by Phil Gilvin
The crowd split apart; there were gunshots, and two of the looters fell. They were fighting among themselves. At the same time a roar came from the direction of the river. Was it just a gust of wind, or had the surge arrived? Ahead, she could see Waterloo Bridge, almost empty. A bridge – what about Jack? Jack had headed for somewhere near a bridge. What was it James had said? Chelsea? Yes, Chelsea Bridge Wharf – the bridge where she’d avoided a brush with some Repsegs. The wharf must be on the south bank. Already she was spurring the mare on. Maybe the Scrapers had left, or maybe Jack wasn’t even there yet. But she had to try to find him, to get him out of danger.
She reached the embankment and turned upriver, hoping against hope that the rec-gang would have failed to open the Barrier, or at least that they’d been slow about it. Or maybe they’d refused; maybe they’d had enough fight left in them for that. But Clara knew the cunning of the Republic. They could easily deceive the gangs into thinking they were actually saving London; and if that didn’t work, a few executions would do the trick. No, the best she could hope for was a delay. Hedera had said ten minutes – and those were already up.
Clara shivered as the mare carried her past the ruins of Westminster Palace and down onto Millbank. Once more they passed Vauxhall Bridge, where she had once clung to the pier for her life; now, the streets were quiet. As the road swung back to the river they ploughed through great drifts of sodden leaves that slimed the pavements and clogged the gutters. A fallen tree blocked their way; it was a long time since Clara had made a horse jump anything, but the mare didn’t hesitate. Clara clung on as she flew through the air and landed hard on the other side.
Under the remains of an old railway bridge there was a foot-deep flood, and the mare slowed as she waded through. Then they were rising up the incline on the approach to Chelsea Bridge, its great suspension cables swaying and humming in the storm’s dying gusts. To her left, Clara saw a steady stream of people crossing the river from the low-lying land to the south. Ahead, a yelling crowd had gathered around something on the ground. Sticks were raised and swept down: the thing was being beaten. Clara slowed to a canter, guiding the mare onto the bridge; on the ground, beneath the stamping feet, she could see the grey uniform of a Repseg. They’d caught one.
Then one of the crowd, a short man with a shock of white hair, ran at the mare and tried to grab the reins. Clara yelled and stamped the sole of her boot into his face, feeling his jaw crunch, and he fell to the ground. She tried to urge the horse over the bridge, but the flow was against her and people leapt aside, swearing. She knocked two women down; she tried to call out and apologise, but the mare pushed on. Then a dark-skinned, burly woman came at her, yelling, and grabbed her leg. Clara struggled, but the grip was strong and before she realised what was happening, she was catapulted through the air and fell with a bone-grinding smack onto the tarmac.
Someone was shouting: they’d noticed the river was rising. The hurrying feet all began to run at once, and Clara rolled aside, eventually getting to her knees and dragging herself to the parapet. The mare was gone. She knelt there, gasping, staring down at the white-speckled waters. They were flowing fast – and flowing up-river. It wouldn’t be long now.
She got to her feet, her ribs and elbow throbbing with fresh bruises, to find that the fleeing crowd had thinned. Only a few more women came running up from the Battersea side. A fair-haired woman half-dragged, half-coaxed a small child; a stout woman toted a great bundle on her back; an old greyhead gasped along. Clara staggered on.
As she passed the bridge’s south towers, she could see the familiar signs of reclamation. The old flats on the left were half-gone, the heaps of glass and shattered concrete towering twenty feet above the ground, their feet in oily puddles. In front of the reclamation site was a wharf of stone and flat tarmac, about thirty feet wide. Amongst the remnants of a makeshift campsite stood a small motor-van: and loading up the van were three figures who were achingly familiar. Clara felt her throat tightening. Jack had been right.
Ma seemed to be doing most of the work, hurrying back and forth with bundles and boxes; Acker was stowing them in the van; and the Don – his coat in tatters and his hair lank and long – seemed to be doing nothing. Even as Clara watched, Jack himself arrived. He came from the direction of the old railway bridge, dragging his feet, his head thrust forward, peering from side to side, checking behind. Rounding the van, he was upon the Scrapers before any of them saw him. Clara couldn’t hear them over the wind-thrashed waters, but even from where she stood she could see them all stop and stare. Then she saw Jack rush forward to Ma, throw his arms around her and bury his face in her chest. But Ma took his shoulders and held him at arm’s length; Acker stood over him, arms folded, and the Don leant against the van.
Clara stirred herself into a limping run. A woman, going the other way on the bridge, yelled something about the river. Clara ignored her. Reaching the end of the parapet, she glanced downstream: the water was high, but as yet there was nothing worse. ‘Hey!’ she yelled. ‘Hey! We’ve got to get out of here!’ They didn’t hear.
She covered the rest of the distance and ran up to them. The fumes from the motor van’s engine caught in her throat. ‘They’re – opening – the Barrier,’ she gasped. ‘Got to get out of here.’ She looked from face to face, trying to read their expressions. ‘There’s a flood coming!’ she said. ‘Please. Let’s get in the van, and go.’
‘Clara–’ said Jack. The others stood looking at her.
‘There’s no time!’ cried Clara. ‘We’ll drown if we don’t move. What’s the matter with you all?’
It was Ma who spoke, and to Clara, it was the worse for that. ‘Look, Jack Pike, if you’re not a sodding traitor, why’re you going round with this bitch?’ She stabbed a finger at Clara. ‘See? That’s her bleedin’ Truth Sister badge. She put the Repsegs on us at Oxford, an’ I bet there’s a pack of ’em round here somewhere.’
For once, the Don was silent. Watery eyes gazed at them from a saggy face.
‘It was Tesley!’ cried Clara. ‘Jack, tell them–’
‘I just did,’ said Jack. ‘I told ’em you saved me life, an’ all.’
‘We haven’t got time for this,’ said Clara. ‘Look! Take a look at the river. We’ve got to go!’
‘I reckon she’s right.’ Acker had spoken, and it was as if a cat had barked. Everyone stared at him. ‘We’d better get a move on. That water’s almost over the wharf.’
‘What,’ said Jack. ‘All of us?’
Acker laughed. ‘Are you mental? Ma, Don – get in the van. I’ll be with yer in a minute.’ And with a speed that took Clara and Jack by surprise, he grabbed them by the collars. Half-lifting them off the ground, he dragged them towards the river. They struggled, but his grip was strong and the ground was wet. Clara tried to speak, but she was half-choked by her own collar. As she struggled for breath there came a roaring in her ears; then she heard Acker cry out. She and Jack were flung to the ground, and footsteps splashed away across the tarmac. Coughing, she hauled herself to her knees. The Scrapers’ van had already reached Queenstown Road and was disappearing behind the heap of stone.
And then it came. Exploding under and over the fabric of the railway bridge, a wall of granite-dark water thirty feet high hurtled towards Clara and Jack. The foam-strewn flood spread over the wharf; stones and glass were washed away and carried in its belly, joining the iron and the wood and the bodies of people and animals it had already devoured.
Clara’s scream was cut short.
She felt herself sinking, chill hands tugging her down. And the thought came that it was just as well. At least if she drowned, she’d no longer feel the hungry water sapping the heat from her bones. And the salt. The river was full of it. It squeezed through her clamped teeth, it stung her eyes and shrivelled her lips. Her lungs were bursting, and still she plunged deeper. Eventually she’d have to take a breath, and her lungs would fill, and it would end. There was a great booming in her ears, deep and throb
bing, resonating in her limbs.
Something hit her head, hard. She’d better take that breath now, draw in water, before things got worse. Her hair was caught, head twisted. She felt herself being tugged upwards, but her lungs couldn’t hold it anymore; she breathed and sucked in. There was foul foam in her mouth, and water, and scum; but there was also air, blessed air. She retched as she fought for breath. Her head and neck hurt horribly, but now strong hands grasped her under the arms. Through tears she could see the cast-iron water, inches from her face; then something hard and rough scraped against her knees, her chest. A voice was shouting, a heavy palm slapping her back. Then she was throwing up, ochre vomit churning the water. Rain was in the boat, puddling around her knees.
Through the acid phlegm she spat words: ‘Jack! Jack! Gotta find him!’
There was a pause. She could hear distant screams, shouts, the slop and lap and suck of angry waters. ‘Wait!’ said the voice. Then a roar again, and Clara cried out as the boat lurched. She grabbed the side, clutching it tight with her whole body. I’m not dead, she thought. What’s happening?
She tried to raise herself, but the boat spun in a tight circle. The roaring was the engine, the same one Clara had felt already. And there was Shavila, steering. The engine stopped, the boat drifted.
‘There!’ said Shavila. ‘Quick, gimme a hand.’
Jack floated face-down in the water. Clara could see his pale spine through the sodden shirt that bobbed round him. They dragged him aboard, tugging, thumping him against the sides in their desperation. Shavila fired the engine and they surged for the bank, foam in their faces. The boat pitched less now, and Clara realised the waves were subsiding, the water level much higher, the banks flooded.
They were between two bridges. Stone steps rose up towards the feet of half-demolished tower-blocks, and she thought again of reclamation gangs. James – was he dead now? Shavila ran the boat halfway up the steps, leapt out, held it.
‘Get him out,’ she said. ‘Take him up, away from the water.’
Clara tried. She lifted Jack, limp as an old towel, lighter than she’d expected. But still too heavy. Her knees buckled and she fell forward, elbows smashing onto steps as she held him close. He was cold; surely dead.
Shavila had dragged the boat higher. Gently she took Jack, carried him up the steps, and laid him down. Clara tried to stand. The cold had sapped everything; she spat salt again. She crawled like a baby up the steps, elbows bleeding. Feet away from the others she stopped, astonished.
Shavila was kissing Jack. Mouth wide, his head thrown back. Why was she kissing him? He was dead. She’s a Geemo, she’s not a Natural. Why was she kissing him? Shavila drew back, took a breath, and kissed again. No, not kissing – blowing! Clara stared. Jack’s chest rose; rose and fell. ‘Come on, come on,’ Shavila muttered.
Then Jack coughed, and spewed water. Clara burst into tears.
They huddled under stilted concrete, gazing out at the devastation. Jack kept cursing under his breath, and coughing; Clara was glad to hear the life in him. Shavila had disappeared, but returned five minutes later with blankets, and they sat together, shivering. The Repseg dropped onto the steps a little way in front, hugging her drawn-up knees. The debrischoked river swirled and eddied still, but the great convulsion had passed. The wind and rain were easing, the deepest gloom gone. They could make out an occasional figure hanging on to a piece of wreckage as it drove back downstream. Clinging to one of the buttresses of the old rail bridge, a little knot of people were yelling to someone. Bloodied corpses bobbed against the banks or floated silently down towards the sea.
Clara looked at Shavila, hunched and intent, the remains of her hair ruffled by the wind. She felt she should say something. Was it possible that she could thank Shavila, after all that had happened? There were so many questions, too. In the end she said, trying to quieten her chattering teeth, ‘How did you find us?’
Shavila half-turned her head. ‘I got out. Left Hedera to the mob, then I saw you take the horse. I got to the boat, tried to follow you upstream, but by then I’d lost you. You rode well. Academy-trained, I suppose?’
‘Yes, in the early days. The poor horse, I wonder what happened to her …’
‘She might have bolted inland. You never know. But if she hasn’t drowned, someone will catch her. Then she’s meat.’
Clara wanted to throw something at her, but Shavila went on, ‘Spotted you when you crossed the bridge – a girl on a white horse was a bit obvious. And I’d nearly got to you when the wave came down.’ She paused. ‘That wave!’ Who’d have expected it? The All Mother, who’s supposed to protect us all, killing so many – and for what?
Jack, muffled in his blanket, muttered something which Clara pretended not to hear.
‘I thought those people – I thought that mob had got you,’ she said to Shavila. ‘I thought they’d kill you.’
Shavila gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘No, I can still fight. I’m a fighting machine, remember. Then the All Mother shot a flare at them.’
‘And what about the wave? How did you stay afloat?’
Shavila shrugged. ‘Skill, I suppose. Faced the prow right into the wave. Geemo skill, designed in.’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘By the Teacher,’ she groaned, ‘I’ve only gone and helped a Natural escape. I’m a traitor.’
Clara tore her gaze from the survivors on the bridge, to stare at the Repseg. Could this be the driven, implacable pursuer, the loyal servant of the Republic? Shavila looked smaller now, almost human. ‘Aren’t you going to take us in?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Shavila, turning her head. ‘Not you. I just – well, you saved my life earlier, remember? I owed you one.’
‘But–’
Shavila waved a hand. ‘I’m okay, no-one in the Guards will ever know. And anyway, why should I turn you in? You’re only a Natural. It’s not like I’m Pureclone myself, is it?’
‘You – you believe me, then?’
Shavila patted her skull. ‘You were right. All that training we went through at Fortis … The indoctrination. Nothing but words. Lies.’ She clenched a fist. ‘But it’s lots of little things, as well. Together you can’t ignore them – the troubles with cloning, the secrecy around the Geneco labs, everything. Obvious if you think about it – it’s just that we don’t think. We’re not designed to.
‘I’ve always known the Republic was covering things up, but I thought it was for our own good. And it turns out I’m a fake myself. They messed about with my genes, probably in some lab that was falling down, or had no power, or was getting flooded all the time. So now I don’t know what to do. At least you Naturals know where your genes come from. Millions of years of evolution, that’s where. How do I know I’m not suddenly going to keel over one day, because some fool fiddled with mine?’
Further up the bank, someone was weeping. Clara pulled her blanket tight, shuffled down the steps to Shavila and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘You’re still a person,’ she said. ‘A real person – you’re as real as me,’ she added, squeezing her arm. ‘You’re fantastic. And you just saved our lives.’
Shavila shrugged.
‘Soon it won’t matter how we were made,’ said Clara. ‘None of us. Cloning will be over, genetics will be over. We’ve all got to fight to stay alive, every one of us – so we’re going to have to stop fighting each other.’
‘Those parents of yours, Clara,’ said Shavila.
Clara looked downriver towards the Barrier. James couldn’t have survived, could he? She hoped with all her heart that her last words had made some difference to his final moments. Now, it was all too late.
‘Clara?’
There was a stone in Clara’s chest. ‘What?’ she whispered.
‘Your parents,’ said Shavila. ‘I think they did a good job. They’d be proud of you. You’re a proper woman, you know. I’ve known a few Truth Sisters, but you’re the only one who really knows about truth.’ She stood up and held out a hand. ‘Clara,�
� she said. ‘Jack. Nice to know you.’
Clara had been fighting back the tears, and her voice quivered. ‘James – my father – he’ll be dead. They took him to the Barrier. He won’t have survived …’
Shavila grimaced. ‘The motor rooms are down at water level.’
Clara sniffed, swallowed. ‘They’d have been trapped?’
‘The water would have got in,’ said Shavila, gently. ‘For sure.’
‘And – and my mother?’
‘If they didn’t put her on a rec-gang, they’d have locked her up. Most women who are guilty of hiding Naturals finish up on Wight.’
Clara took Shavila’s hand. ‘Where are you going now?’ she said at last.
Shavila gestured at her boat. ‘I’ll start by getting those people off the bridge pier over there. Then, I don’t know. I want to get away from here, before they get this mess tidied up. Need to think, you know?’
She’d got halfway back to the boat when she turned. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I’d leave London for a bit. Food’ll be scarce. There’ll be trouble, too.’
‘Trouble?’
‘More riots, and worse. When news of this gets round, it’ll be bad. “The All Mother floods half of London” – that won’t go down very well. It’s been bad enough with the food shortages, but this – this could be the end of the Republic.’