Alim, gesturing to the tablet.
‘Oh, sorry, my man. Not interested. Can’t sell something I can’t name.’
Alim pressed him. ‘But you do think it’s an animal?’
Simon wondered why he was asking such a stupid question. ‘Yes, but a very boring one. Where’s it from, anyway?’
Alim just gave him a half-smile before giving his cryptic response: ‘Further than you could imagine…’ He looked at the big screen again and suddenly felt a desperate urge to leave and get to Mo as quickly as possible.
He swiftly concluded the business and, making his excuses, shot towards the lift. Usually he enjoyed the walk to Mo’s school, but the sense of unease had got to him, so he headed for the Tube. As he waited impatiently on the platform, he thought he heard the train rumbling around the corner. The air rushed past as he strained to see the oncoming carriages, but the rumbling continued, the blast of air still rushing. He could hear it, feel it, but not see the damned thing!
Alim dealt with past lives, hacking them out of ancient rocks as fossils. He often pondered the lives lived by these humble creatures, always caught at their moment of death.
He suddenly thought of the past lives down here on the Tube. He recalled Henry Moore’s sketches of bodies huddling from the Blitz on these very platforms, flinching from the muffled booms from above. ‘Of course!’ Alim thought. ‘The shockwave.’
The Tube
By the time Alim exited, the world had changed. He emerged into the aftermath of the ‘big bang’, a multi-tonal roar that was passing through the world. London wa
s now almost deserted.
An immense tidal wave caused by a storm killed over 200,000 people in Bangladesh on 13 November 1970.
His anxiety became a sense of foreboding. He had seen the tidal waves in Reykjavik, and then remembered the recent Boxing Day tsunami. Growing up in Bangladesh, he was all too aware how estuaries and river deltas could amplify tidal surges into powerful killer inundations.
Could the wave be heading to London? It was time to get Mo. He had moved Mo to live with his brother after falling out with his disapproving in-laws in Bangladesh.
St Katharine Docks was usually an agreeable shortcut to Mo’s school. But today, as Alim rushed past the slick white luxury yachts, his suitcase – now missing its ballast – gained a life of its own. It carted from wheel to wheel, like an unruly puppy. He slipped several times on the wet timber decking, steadying himself on the chain railings, before lunging forward across the cobbled paths, which amplified the crazy clattering of his luggage. By the time he reached Mo’s school he was soaked from the sweat of his exertions, damp from the drizzle, deafened by the continuing boom around him and driven mad by that ‘bloody case’!
Heritage School was modern, its pupils were well mannered, and it smelled of cabbage. Alim explained his mission to pick up Mo to a quizzical receptionist, who even at the best of times was nonplussed at anything out of the ordinary and was now suffering from temporary deafness and general confusion.
Hermitage Basin
The Other Things Page 2