The Carbon Diaries 2015

by Saci Lloyd

  So basically I’ve talked to no one for 48 hours. Marooned.

  Sat., Nov. 28

  I got so desperate I went down the Co-op to look for Mum. I banged on the doors for ages, but no one there. Just this poster pasted up on the gates.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I called Adi. All I said was hi and he knew I was bad.

  He sighed. “Hold on, I’m coming over.”

  It was so good to see him. We talked and talked and talked till dawn. Don’t even know what about. Fell asleep on the sofa.

  Sun., Nov. 29

  “Laura! Laura!”

  Adi shaking me.

  “Wake up, it’s 4 in the afternoon! Look at the news—there’s a storm coming.”

  “What?”

  “A storm! An offshore wind-generating site’s been destroyed, and a ferry’s sunk off Scotland—52 dead—and it’s heading right for us.”

  I struggled upright on the sofa and stared at the TV. They kept repeating the same Met Office warning over and over again.

  The light was flashing on the answering machine. It was from Mum, she must have called while I was asleep this afternoon.

  “Just checking in on you all. I’m out with WMF but, Nick, can you call me? I’ve just heard about the storm—take the girls down to the Co-op Building. They’ll be safe there. Call me. Okay?”

  I dialed her number but no answer. Tried Dad, Kim, but nothing. No connection on Adi’s cell phone, either. The network must’ve been down. I didn’t know what to do. Adi wanted to take me to his place, but I wanted to wait here for the others.

  He jumped up. “All right. I’ve got to go home to tell my family what I’m doing, then I’m coming back. I won’t be long, I promise.”

  The door slammed behind him and all the lights flickered in the house. I’m scared.

  Mon., Nov. 30

  6 a.m. Woke up again on the sofa. It’s bad. At 1 a.m. the first seawalls on the Northumberland coast collapsed. Gigantic waves smashing homes into rubble. 12 dead in a town called Alnwick. As the storm came down the coast, the waves just kept getting bigger and bigger. Scarborough, 27 dead; Grimsby, 38 dead; Cromer, 40 dead; Lowestoft, 52 dead. It’s on its way to Southend—and then it’s the Thames Estuary. Us. The sea’s pouring in everywhere. All the poor animals drowned, thousands and thousands of them. The army’s evacuating Canvey Island now. I don’t know what to do.

  “Laura!” The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Dad! He ran into the room.

  “Oh, thank God. Couldn’t get through to you. Where’s Kim and your mum?”

  “I . . . don’t know. I can’t get through, either. Mum’s with the WMF . . . but Kim, I don’t know. She’s been down in Soho for days.”

  “Stupid girl. Is she with Kieran at least?”

  “Think so.”

  Dad let out a deep breath. “I’ll have to go down there if she’s not back by tonight. But first we’ve got to work to do . . .”

  When we got outside, we could hardly stand up in the wind and driving rain.

  “Jesus,” he shouted. “The storm hasn’t even got here yet.”

  There were about 20 people gathered in the street—and more streaming out of their houses the whole time. Loud Dad stood at the center of the group.

  “People! If you wanted to leave, you should have done it by now. I warn you, the roads will be hell, with no guarantee of safety at the end. This storm will be on us in a few hours. If there’s a surge there’s no telling if the Thames Barrier will hold. I reckon the safest thing is to stay, and if you believe that, too, then we’ve got two main jobs. Number one: We’ve got to move everything important upstairs—food, water, blankets—we may need to live up there for a while. Number two: We’ve got to sandbag the whole street. Bring out every sack, bag, garbage can liner—anything you’ve got. And then get digging. We’ve got to fill them all.”

  At midday the storm hit. I was part of a digging group down by the railway tracks. We could hardly move, the wind was so fierce. And then suddenly there was a sound like a shotgun and a massive branch slammed down onto the line.

  At 3, Mr. Datta ran out to tell us the electricity was down. “Now I miss Hyderabad,” he cried. “It stinks, but you can trust to cow shit to keep the lights on.”

  Arthur wiped the rain out of his eyes and peered at his watch. “High tide in thirty minutes. If we can get through that, we might be all right. Can someone get a radio up and running?”

  At 5 the first reports came thru. The barrier held! But bad flooding all over Docklands—half the Olympic Village is underwater. It was so close, though, the river rose right to the top of the embankments in Victoria and Chelsea.

  Everybody shouted and cheered and hugged one another.

  “Don’t stop now,” shouted Loud Dad. “It’s not over till the storm’s blown itself out.”

  As if to prove the truth of his words, a wicked burst of wind ripped a chimney stack off Arthur’s roof and sent a pile of bricks crashing to the ground.

  1 A.M. Dad’s gone down to Soho and I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed. It’s the only space left—everywhere’s stacked up with cans, blankets, boxes, medicine. I can hardly write, my hands are all cut and trembling. But we’ve done it—the whole street, wall after wall, is lined with half a meter of sandbags. Mum left a message pinned to the front door, saying she’s helping out and for us to go down to the warehouse if there’s any trouble. I’m so tired, I can’t stay awake anymore. Hope Adi’s okay. I guess he’s decided to stay at home.

  I had the weirdest dream about Kim last night. It wasn’t a nightmare, but it was sad. There was this messed-up bird fluttering and banging into glass. I don’t even know why I know it was about her.

  Winter.

  December

  Tues., Dec. 1

  7 A.M. I woke up with my heart pounding. Something wrong. The storm was still battering outside, but it wasn’t that. I went over to the window and peered out. My heart went cold. A wall of swirling dirty water was starting to spill over the sandbags at the end of the street. A few people had come outside, but they weren’t doing anything, just standing still and looking shocked, like toy people.

  I ran downstairs, calling out for Dad, looked in every room, but he wasn’t there. I ran back upstairs and when I looked out at the street again, the water was already pouring down the road and rising, fast.

  A car was moving thru the flood down at the far end, toward where the water was rising most quickly—and then it stalled. I watched it for a minute, but no one got out. The car just sat there, water ripping past its doors. Then this woman’s head appeared out of the sunroof and she started screaming for help. I flung the window open and shouted for people to help her, but no one heard me. Everything in the room went dead. For a long frozen minute I couldn’t move . . . and then suddenly I came back to life and ran down the stairs as fast as I could go.

  The front door was jammed shut with sandbags, so I went into the study and threw the window open. I sat there on the sill for a moment, trying to work out the best move cos by now there was at least half a meter of water rushing past. Then I saw how to do it—by jumping along the parked cars. I climbed onto the windowsill, sucked in a big breath, and jumped onto the hood of Loud Dad’s electro car. So far so good. I crawled over the roof and onto the hood and then sized up my next move—a metre to a red Sierra. Though I was shaking, I still made myself jump, but this time I slipped when I landed and my legs wound up in the flooding water. Man, the current was unbelievable, it sucked and dragged at my boots like a crazy dog.

  The trapped woman was totally mental by now. I stood up and waved my hands, shouted to her that I was coming. She turned. “Oh, my God, I’m gonna drown! I can’t open the door! I can’t swim.”

  And that’s when the adrenaline really kicked in. I jumped car to car down that street until I was finally alongside her. The woman didn’t stop screaming even though she could see I was there. She was trying to punch out the sunroof.

  “Hold on!” I sh
outed, pulling back as a trash can crashed into the side of my car. I looked down into the water. There was no other choice; I’d have to make it across the gap. I started to slide down the bumper, planted one foot into the water—and immediately slipped. Panicking, I grabbed the side mirror, and used it to pull myself up again. I was shaking. For the first time, it hit me I was in trouble myself.

  “Use your cell phone! Call for help,” she shouted. “Somebody’s got to get these doors open.”

  I scrabbled in my pocket for my phone, jammed in 999. Nothing. I looked at the screen—no network connection. Hands shaking, I tried again—and again. Nothing.

  The woman had gone quiet; she was lying against the backseat, desperately kicking the inside of the doors. The water had risen up to the level of the window. It was like a dream. And then suddenly she threw up her arm, pointed. I turned and saw maybe the best thing ever—Gwen Parry-Jones in a canoe, sliding along in the current toward us. It was so damn good I turned and took a photo on my cell phone.

  “Hold on!” yelled GPJ, paddle blade flashing in her hands. The current was so fast she nearly overshot us. “Grab the side, Laura!”

  I flung out my arm and grabbed the boat with both hands, and then nearly fainted with pain. The fibreglass had ripped across my palm, opening up a huge slice of flesh.

  “Hold it!” shouted GPJ.

  I dragged the boat close to my chest.

  “Good! Now, get in, but keep hold of the car, or we’ll be swept away.”

  I transferred my grip from boat to wheel arch as I slid down the hood and into her canoe.

  “Good,” she shouted. “Door won’t open, right?” She reached behind her and pulled out a hammer from under a tarpaulin. “You’ll have to smash the window. Carefully let go of the car then take this. You’ll have to move quickly, I’ll only be able to hold us against the current for a few seconds. Got it?”

  I nodded. “Now?”

  “Yes!”

  I released my grip and the canoe flew across the space and smashed hard against the stalled car.

  “Break it!”

  I grabbed the hammer and smashed it against the rear-side window. A crack appeared across the pane.

  GPJ paddled like crazy against the straining current. “Again!”

  With a cry of pain, I swung the hammer again—and this time, the window shattered. The trapped woman punched her fist against the remaining glass shards.

  “Get the door open, Laura!”

  I leaned across and put my arm inside the door and yanked it with all my strength, while the woman pushed from inside with her shoulder—until it opened enough for her to squeeze through. I grabbed on to her and, bit by bit, dragged her into the boat. She lay there gasping.

  “Oh, my God, what’s happening?”

  “Barrier went under at five this morning. London’s flooded.” GPJ lifted her paddle out of the water. The canoe spun violently down the street, back toward my house.

  “I’m taking you to the Co-op Building—we’ve set up a rescue center. Four floors—you’ll be safe there.” She glanced at me. “Are you okay? You look pretty white.”

  I winced with pain. “Have you seen my mum?”

  “Yes, she’s gone with a party of WMF to sort out an old folks’ home. She’ll be back soon.”

  “What about Arthur?”

  She leaned over and lifted my sleeve, uncovering my hand. “Oh, Laura, that’s bad. Why didn’t you say? Yes, I’m pretty certain we’ve got everyone on your street. Jesus, now what?” She rested her oars on the side of the canoe. We’d come alongside the Dattas’ house, where there was another WMF rescue boat, already full with people. There was some kind of argument going on with Mrs. Datta standing in the driving rain in front of the rocking boat, waving her arms. Mr. Datta was shaking his fist out of the top-floor window.

  “No, Varshana. Never!”

  Mrs. Datta waved her arms crazily. “Come, please!”

  “No, it is too shameful. I will be fine in this attic. The rabbits are with me.”

  “Shiva, we do not have time—please come.”

  “No!” His face red with anger. “I will not be rescued by my own wife. It is not the natural—”

  The rest of his words were cut short by a crossbow dart thudding into the windowsill, barely missing his head.

  “Jai Rama,” he gasped. “You nearly kill me!”

  Everyone turned to look at Mrs. Datta, slipping another dart in her crossbow. “Bloody right. Get down here, you damn fool!”

  “But Varshana!”

  “Don’t Varshana me. Twenty-two years of nonsense. You must come down to me, you silly little man. I love you.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, tears in their eyes.

  “Hold on, darling, I am coming!” cried Shiva—and thirty seconds later, he appeared at a downstairs window and scrambled into the rescue kayak, into the arms of Varshana Datta.

  And then it hit me. “Larkin!”

  GPJ whirled around. “Who?”

  “Our pig, Larkin.”

  “Sorry, Laura, no. People first.”

  “But he’ll drown . . .”

  “Sorry. No. Got to get you safe.” She began to paddle away from the house.

  There was nothing I could do. If I’d gotten out of that boat, I’d have just been swept away. I squeezed my eyes shut as we floated past the corner of our street.

  When I got to the Co-op, Mum was standing on the steps. I threw myself into her arms.

  “Oh, sweetheart, are you hurt? Where’re the others?”

  “I don’t know. Dad went to Soho to try and find Kim.”

  Her face went white. “Soho? But that’s completely flooded now.”

  “Julia!” A woman jerked her thumb toward the exit. “Got to get going again.”

  Mum turned to me. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She ran her fingers thru her hair. “Don’t worry, they know how to look after themselves.”

  When Mum left I started to search the building for Arthur. Everyone was up on the 4th floor, which was a kind of gigantic open-plan office. They’d dragged up wooden pallets and boxes and put them all around the edges and down the sides of the gangways. It was nearly dark, cos most of the windows were boarded up, but here and there were paraffin lamps and flashlights giving out bits of light and showing all the pale, strained faces. But no sign of Arthur anywhere.

  By evening I was going out of my mind. I’d waited on the steps the whole day, watching boat after boat bring in survivors. There’s hundreds of us now. Some people are really bad. And then suddenly Adi was there in front of me.

  “Is it you?” I whispered.

  “Sorry it took so long. I got trapped at my place.”

  “Are your family okay?”

  “Yeah. Yours?”

  I choked. “I don’t know . . .” I buried my face in his shoulder. “I . . . can’t believe you came back.”

  “I promised.”

  Silence for a long moment. We held each other so tight. Then I pulled away.

  “Arthur’s not here. I’ve got a really bad feeling. We’ve got to go and check his house.”

  “But there’s no boats now, could be ages before they’re back.”

  “We’ve got to do something.”

  He frowned. “Come on. I’ve got an idea.”

  I followed him down the rear stairs of the building and into a wide corridor stacked with wooden pallets.

  “I saw these before when we came to see your mum. It’s the best we got right now. I’ll drag one to the door, you use your foot to break one of those planks in half for a paddle.”

  Once I’d split the wood I joined Adi, who’d got the pallet to the edge of the front steps. He shone a flashlight downward. Flood water, raw sewage, dragged and sucked just below.

  “Oh, man,” said Adi. “You really sure? This ain’t no boat.”

  “Adi, we’ve got to.”

  He jutted his jaw out. “Drop it in the water. Then can you get on and hold it aga
inst the side for me?”

  I scrambled onto the rough wood, lay down, and plunged my hands into the freezing water so I could grip the steps. The pallet tipped like crazy when Adi jumped on.

  “Let go!”

  I released my grip and we spun out into the darkness. For a minute it was total madness—us smashing into walls, cars, beating away huge floating things—and then Adi shouted, “When I say row, row. We’ve got to get in time! And go along the edge. It’s not so fast. Now, row!”

  I plunged my paddle into the water, again and again and again. For the longest time it felt like we were standing still while the world roared and frothed around us, but then the beam of Adi’s flashlight swept over the top of Arthur’s front door.

  “Stop!” I shouted. “We’re here!” Together we drove the pallet up against the door. Adi passed a piece of rope down to me. “Tie us on.” I lay flat on my stomach and groped forward until I reached the door and then knotted the rope around the handle.

  “Keep still, Laur, I’m gonna break the window.”

  The pallet rocked as he scrambled forward. The sound of breaking glass.

  “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “Dropped the flashlight.”

  I groped my way onto the windowsill behind him. For a moment we both sat on the ledge, no breath left between us.

  “Jesus,” he gasped, wiping his face.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Arthur!”

  Nothing.

  “All right, let’s go in. D’you wanna go first? You know the house better.”

  I plunged waist high into the icy cold and slowly led the way into the pitch-black hall, calling out Arthur’s name. We went thru to the kitchen and then the living room. Nothing.

  “He ain’t here,” muttered Adi. “Upstairs?”

  I held up my hand. “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “Thought I heard something.”

  We stood completely silent.

  “Nothing, I guess.” I moved toward the hall stairs. And then I heard it again—coming from the kitchen. “Over here!” I turned back into the kitchen, pots and pans bumping around me. “Arthur! Where are you?” And then I remembered the box of matches he kept on the top shelf above the cooker. I felt my way along the wall till I reached the shelf, praying it was gonna be there. My fingers rubbed up against the cardboard. Yes! I grabbed the box, struck once, twice. The match flared up, I caught a glimpse of Adi’s eyes, massive in his face, before sweeping the flame around the room. And then right in front of me there was a hand. I dropped the match.