The Promised One

by David Alric

‘Sometimes breaking the rules is the only way to achieve anything,’ said Lucy. ‘Do you call it civilized behaviour to destroy the atmosphere? If there’s to be any planet left for our children and grandchildren and all the animals, then somebody has got to do something drastic. As for suffering – a few people always have to suffer for the benefit of the majority.’

  ‘But it’s you who is deciding what is best for everyone, without anyone else having had the chance to discuss it with you. That’s what all the world’s most ruthless dictators did – think of Hitler, Stalin, Chairman Mao, Pol Pot and all the rest.’

  ‘Ah, but what they wanted was wrong and what I want is right,’ said Lucy.

  ‘But that’s what they all thought,’ said Richard, ‘and they all thought that the end justified the means – that what they wanted was so important it didn’t matter how they achieved it.’

  ‘Dad, you’re just a boring old git. This talk about discussion makes me see red. People have been discussing global warming, ocean pollution, destruction of the rainforest and species extinction for years and years and look what’s happened – just about nothing. Talking never achieved anything. The world is in a desperate situation and desperate remedies are required. Your stupid, selfish, greedy generation got us all into this mess and I’m going to get us out of it!’

  ‘But …’ Richard felt desperately worried and sad. ‘You’ll bring the City of London to its knees,’ he said, ‘which won’t benefit anyone. Commerce will grind to a halt throughout the country.’

  ‘Not just this country,’ said Lucy grimly as she went to the door. ‘The world! Through the animanet I’m going to do the same to the Stock Exchange in New York later today and Tokyo tomorrow. Good night.’

  She shut the door behind her, leaving Richard struggling to cope with what he had just heard and wondering what he should do. Should he warn the authorities? He couldn’t do it effectively without saying who he was, which was unthinkable – Lucy’s secret power must remain secret. An anonymous call would probably have no effect whatsoever – they probably got dozens of crank calls every week. He comforted himself with the thought that Lucy was just winding him up, as did all teenagers with their parents, and that he was playing into her hands by over-reacting.

  When Richard woke the next morning he was surprised to see how late it was. Joanna usually got up first, and with her being away he had overslept. He got up and went downstairs, made some coffee and sat down to read the paper. Lucy’s bedroom door was shut and he presumed she was still in bed – so much for changing the world, he thought.

  The scene changed and he found himself in the City of London as the invisible observer of an unfolding drama. He could see Lucy standing on the pavement of a busy street. Across the road was the entrance to the London Stock Exchange. She had dark sunglasses on and was carrying a map of London. She looked just like a tourist gazing at one of the world centres of finance. She was very attractive and received more than a few second glances from the throng of men hurrying to their city offices.

  Suddenly a group of large dogs appeared – rottweilers, alsatians and bull-mastiffs. They went to a nearby pedestrian crossing and each sat on the pavement behind an unsuspecting pedestrian waiting to cross, as though accompanying a master or mistress. The traffic stopped and the dogs trotted on to the crossing with their temporary owners. The pedestrians continued on their way to the opposite pavement but the dogs remained on the crossing. Traffic started to build up in both directions and cars started hooting. A policeman moved towards the crossing but hastily retreated from the row of snarling jaws that confronted him. Most of the dogs now lay down on the crossing, those at each end of the pavement facing outwards towards the pavement to attack any pedestrians bold enough to confront them. A few dogs left the main group and began to patrol between the stationary cars in both directions. One or two drivers who had begun to open their car doors hurriedly thought better of it after seeing one man lose an entire trouser leg and just manage to get back into his car before losing his actual leg. More dogs appeared from side streets and joined the patrols. They did not attack those who remained on the pavement or in their cars, but were aggressive if anyone came towards them or tried to leave their vehicle. Within ten minutes the whole area was paralysed. No vehicle could move on any street. A helicopter was spotted in the distance, but as immense flocks of pigeons had appeared from nowhere to wheel in great circles above the City, the pilot could not approach any nearer for fear of the birds damaging the rotor blades.

  Two of the largest rottweilers now detached themselves from the group and sauntered to the Stock Exchange. The large crowd that had by now gathered on the pavement to watch the curious spectacle melted away from the dogs like the Red Sea parting for Moses. The animals went to the sliding doors and as they opened, the dogs sat one against each door to keep them open, snarling savagely at the commissionaire who hurriedly retreated into his office. Soon, in the distance, it appeared as though a swirl of black fog was unseasonally enveloping the City on a summer morning, but as the dark cloud drew nearer a humming noise filled the air and countless swarms of bees and wasps came into view, flying just above the queues of stationary vehicles. Nearer to the Stock Exchange their buzzing sounded like a hundred electric motors run wild and the crowds fell to the ground, covering their heads and faces with jackets and cardigans. They needn’t have worried, for the insects had not the slightest interest in curious crowds and casual passers-by. They zoomed like a black funnel into the open doors of the Stock Exchange and entered the old trading floor and every other open room in the building. A moment later they were followed by large flocks of jackdaws and magpies.

  At the same time another flight of very large birds appeared in the sky from the north-west. It looked as though they had come from the aviary at London Zoo as well as the surrounding countryside, for there were not only buzzards but numerous large vultures and even two golden eagles, each carrying a small monkey.

  The flying party swooped low in the street, passing close to the attractive young tourist who was still standing on the pavement, apparently fascinated by what was going on. Then, as if controlled by a radio signal, the strange flock abruptly changed direction and flew to the roof of the Exchange which was covered in communication aerials, transmitting rods and satellite dishes. There they settled and immediately started wreaking havoc on the complex assortment of communication devices. Savage beaks, curved talons, teeth and eager paws ripped and tore at cables and connections, twisted and dislodged satellite dishes and uprooted aerials.

  The scene changed again, so that Richard now found himself in the corridors and offices of the Exchange, where there was complete chaos. Nobody could escape from the multitude of insects that had now formed into hundreds of smaller groups that buzzed around the heads of all that could not find immediate refuge in the offices, lifts or toilets. Those who had already managed to reach their offices slammed doors behind them in relief but then gazed in dismay at the scenes before them. Rats and mice had been hard at work during the hours of darkness and all computer, fax and phone cables had been bitten through, their severed ends hanging limply from every desk and terminal. Every key left in a door, cupboard door or filing cabinet had been removed during the night by squirrels, led into the building by rats who had guided them through their regular runs from the sewers into the catering section and from there throughout the Exchange.

  Even as the bewildered office workers watched, hosts of jackdaws and magpies swept through every room collecting any loose keys, keyrings and security devices that had been inaccessible to the squirrels, pecking savagely at anyone foolhardy enough to try to stop them. Many people ran to the windows to see the reason for the loud and incessant hooting from the street and were astonished by the sight below. Even while they watched, a party of police dog-handlers with rifles – presumably for firing tranquillizing darts – pushed their way through the crowds in Old Broad Street towards the pack guarding the crossing.

  As they did so
a flock of falcons stooped down from the sky like divebombers, and descended on the handlers, landing on their heads and shoulders and starting to attack their faces with hooked beaks and sharp talons. The onslaught was so sudden and furious that the police split up and fled for cover, dropping their rifles to leave their hands free to protect their faces and to try to beat off the attacking hawks.

  Waitresses from a local pub were now passing among the crowds with large trays selling hot steak and kidney pies, sushi, pork scratchings and coffee. To the astonishment and amusement of those watching from the pavement they were allowed by the dogs to approach the cars to sell food and drink to the stranded drivers, but no one else could step on to the road without being attacked.

  The scene changed back to the inside of the exchange, where the experience of Ronald Stiltskin, the security officer on the third floor, was typical of many throughout the building.

  Since the tragic terrorist events of recent years an order had been issued to the effect that an Incident Cupboard was to be installed on every floor. As the wasps zoomed up the corridor, Stiltskin dashed to the cupboard in his section with his jacket over his head. He knew that the equipment in there included protective clothing for use in case of accidents or incidents involving radiation, toxic chemicals and biological hazards. If this wasn’t a biological hazard he couldn’t imagine what was and wrenched the door open just in time to see a long grey tail disappear into a large hole gnawed through the back of the chipboard cupboard.

  In the cupboard were three face masks, three protective suits, three emergency axes, three plastic bottles of water and a wind-up portable radio. Two of the face masks were full to the brim with fresh rat droppings, while in the third a mouse was putting the finishing touches to a nest; she fled as Ronald peered in. The nest was made from shreds of the Financial Times and Investment Weekly, their edges neatly serrated by little teeth, and Ronald could just make out a fragment of an advertisement box saying: ‘Cut this out and start your own little nest egg.’

  He seized one of the protective suits but dropped it when he saw that the arms and legs had been chewed off; the others were similarly damaged, though curiously there were no fragments from the suits anywhere to be seen. The axeheads had been gnawed off their shafts, and the entire cupboard floor and its contents were soaked from the water that had seeped from the holes chewed in the plastic bottles.

  Stiltskin grabbed the wind-up radio and ran for safety to the nearest lift. As the door opened he flung off his wasp-covered jacket and got in, clawing off the wasps that had got in through the gap in his jacket and were starting to sting his nose and lips. He breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed but his deliverance was short-lived. Suddenly all the lights went out, plunging the inside of the lifts into inky blackness, and any moving lifts stopped, most of them between floors. It was as though a switch had been thrown – which was, as it happens, just what had occurred: one of the monkeys, having devastated the communications on the roof, was now in the fuse room shutting off the row of heavy-duty switches that covered an entire wall. The bewildered officer wound up the radio in the dark and switched it on.

  ‘….and if you have just joined us,’ the commentator was saying, ‘we are still reporting on one of the most bizarre events ever to have taken place in the long history of the City. Traffic is at a standstill and unconfirmed reports say that this is due to a pack of dogs blocking Old Broad Street; a pack fiercely resisting all attempts to interfere with them. It is impossible to reach the scene by road and our roving helicopter cannot approach because, by an extraordinary coincidence, large flocks of pigeons are wheeling over the area in behaviour patterns that our ornithological experts are at a loss to explain. It is, in fact, only by the greatest good fortune that we are able to bring you this report at all – one of our reporters just happened to be researching new material in the Insider Dealers’ Arms, a public house not far from the scene. As I speak we are receiving even more serious and perplexing news. Reports are coming in that the Stock Exchange is in chaos. Garbled messages from mobile phones are the only source of our information so far, as we are currently unable to contact any Stock Exchange officials using our regular channels of communication. Whatever turns out to be the true explanation of what is happening, one thing is certain: the pound is plunging on world markets and millions of pounds are being wiped off shares as I speak. This is nothing short of a disaster and, when the truth comes out, I’m afraid some very senior heads are going to roll.’

  Meanwhile, in offices throughout the building, there were gurgling noises from the washbasins and sinks at coffee points as dirty waste water welled back up through plugholes, filled basins to the brim and began to spill over on to the floor. Those who had taken refuge in the toilets found themselves having to cope with problems that were similar in nature but considerably more unsavoury in detail. The instructions to the rats and squirrels had been very specific and they had carried them out painstakingly during their busy night. The hundreds of fragments of material they had chewed off the protective suits throughout the Exchange had been taken to the sewers and stuffed back into every waste outlet leading from the building.

  Outside, the traffic remained solid and stagnant. In quintessential British fashion somebody had now brought a bowl of water to the dogs on the crossing and they were taking it in turns to lap it up gratefully, never leaving the crossing unattended. Incredibly, someone was already selling T-shirts saying:

  And now, once again, Richard saw Lucy in the vast throng. She finished eating a packed lunch, put the wrappings in her rucksack, replaced her sunglasses with a pair of ordinary spectacles and began to make her way through the crowd. As she did so the dogs on the crossing and among the cars melted away into the crowd and the skies cleared as the pigeons circling above disappeared into the west. The traffic slowly began to move again just as, in the distance, a detachment of troops could be seen clearing the crowd from one side of the street and making their way with an armoured troop carrier along the pavement. What they would have done – or, more probably, failed to do – was never put to the test for at that moment the bees, wasps and birds began to stream out of the building. Their numbers were so great that it took several minutes for them to leave but eventually the last intruder left and it was clear that the crisis was over.

  It was the afternoon of the same day and the director of the Exchange, Graeme Midasman, had been invited by the manager of the bank nearest to the Stock Exchange to use a suite of his offices as a temporary headquarters while the Exchange was restored to some semblance of normality. He sat at his desk in front of a half-open window through which he could hear the noise of the dispersing crowds. He was a ruthless and ambitious man who was universally unpopular with his staff, and he was now reading the reports on what had taken place to see if he could plant the entire blame for what had happened on one of his section chiefs.

  The phone rang on his desk: it was his secretary in the adjoining office:

  ‘A call from Whitehall, sir. Shall I put it through?’

  ‘It’s not the Chancellor yet again, is it?’ The Chancellor of the Exchequer had rung three times in the past hour.

  ‘No sir, it’s the Prime Minister.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake – put him through straight away!’

  ‘Graeme?’ It was the unmistakable voice of the PM and he did not sound like a happy bunny. ‘What the hell’s going on? Every time there’s a financial crisis I get some cock-and-bull story from the Chancellor but this one is really way out – he’s blaming it on an invasion of your place by a bunch of animals.’

  ‘For once he’s telling you the truth, sir,’ said the director. ‘You’ve heard of bear markets and bull markets? Well, today has been an entire zoo market. We’ve had wasps, bees, dogs, birds, monkeys – I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘The pound’s dropping like a stone,’ said the PM tersely, ‘and my five-year plan is disintegrating by the minute. When are you going to be back in actio
n?’

  ‘Well, every computer and phone in the building has got to be reconnected and the IT people can’t give me a firm prediction as to how long that’s going to take. The entire place needs cleaning up, of course, and recarpeting – you’ve never seen so many bird droppings in your life. Then there’s the plumbing. Our maintenance engineers say that every waste pipe is blocked right down to the sewers – we’ve ordered in some portable loos but the plumbers say it could be several days before it’s fixed.’

  ‘Plumbers!’ exclaimed the PM. He sighed in resignation. He was a practical man and a householder; he now knew for certain they were dealing in weeks. ‘What about the staff?’ he asked. ‘I understand none of the dealers was seriously hurt.’ There was an unmistakable note of disappointment in his voice.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Midasman. ‘Lots of stings of course, a couple of rat bites and three jackdaw pecks. One person is in hospital with a broken jaw. He swiped at a wasp and hit Big Bert the odd-job man on the nose by mistake. What I can’t understand is what drove all these animals to do it. It’s as though they were working to a plan.’

  ‘Do you think it was terrorists?’ said the PM.

  ‘What, dressed up as animals? No, the dogs looked real and the birds and wasps and bees were so tiny that nobody would have …’

  ‘No, you fool!’ the PM interrupted. His voice had taken on a distinctly truculent tone. ‘I don’t mean dressed up as animals. I mean were terrorists behind it? Did they mastermind it? Have they been training animals in special camps?’

  ‘Well – I’ve no idea. How would we know?’ The director was not particularly bright but he had a distinct feeling that the conversation was not going particularly well.

  ‘What have you done with the animals you captured?’ asked the PM testily.

  ‘Captured … er, I’m not sure we captured any. In fact, I know we didn’t. They all just suddenly disappeared as if on a pre-arranged signal.’ He felt that it was time to restore his credibility with a shrewd comment and, clearing his throat, continued: ‘Er … with respect, sir, what difference would it have made if we had captured some animals? It’s not as if we could interrogate them, is it?’