‘It’s coming,’ Samuel said flatly.
‘How do you bloody know? This Cold War’s been going on for years. What makes you think anyone wants to make it any hotter?’
‘All it will take is one madman with his finger on the button,’ Samuel assured him. ‘Nixon wants to do it, you can tell just by looking at him. Mao and Brezhnev can see it, too, so they might just do it first. These crazy old men are so used to death they have become death.’
‘What are you banging on about?’ asked Dent. ‘Is this your religious shit again? You think this is the apocalypse? Doomsday? Is that it?’
‘How else will Judgement Day come? If the whole of mankind is to be judged together, then it must destroy itself.’
‘They won’t be able to kill everybody, will they, no matter how many bombs they drop. There’s too many people, and too many bunkers, like this one.’
‘ “Then said one unto him, Lord are there few that be saved?” ’ Samuel said softly.
‘What? Is that in the Bible? Do you actually think it works like that? You reckon God saves the good people? No, mate. Most of the good people don’t have a bunker to go to. It’s only the bloody politicians that have those, and the ones lucky enough to protect them. Oh yeah, and people like us.’ He laughed. ‘Shame we’ll only get a few minutes’ notice. A day would be good. Then we could get a few cases of beer in and some proper food, not this army-ration shit they’ve given us. A couple of women, too ‒ each, I mean. It would be the best chat-up line ever invented. Come back to my bunker, if you want to live!’ He smiled. ‘But you’ve got to earn your place, love; cooking, cleaning and screwing from now on. It’s not much to ask when all your friends and neighbours are about to be turned into kindling. We could audition them all and keep the best ones … or the dirtiest.’ He laughed obscenely.
Samuel knew what he would do if that attack ever came. As soon as he reported it, he would kill Dent with his bare hands. Then he would throw the man’s body outside, climb back in and seal the hatch before the warheads struck. He’d just say the man went mad and bolted. No one would care, even if they didn’t believe him. They’d be too busy by then anyway, watching the world end.
There’d be no place for Dent. He belonged with the others, blown to pieces or dying in flames or from sickness caused by radiation. Get rid of Dent and he’d have the place to himself. He could stay down here on his own where it was safe. When the purging fires had stopped and the plague had finally ceased, he would open the hatch, emerge and inherit the earth.
On his own.
All on his own.
That’s how he had imagined it since the first day of his posting here but something Dent said had made him reconsider. If you took away the stupid jokes and the crudity, somehow this moronic man had a point. Samuel believed he would be on his own but Adam had not been alone. When the Lord God began the world, he made man in his own image. Then he fashioned a companion for Adam.
Eve.
Adam needed Eve.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The White Horse was a quiet, homely place with a wood fire that wasn’t needed on a fine spring evening like this one. The customers were mostly regulars, so Helen and Ian stood out and they took their drinks away to a quiet corner.
‘What’s Tom up to tonight, then?’ he asked.
‘Library talk,’ she said. ‘About his books.’ Tom’s latest non-fiction crime book was about the notorious serial killer Adrian Wicklow and the disappearance of young Susan Verity, who had been missing for twenty years before they had solved the mystery. Without a Trace had been published to the usual lack of fanfare and modest sales but Tom had been invited to do a talk about it that evening.
‘They’ll be queuing round the block,’ said Bradshaw. ‘All those old ladies fighting for his autograph.’
‘He was being really funny about it.’
‘It’s a North-East thing,’ Bradshaw told her. ‘The biggest crime imaginable round here is if you start thinking you’re it.’
Helen knew what he meant. She’d interviewed enough local success stories to know the score. Millionaire businessmen were always quick to tell you that they started out in the roughest city streets, rock stars ensured you knew they came back to see their old mates whenever they could and actors told you they used to have a season ticket for Newcastle United until just a couple of years back and only lived in London now because that was where the work was. It was as if they felt they were being judged by an entire community on whether their boots still fitted them or not.
‘So, how are things with you?’ Bradshaw asked.
‘Good. We’ve been busyish. Not always the most glamorous work but enough to keep our heads above water, just.’
‘I meant … erm …’
‘You meant my short-lived engagement?’
‘I actually meant you generally, outside of work, but I suppose the engagement qualifies.’
The memory of Peter’s surprise proposal still had the ability to send a chill through Helen. He had sprung it on her in the most public manner imaginable, at a huge party to commemorate his parent’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, giving her no easy option. If she had turned him down flat, it would have ruined their big day and made him look ridiculous in front of their families and all their friends. As it was, she took the path of least resistance and accepted before undergoing what alcoholics term a moment of clarity, following a nearly fatal assault on her person by a murderer she was pursuing. Helen’s narrow escape left her with a lower than usual regard for other people’s feelings, particularly Peter’s. He’d been devastated at first, then angry and resentful, putting most of the blame on her, and the rest on Tom. Since that emotionally draining day, however, Peter had calmed down and decided to keep pursuing Helen until she finally came back to him.
Helen could have told Bradshaw some or all of this but chose not to. His concern for her was genuine enough but she was never very comfortable sharing her true feelings with anyone, except perhaps Tom. They’d had one or two wine-fuelled late-night conversations about her former fiancé and she’d shared her view that they had simply become two very different people.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ Helen told Bradshaw brightly. ‘And just now I’m more than happy being on my own.’
Tom was much less happy being on his own. Right then, he could have done with a couple of friends to go for a pint with. As he was leaving the building a librarian followed him to the door. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t normally go like that.’
‘No problem,’ he told her. ‘It was probably the bad weather.’ At least he hoped that was the reason.
The librarian frowned. ‘It was absolutely pouring down last week but loads of people turned up.’
‘There are so many demands on people’s time these days.’
‘I just don’t understand it,’ she went on. ‘We told all the local book groups and we had posters in the window for ages.’
Tom sighed. He knew she wasn’t trying to make him feel worse but he wished she would stop going on about it. Only four members of the public had come to his talk. He’d thought there were at least ten until he spotted the lanyards six of them were wearing and realized that embarrassed library staff had padded out the audience out of sheer pity for him.
‘We should have contacted the newspapers.’ She seemed intent on beating herself up.
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ he told her. ‘Really, I’m fine.’ At least I will be if you stop talking about it. Christ, one old lady had actually fallen asleep in there. She probably only came into the library to stay warm, poor cow.
‘We’ll have to invite you back,’ the librarian finished brightly. ‘Some other time.’
‘That would be great, thanks.’ He was edging out through the door.
Tom let it close behind him, took a deep breath now that he was on his own, muttered, ‘Christ,’ in frustration and headed for his car, just as a very attractive woman was walking up the path towards him.
Was she there to see him speak? It seemed unlikely. He didn’t know if he was annoyed because he’d cut the talk short and would not now get to meet her or relieved she hadn’t witnessed him slowly dying in there. He stepped to one side to let her walk in.
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Tom,’ she said brightly, and he blinked at her in confusion.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh no, I haven’t changed that much, have I?’
She slowly came into focus. A tastefully made-up face framed by an expensive haircut full of blonde highlights had initially deceived him, so he concentrated on her eyes. It took a second.
‘Jenna! Oh my god.’
‘Correct.’ She smiled at the mention of her name. ‘It took you a while, though. You’re not supposed to forget your first love, Tom.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The noise of metal scraping against metal made Eva start. A bolt had been drawn back. The door was opening.
She realized it was dark outside. She’d lost track of time. It had little meaning in here. Day and night hardly mattered. She didn’t even know how long he had kept her in the box. Perhaps she, too, should have recorded the days by scratching marks on the wall.
Eva couldn’t see outside clearly; the light from the lamp was hampering her night vision. She could feel her breathing quicken and become more ragged and her whole body trembled. She had been fed already, so why had he opened the door? What was he going to do? Fearful, she instinctively moved further away, until her back was pressed right against the metal wall and she could go no further.
He pointed the shotgun at her then jerked it to show he wanted her to step out of her metal prison. It was the first time. He gestured again then stepped outside. Slowly, she rose then tentatively followed, wondering if he would kill her as soon as she was outside.
Eva stepped through the door of the shipping crate and looked around her. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, helped by a half-moon. Her captor was standing before her with the shotgun poised in case she tried to escape, but there was nowhere to run to. She was standing in a field somewhere, her bare feet on the cool grass, and she realized the crate was in a hollow. Even in the dark she could make out the outline of others nearby. Was anyone in them or was she alone here? One was old and rusted; the others looked comparatively new, with just a slight discolouration of the metal. Weeds were trying to grow up their sides.
Eva couldn’t see anything else except the outline of some trees on the high ground at the top of the hollow. The land was too low to afford a view of the area around her but she had a strong feeling of isolation. There were no buildings visible from here, no overhead wires, or telegraph poles, or sounds of traffic. There were no roads, no cars, no other people. Her captor was standing close by but she had never felt more alone.
What if he chose to pull the trigger and finish her nightmare? She probably wouldn’t even hear the blast from the gun before it was all over. The stark realization that he had the power to end her life at any moment hit her fully then.
Eva heard fumbling behind her. What now? She started when she felt the rough cloth being put on the top of her head and let out an involuntary whimper as the bag was pulled down over her face. She could barely breathe and she couldn’t see anything; the absence of light was terrifying. Then she felt a strong grip on her arm and she was being propelled forwards. God, he was strong. Her limbs had stiffened from being confined in the box. Eva forced herself to concentrate and put one foot in front of the other. She was moving across the field and he was holding her upright, but she kept stumbling because she couldn’t see where she was meant to plant her feet. Each time Eva lost her balance he straightened her. Her arm began to throb from his grip.
The journey went on for minutes, but where was he taking her? She recalled the numerous scratches on the side of the wall in the container, each one representing a day, and wondered why she was being taken out of it now. To be freed? To be killed? For some other purpose?
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she begged, but he ignored her plea.
He finally stopped her with a jolt. His grip on her arm tightened further, hurting her now. The next stage was terrifying.
‘Put your foot on the ladder and climb down,’ he ordered her.
What ladder? She couldn’t see anything. Before she could ask how she could possibly do this, he pushed her firmly on. Her left foot went out instinctively ahead of her, but the ground was gone. Eva felt only air beneath her and she pitched forward with a little scream, one foot on the ground and the other dangling in space, convinced she was about to fall, and with no idea how far. He held on to her fast. It was like some stupid, childish prank where you pretend to push someone but grab them before they can fall.
‘Put your foot on the ladder,’ he ordered again, but she still couldn’t see one. She couldn’t see anything. Blindly, she pushed her foot out further until it touched metal – this must be it. Immediately he levered her forward so that her weight went on to that foot and her other foot left the ground. He was still supporting her and pulled her forwards until her whole body moved and her second foot landed next to the first. Now she had two feet on the first rung of the ladder and he was preventing her from falling over it or backwards into the hole.
‘Climb down.’ The voice was impatient and she wanted to comply, wary of the punishment that might follow if she did not obey. She felt with her hand and found nothing. Still supported by him, she crouched down until her hands connected with the top of the ladder, which was sticking a couple of feet out of a hole in the ground. It felt cold and hard and solid, and there was a hatch behind it. Panic seized her. He was putting her into a hole in the ground. The claustrophobia she had battled to contain in the shipping crate suddenly overwhelmed her. What if it was a tiny space and he closed the hatch on her, sealing her in? She’d rather die now than experience the terror of that.
‘Go down,’ he demanded, and Eva, petrified, began a slow and unsteady descent of the ladder, not knowing how far she had to go or what was waiting at the bottom when she got there. Would he follow her down or simply shut her up in there? Had she just given up her tiny prison for one that was even smaller?
He let go of her then and she had to use all her concentration to handle her blind descent of the ladder. Almost instinctively, she counted the steps as she descended: one … two … three …
It was a long way. How long could it go on?
… seventeen … eighteen … nineteen …
Wherever she was going, it was deep; very deep and as quiet as a graveyard.
… twenty-six … twenty-seven … twenty-eight …
Eva had reached thirty when her feet abruptly touched concrete. She stayed on that spot, not daring to move, hands still gripping the ladder tightly, even though she had got to the bottom.
She could hear his feet as they lightly touched each step of the ladder in turn. He was moving quickly, with practised ease, even with the gun in his hand. How many times had he done this before? As she felt his feet come close to her head she let go of the ladder and drew back. He reached the bottom and spun her round with a hand on her shoulder then on her back, which halted her.
He pulled the cover off her head. All she could see before her was blackness. The dark was completely impenetrable; any light outside was too far away to reach them. She prayed he wasn’t going to leave her here.
He must have moved from her side because there was a loud click and then a mechanical whirring noise as if a switch had been pulled and a generator activated strip lights in the roof, which blinked on and illuminated a tunnel directly ahead of her.
This wasn’t some ramshackle creation with roof props and rock walls like a mine, this was a real building that had been built deep underground, with white-tiled walls, a cement floor, a roof with light fittings and long corridors that disappeared around a corner and continued who knew how far?
Oh god, what was this place?
‘Move.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
/> The barman was doing his rounds of the room, picking up ashtrays and upending their stale contents into the metal bin he carried in his free hand. He took the empty glasses from Helen’s table on his way past, just as Bradshaw returned from the bar with a second drink.
‘Is Tom still seeing that girl he met on his holiday?’ he asked.
‘Young Penny?’ She nodded.
‘You sound as if you don’t approve.’
‘I don’t disapprove,’ she countered. ‘What makes you think I do?’
‘The way you call her young Penny. How old is she again?’
‘Twenty,’ she said. ‘Just.’ And she laughed. ‘So she was nineteen when he met her.’
‘What’s funny?’
‘Back then he told me she was “nineteen and a half”.’ She smirked. ‘When did you last add and a half to your age? Only kids do that, right?’
‘Kids and guys dating girls much younger than themselves. It’s a bit early for a midlife crisis.’
‘It’s not a midlife crisis. Tom just doesn’t like commitment.’ Although he offered it to me once, she recalled, and immediately felt guilty. ‘Nineteen-year-old girls are not very demanding on that front. All that matters is that he can afford to buy the drinks.’ As she said it, she realized what a bitch she sounded. Worse, Bradshaw might think she actually cared who Tom was dating, which she didn’t, of course.
Jenna and Tom were virtually alone in a pub at the other end of town. Tom wondered how the place managed to stay open. The barmaid was reading a book; there was no one else to serve.
‘Sorry I missed your talk. I got held up,’ said Jenna. ‘How did it go?’
‘Great,’ he told her. Great was definitely stretching it. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, Jenna. It’s lovely to see you again after all this time.’
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