by Chris Ryan
As the plane banked Meena spotted the crowds walking up Shaftesbury Avenue. Everyone was heading away from the flood, trying to escape. Where were they going? That area of London was mainly offices or theatres or shops; nobody lived there. People were all deserting it, trying to get home.
A voice came over the intercom from air traffic control. ‘Hello, Flying Eye. Are you receiving? Sorry about the interruption. We had a power cut there. Are you OK? Over.’
Mike answered, the relief in his voice obvious. ‘We’re receiving you loud and clear. Over.’
Meena spoke into her mouthpiece. ‘Mike, ask them if they’ve heard anything from the guys at the studio.’
Mike asked the question. While Meena waited for the reply, she leaned out again and took a picture as they passed over Tower Bridge. The roads around it had vanished and it looked like a forlorn remnant of London, stuck in the upright position, the two halves of its road deck protruding into the air like a broken toy.
‘No, nothing. There are power cuts everywhere. We’re running on emergency generators. The National Grid’s completely shorted. It’s dark from Birmingham all the way to the coast. You’d better come back.’
Meena didn’t want to leave the action. ‘Mike, tell them there are still a lot of people trying to get out of town on the roads. Shouldn’t we stay out here to give them updates?’
Mike passed her question on. The reply was instant. ‘No point. The transmitter’s down. The emergency services want us to clear the airspace.’
The Millennium Dome came up, shrunk to the size of a saucer. Meena saw that there were people standing on top, waving at the plane.
‘Mike, tell them to report to the emergency services that there are people on the Dome who need to be rescued,’ she said urgently.
The next thing they saw was the Thames Barrier itself — the row of silver metal humps protruding from the water. The big ship was still stranded on one of them, a cluster of small boats tethered alongside it like doctors attending a bedridden patient. Meena snapped it too. ‘Wow. I’ve seen some traffic accidents in my time but that one’s got to win the prize.’
Mike spoke to Control. ‘Is there anything we can do before we come back in?’
‘No. Just be thankful and get the hell out of there.’
Chapter Thirteen
Ben was still sitting on the pavement, his back against the wall. Rain washed down over his face, his hands, his clothes. He let it; at least it would hose off the river water.
After a while he began to look around. He was on a road with grand-looking buildings on each side.
There were pools of water everywhere, like the seashore after the tide has gone out. The water’s edge was a few metres away, lapping around the buildings on the south side of the road. Seagulls wheeled overhead. Geese strutted around the puddles. They must have been carried here from the lakes in the park. A swan sat beside a wrecked car as though guarding it.
But where were all the people?
When he reached dry land, Ben had expected to find fire engines, ambulances, police officers, but he couldn’t see anyone — just a few abandoned vehicles. Just across the road, a van had crashed into a taxi and a car. Their bonnets were crumpled, the doors left open. The van’s windscreen had shattered and oil was leaking from underneath the taxi, giving the water an iridescent sheen.
Only the wail of burglar and car alarms joined the desolate cries of the seagulls. Some of the sounds came from under the water, as though the drowned vehicles were calling for help.
Ben got up and started to move. He was freezing. He stomped over to the taxi and peered in. There was nothing in it. Then he saw that the boot of the car had shot open; folded up inside, he could see a raincoat. Without even thinking he pulled it out and put it on.
It must have been expensive — a pale grey Burberry mac with a checked interior, still dry despite the rain that had been pouring into the boot. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. He didn’t know who he was talking to but it felt very wrong to be taking things like that. And his dirty wet top would probably leave marks on the lining. He couldn’t help it, though. He desperately needed to get warm.
The next thought that came to him wiped the smile right off his face again: his wallet had fallen out of his pocket so he had no money and no ticket home. What should he do?
Even with the coat, Ben began to shiver. He felt very, very alone.
Why were there no people around? Why was no one organizing rescue parties? He wanted to find people who would know what to do. Like there had been at ArBonCo.
Like at ArBonCo. He remembered Kabeera, Cheryl, Guang and difficult Richard, his companions on the raft. He wondered where their journeys had ended — who was it who had fallen off before him, and had the other three reached dry ground?
He thought about Cally. Less than an hour ago she had been embarrassing him by telling him how he’d grown. Now she might be dead. And what about Bel …?
That made him pull himself together. His journey on the raft had ended with him here, safe on dry land. Surely what happened from now on couldn’t be as bad as that. Think clearly, he told himself. What’s the best thing to do now?
He pulled the Burberry around him and did up the belt while he thought. Suddenly it came to him. Charing Cross. He’d arranged to meet Bel there at 3.30. Surely she would be doing everything in her power to make the appointment. And with no phones working, going to Charing Cross was the only way he could meet up with her again.
He looked at his watch. The digital display was blank — of course, it had died in the water too. Another thought came to him, stopping him in his tracks like an axe blow. Had Bel managed to get safely away from Westminster? Why had he never wondered if she might be in danger? Would she be at Charing Cross waiting for him? Or was she …?
Immediately Ben felt a wave of anger. You’d better have got away, he thought. You’ve already rearranged our day. I’ve already had to kill time while you went to your meeting with some politician. He probably didn’t want to talk to you anyway — they usually don’t. You’d better not leave me on my own in this wrecked city. Charing Cross, 3.30, you said. You’d better be there.
Now that he had a plan he felt better. But it gave him more problems to solve. How should he get there? He didn’t know London that well. What if Charing Cross was underwater?
No point in thinking like that. If he found that it was flooded, he’d work out something else to do. The most important thing was to try to get there.
A map. He needed a map. He had no money to buy one so he would have to borrow one again. He went back to the car, but it seemed to be empty of anything useful. Then he peered in through the taxi’s open door, the swan watching his every move with black, alien eyes.
He couldn’t see a map. Maybe taxi drivers didn’t need them because they knew the streets off by heart. He reached in to open the glove compartment, but his hand paused. It felt like stealing.
It’s not stealing, he told himself. It’s survival. I’m only looking for a map, not money or valuables or anything. And the taxi has been abandoned.
There was no map in there anyway. He would have to try the van.
As he walked round the front of the taxi, smashed brake and indicator lights crunched under his feet, making a wet mosaic of red and orange plastic.
Ben was keeping an eye on the swan, which was still glaring at him. He moved slowly and spoke to it soothingly. ‘I only want to look for a map. I’m not going to hurt you.’ He turned away to open the van door.
A honking sound behind him made him whirl round again. The swan was on its feet, half hopping, half charging towards him. Its wings were spread and its head was hooked backwards, like a cobra about to strike.
Ben had heard of swans attacking people but he’d never quite believed it. And until now he’d never realized how big they were and how fierce they looked.
The wings beat ferociously, making a noise like wind snatching at a heavy sail. Another fact he’d heard about swans po
pped into Ben’s head. Apparently a swan could break your leg with a blow of its wings. Rubbish, he’d thought. But he changed his mind when he heard the sound of those powerful wings.
The swan’s neck uncoiled and its orange beak thrust forward like a dart. Ben backed away, fast.
The bird hopped awkwardly towards him and he retreated further, ready to run. But after another thrust with its beak the swan settled down on the ground again.
Ben stood, frozen. Was it safe to move again?
Then he saw blood trickling into the oily puddle and remembered the swan’s awkward hopping gait. It was injured. That must be why it had attacked.
He continued to back away, his hands low in a gesture of apology. ‘I’m sorry.’
There was another abandoned car on the other side of the road, its front crumpled into a lamppost. As Ben made his way across, a Canada goose came waddling towards him. He stopped, watching it carefully, alert to the slightest sign of aggression in the way it carried its slender black neck. But he soon realized that it wasn’t interested in him. It began to root through the contents of an upturned bin.
Ben peered into the car and spotted what he wanted lying on the passenger seat: a battered A — Z of London. He opened the door and picked it up. ‘Sorry,’ he said to the departed owner, and closed the door again. In the last five minutes he’d been saying that word constantly.
Right, where was he? There was a sign on the building on the corner: Eaton Square. Ben opened the A — Z, but the rain was soaking through the pages. He closed it again, opened the car door and got in. It was such a relief to be out of the rain.
He found Eaton Square in the index. It was near Victoria Station and Buckingham Palace. Most importantly he wasn’t too far from Charing Cross — probably a twenty-minute walk. Provided he didn’t run into any more injured animals.
He looked out at the dismal sky. Having a roof over his head was such a relief. Above him, the rain drummed down relentlessly. He wondered for a moment whether to stay where he was; at least it would be dry. But the rain might continue for hours and if Bel was already at Charing Cross, she would be waiting. Worrying.
He got out, and shuddered as the rain trickled down his neck again. He muttered a warning to Bel under his breath as he started off: You’d better be at Charing Cross when I get there.
After a few minutes he came to a telephone box. Relief flooded through him, along with an overwhelming sense of homesickness. He didn’t have to be alone: he could phone his dad.
He pushed the door open gratefully, then looked at the phone for a moment, wondering what to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used a call box as he usually had his mobile. This one took coins — which was no good — but it also had a number you could call to reverse the charges. Just what he needed. He picked up the receiver.
Nothing. It was dead.
Of course it was. Why had he thought it wouldn’t be?
He jiggled the cradle up and down a few times, hoping the phone would come to life.
Ben started when a car horn suddenly blared out in the empty streets. He looked around. Where had it come from? There were people out there — but where?
He couldn’t see anything, but the rain was blurring the windows of the phone booth: it was like trying to see out of a shower cubicle. He put his head out but the street was empty.
Another sound made him look again. It was the roar of a car engine. Ben jumped out of the phone booth, waving madly. Headlights came speeding towards him. He waved again — perhaps he could get a lift. Just to be with other people would be good.
But the car swished past, sending up a wake of spray like a boat. Ben stared after it as it raced towards a junction, where dark traffic lights stood watching mutely. Its brake lights come on momentarily, then it wheeled round the corner and disappeared.
Ben felt disbelief, then crushing disappointment. Surely the driver must have seen him. If it had been him or his dad and they’d seen someone alone in a situation like this, they wouldn’t have just left them.
But this was the big city. He remembered that girl he’d helped with her luggage at Waterloo. Vicky James; he’d even remembered her name. Everyone else, though, had blanked her. In London, if you didn’t know anyone, you were on your own.
Chapter Fourteen
But he wasn’t totally alone.
As he made his way to the junction, he caught a glimpse of movement at an upper-storey window. Someone was watching him.
‘Hello?’ he called, and waved.
The movement stopped. The figure had moved away from the window, not wanting to be seen.
In another house Ben could see a shadowy figure behind a large frosted window. Someone was hurrying up a flight of stairs, a box in his arms.
‘Hello?!’ he shouted.
The shadow quickened its pace up the stairs and vanished, as if it was afraid of him.
At the junction Ben picked a turning and found himself in a road with a few shops — a newsagent and a delicatessen.
The delicatessen was dark, but in the window, arranged on a marble slab, there were loaves of bread and delicious-looking savoury pastries. Ben’s stomach rumbled at the sight of them. He must have used up a lot of calories keeping warm in the water. He tried the door but it was locked.
Reluctantly he tore himself away and trudged on, turning off into another street. The first buildings he came to were hotels. Their names were picked out in neon letters over the doors, but the signs were dark.
A big four-by-four in a parking bay started to shriek, its indicators flashing. The noise continued for about thirty seconds and then stopped. Ben couldn’t see what could have set it off and no one came to investigate. Other alarms and sirens sounded in the distance, as if in answer. Thirty seconds later the alarm came on again. How long would it carry on like that? Until its battery was dead?
Was there another sound too, mingling with the far-off sounds of alarms and sirens. Human cries?
Or was that his imagination?
Down a side street Ben caught sight of a figure trudging slowly along, head bent against the rain. The man was walking away from him, but Ben’s heart leaped at the thought of company. Should he run to join him? This trek was so lonely. He had never had to fend for himself and make all these decisions before. He yearned to have someone to talk to, the reassurance of another human being. Someone to stop him imagining he heard screams in the wail of a car alarm.
No, Ben told himself. I know where I’m going. Keep to the plan.
As he walked on, he caught sight of himself in the window of a bookshop. He looked bedraggled, as if he’d been sleeping rough. The expensive Burberry mac on top of his sodden jeans was obviously stolen. No wonder no one wanted to stop for him; he looked a real vagabond.
He glanced down a flooded street and saw a red dinghy with an outboard motor chugging slowly along between the buildings, at first-floor level. One of the boat’s three occupants was standing up, looking in through the windows. They were dressed for the weather in heavy-duty rubberized yellow sailing coats.
They must be looking for people in trouble, thought Ben. At least some people were helping each other. It restored his faith in human nature.
* * *
In a richly furnished house down one of the flooded streets, a middle-aged couple were carrying boxes up the stairs.
‘There’s a boat out there,’ said the woman, spotting the small dinghy chugging along outside the window. She came into the living room and put the box down on a black bin liner on the pale carpet. It contained their passports, building society books and share certificates from the safe downstairs. Another box was filled with the jewellery she had inherited from her grandmother — a diamond necklace and a string of pearls. They lay in satin-lined leather boxes on top of some other essentials — some bottles of water, a few croissants and the keys to the BMW in the garage — although the car was probably ruined: the garage was in the basement and the whole ground floor was underwater.
‘Did you hear me?’ said the woman. ‘I said there’s a boat out there. People are getting out of London … Do you think we ought to?’
Her husband was easing his wellington boots off, careful to keep them on a black bin liner so that he didn’t mark the carpet. ‘No, we should be all right here.’
The woman noticed that one of the men outside was standing up in the boat. She waved at him and he waved back. The boat stopped beside the window to the stairwell, so she put down her box, crossed to the window and opened it to talk to them.
Two of the men climbed in without waiting to be invited, muddy water dripping off their boots.
The owners were a bit surprised, but then it all turned very strange indeed. For, shockingly, unbelievably, rather than helping them, one of the men pointed a stubby handgun at them.
The woman felt the blood drain from her face.
‘Stay quiet and no one will get hurt,’ said the gunman. Rain dripped off his yellow coat onto the pale carpet.
The other burglar pushed past them and went over to pick up the box on the sofa.
‘Hand over your valuables and no one gets hurt,’ said the gunman. He nudged the woman with the stubby end of the weapon and she whimpered.
Reluctantly her husband stood back, letting them take the box. The burglar turned it upside down. The slim black jewellery boxes fell out on top of the passports and certificates. He picked up the jewellery and stashed it in his jacket pockets. He left the rest, and gestured to his partner.
‘That’s it. All done here.’
‘See?’ said the gunman. ‘Painless if you let us get on with it.’
And the intruders climbed back out of the window and joined their partner in the boat.
As they started up the engine, they could hear the woman sobbing.
‘Better get away from here,’ said the gunman. ‘She’s screaming the place down and the neighbours might hear.’