by Chris Ryan
The bald man pointed across to a figure lying on the floor. ‘She’s there,’ he told José. ‘We pulled her out of the basement when it flooded.’
A woman was stretched out on her back. Her clothes were soaked and her black tights had gaping holes in them. Her hair flowed over her face like seaweed. The carpet around her was sodden, as though she was bleeding river water. A man in half-moon glasses was kneeling over her, trying to give her the kiss of life.
‘The police are here,’ the bald man told him, and Half-moon Glasses sat back on his heels looking relieved.
José put his hand out to the man with the Hobnobs. ‘Give me those,’ he ordered.
The bald man handed the packet over. José wolfed four of them immediately. It was the first thing he’d eaten for hours. Better than what was on offer in Snow Hill police station.
The two men looked at him, amazed, as though they’d expected him to give them to the unconscious woman as some kind of miracle cure.
‘She needs help,’ said Half-moon Glasses. ‘We can’t get her to breathe.’
José glanced at the woman. Even from this distance her clothes smelled of sewage. A drain must have flooded into the building. Her skin looked pale and waxy and her lips were blue.
While he’d been taking this in José had eaten four more biscuits. The rain dripped off his uniform onto the floor.
‘She looks dead,’ said José. He wandered through to the kitchen and opened the fridge door. The light didn’t come on – of course – but there was a packet of sandwiches in there from one of the upmarket shops he had passed on the way here. He tore the packet open and took an enormous bite.
The bald man followed him. ‘Aren’t you even going to look at her?’ he demanded. ‘Can’t you call for help on your radio?’
José straightened up and hit him around the mouth. The bald man crashed to the floor, letting out a grunt of surprise and pain.
In the other room, Half-moon Glasses froze where he was, still kneeling by the dead woman. His eyes were wide and horrified.
By the sink was a bottle of bleach with a trigger nozzle. José seized it and pointed the nozzle downwards at the bald man’s face, like a gun. Just in case he was thinking about trying to stop him getting away.
The bald man understood. He stayed where he was, leaning up on one elbow, his other hand on his bleeding mouth, watching José.
José walked to the door.
Outside, the rain was still tipping down, splashing noisily off the road and the gutters. José put the bleach bottle in his pocket, turned up his collar and went out.
In a back street in Mayfair, Francisco Gomez walked into a repair garage. It was very upmarket – there were no oily patches on the forecourt, as if cleaners came and scrubbed them away every day. A Mini stood on the inspection ramp, where it had been abandoned in the middle of an MOT. It was rather a modest car for this part of town, Francisco thought, but he guessed the mechanics had taken the Mercs and Jags and scarpered when the disaster hit.
The station had one petrol pump. Excellent: he could help himself to a can while he was here. You never knew when it might come in useful. He pulled the petrol nozzle out of the holder and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. It was probably locked from some central control indoors.
He made his way across to the office. A puffy jacket like the top half of a Michelin man outfit lay abandoned on an office chair. Francisco shrugged off the sodden donkey jacket and put the puffy jacket on. The warmth cocooned his soaking skin.
Now to find the switch to release the petrol pumps.
He found it first go, under the cash register. He pressed it, but still nothing happened. Too bad.
The cash register wouldn’t open either.
Next to it was a phone. He picked up the receiver, but there was no tone. The phones were still out. He’d done that in every shop he’d been into. Not that he wanted to call anyone: his partner would hardly have been allowed to keep his mobile. Still, it was reassuring to know that no one else was able to talk to each other either.
Francisco went through a doorway into the covered garage area and saw tools lying scattered all over the floor.
He bent down and picked up a tyre iron. That’s what he had been looking for. He looked at the Mini on the ramp. It was a pity he couldn’t get it down – he might have been able to get to Charing Cross a bit faster. He didn’t want José to think he wasn’t coming.
Chapter Twenty-six
Ben stumbled up to two guys at the door of a shop. ‘Excuse me, is this the way to Charing Cross?’ he asked them. His arms were huddled around his body and he jogged from one foot to another. He was so cold he didn’t want to stand still for a moment.
One of the guys turned round and glared at him, a sledgehammer held threateningly over his shoulder. Ben thought he was going to attack him and staggered slowly backwards, as if there was a five-second delay between his brain deciding to move and his limbs managing to obey.
‘Ha!’ said one of the guys. ‘You been drinking, mate?’ He pointed along the road. ‘There’s a pub up there if you want some more.’
Ben stared at them. His brain was racing with things to say but his lips wouldn’t work: I’m not drunk. I’ve never been drunk in my life. I’m thirteen. I’m not drunk, just cold.
The man turned back to the shop door. A slender diamond necklace glinted in the window, arranged on a black velvet cushion. ‘Give it a good blow here, down in the corner,’ said his friend. ‘They build them with a weak spot so the Fire Brigade can get in.’
His partner aimed the sledgehammer carefully, then whacked the window hard. It disintegrated in a shower of glass. The looters let out a whoop of joy and hurried in, their feet crunching on the glass.
Ben stumbled on. The water was almost up to the main road, and quite deep in the side streets. One block over, a Smartcar glided past in the water, swept along like a paper boat. It caught against a bollard with a metallic thud. Something was moving inside: behind the windscreen he could see a face, the mouth making an O of a scream. It was a little girl in pigtails and a pink shirt. She saw him and waved frantically. Then the car started moving again, the insistent current pulling it free, taking its helpless passenger with it.
He staggered back down the road: the man with the sledgehammer, he thought. If only he could find him, maybe he could smash open the window and let her out.
He stopped, realizing that it was too late – the car was gone now; they couldn’t reach it. He just had to let go, accept there was nothing he could do.
He turned round and set off again, but all he could think about was that child’s face, her pigtails shaking as she called out to him. She had seen him and thought he could help. Now what would happen to her? He felt responsible.
A little further along he saw a shape at the water’s edge; it was catching on the road and then pulling away again with the rhythm of the tide slapping on the tarmac. He ran across to it. If he couldn’t help the little girl in the Smartcar, maybe he could help here.
A cloud of seagulls rose as he approached. Seagulls, the new predators in this drowned city. Ben saw that it was the body of a dead man; the seagulls were checking it out as a source of food.
The body was wrapped in plain cotton material that clung to the skin. Underneath was a hospital gown. It was very still, like a lump of lard. Ben looked at it, puzzled. The eyes were closed and the face peaceful, as if the man had died in his sleep. On his arms were strips of tape, the loose ends floating on the water like seaweed, and tiny holes like needle marks. He had died in hospital, Ben realized. But how had he got out here? Had the river washed out the hospital mortuaries?
Ben backed away and the seagulls moved back in.
He stumbled on. He was so cold. Maybe it was because he was shocked. He kept thinking about the child in the Smartcar and the body in the sheet. Maybe he’d end up like that – a lump lying in the river surrounded by seagulls. He passed a man lying in a doorway, his teeth chattering like ca
stanets, his body jerking violently. Maybe he should sit down for a while too, rest so that he could get his strength back.
No sooner had he thought it than he was on his knees in a shop doorway. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a minute. When he tried that, it felt so good. He wasn’t aware of the hard edge of the door frame behind his back. It just felt so great to stop …
‘Sir? There’s a call for you from the Admiralty in High Wycombe. Top priority.’ The controller at Hendon handed the satellite phone over to General Chambers.
The General took the phone to a quiet corner of the room. ‘Chambers here.’
The voice at the other end of the phone sounded furious, and as though it was barely keeping that fury in check. ‘General, make sure your men stick to communications protocols on the satellites.’
The General felt his hackles rise. ‘They have been.’
‘Well, someone’s used a restricted channel and blocked the routine signal. We’ve got a Vanguard submarine that’s missed its routine all-clear signal.’
The General went white. The buzz of the communications room around him disappeared for a moment as he took in what that meant. When he next spoke, his voice hissed quietly. ‘My men have not breached protocols. The mistake didn’t happen here.’
The voice at the other end didn’t even seem to hear him. ‘Just keep your men off the restricted channels. And tell Whitehall they’ve got a situation.’
The faces of the sub crew looked haggard in the red light. The helmsman spoke. ‘We’re on the surface, Captain.’
‘Radio mast is deployed and ready, sir,’ said the communications officer.
‘Very good,’ said the captain. ‘Communications officer, send your message.’
There had been no answer to the first message the sub had sent to Whitehall. Now they were repeating the procedure.
Once again, the communications officer watched the display. ‘Message has been successfully sent, sir.’
The captain nodded. ‘Helmsman, take us down.’
The helmsman was ready, his hands on the controls. ‘Diving now, sir.’ He watched the digital depth readout as the sub once again submerged.
The first officer voiced his concerns. ‘Captain, what do you think has really happened to London? This flood business is rather strange.’
The captain eased a crick in his neck. It had already been a long day. ‘You want the simplest explanation? For some reason the satellite wasn’t working – maybe because of the flood. But someone’s head needs to roll for that. Or maybe all this flood business is just a ploy by High Command to have an excuse to open fire. If it’s a SNAFU, there are safeguards in the system to stop it escalating. In the meantime, we have our orders and it’s our job to follow them. I’m going to talk to the crew.’
He unhooked the intercom. ‘Gentlemen, we have attempted to communicate with Whitehall for a second time, and once again have exposed our position. It is possible that we may encounter enemy action. It is the job of everyone to stay vigilant. This is not an exercise.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Puma had flown due west, skirting over the top arc of the M25 and out over Buckinghamshire. They were flying higher than before, and faster. At that height, Meena couldn’t make out the details she was used to seeing. The rusty-looking sprawl of London thinned out. The features of the landscape looked tiny, the different colour corduroy fields looking like a patchwork counterpane. But lakes of pale grey water still reflected in the sky and rivers showed up wide and swollen. Some houses were surrounded. Even out here, miles from the Thames, rivers had burst their banks and were trying to claim the land.
At least the traffic Meena saw was moving. Vehicle headlights trundled along the tiny lanes. But they were the only lights visible. There was not a single light in any of the buildings.
The Puma circled and hovered, then descended. Meena saw sprawling slate roofs with old-fashioned chimneys and windows. Tiny leaded panes of glass reflected the Puma’s glittering lights. Then trees got in the way and the Puma touched down on a large letter H painted on a stretch of tarmac. It looked like they had landed in an expensive country hotel.
The whine of the engine diminished and the rotors wound down. A military tanker painted dark green drove out to meet them.
Dorek took off his helmet. ‘Refuelling stop. No smoking.’
Meena and Phil unbuckled their harnesses and made to get out.
‘No time for that,’ said Dorek.
The refuelling crew was already starting work. Meena felt a couple of metallic bumps as the fuel cap was unscrewed, then a humming reverberated through the fuselage. She realized it was the tanker delivering fuel.
She looked out of the window in dismay, then back at Dorek. ‘You mean they’re refuelling with us on board?’
‘That’s nice,’ said Phil. ‘What if it catches fire while we’re in here?’
‘Don’t be an ass,’ said Dorek. ‘What if it drops out of the sky when we’re five hundred feet up?’
Meena had to quell her worries. Normally on civilian planes you didn’t refuel when there were people on board. Sitting there while the fuel pulsed into the tank felt wrong, but she had to accept that the army did things differently. And she didn’t want to appear a wimp.
A soldier stepped up to Dorek’s window and handed him another laptop. ‘General Chambers says the briefing documents are all on there.’
The ground crew had nearly finished refuelling. Meena looked out of the window and saw, over the trees, an Elizabethan mansion, like a hotel. ‘Er – where exactly are we?’
‘Chequers.’
Meena thought she’d misheard. ‘Chequers? As in where the Prime Minister lives?’
‘Yep,’ said Dorek. ‘We’ve got to go take him some homework.’
No, go away, thought Ben. Leave me alone. I want to sleep.
‘Wake up,’ a voice was shouting. ‘You’ve got to wake up.’
Hands grasped his shoulders and shook him. Ben tried to bat them off. He turned over, trying to retreat into his cocoon of sleep. When he moved, rain trickled down inside the collar of his jacket.
Still the hands shook him. ‘Wake up. You can’t sleep.’ Something was touched to his lips. ‘Drink this.’
He tasted warm Coca-Cola. It went down the wrong way, and he coughed and sat up. Water streamed down his forehead. Go away, he thought.
‘Are you awake?’
He forced his eyes open and saw a tubby girl wearing a black zip-up jumpsuit and a neoprene balaclava. For a moment he thought he’d been kidnapped by aliens. Except for her red lipstick and her eye make-up running in the rain.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘Eva.’ She held out a Mars Bar. ‘Eat this – it’ll give you energy.’
Ben suddenly realized he was ravenous. He snatched the Mars Bar but could barely tear open the wrapper. His fingers felt like fat sausages, all boneless and uncontrollable. Eva had to open it for him. He wolfed the bar down in three bites.
She handed him the Coke can again. ‘Have some more.’
He drank it obediently.
The sugar rush started immediately, as if it had been injected directly into his veins. He started to shiver.
Eva pulled him to his feet. ‘Come on, we’d better get you something warm.’
He still didn’t want to move; he felt too cold for that. He wanted to curl up in a ball so that he could keep warm.
Eva linked her arm through his and nudged his legs with his feet. ‘Come on, start walking. You’re getting hypothermia – that’s why you don’t want to move. But if you stay in that doorway you’ll die.’
Ben groaned.
‘Come on,’ said Eva, and shook him. ‘Once you get moving you’ll feel better.’
Ben started to walk, leaning heavily on her. It wasn’t her words that made him try; it was her running eye make-up. It made her look like Marilyn Manson. He wasn’t going to disobey someone who looked like that.
They were approac
hing a big interchange. Large, old-looking buildings surrounded a statue of some guy with wings. Buses stood abandoned and the road was littered with debris.
Ben realized he knew the place. ‘Is this Piccadilly Circus?’
‘Yeah,’ said Eva.
Ben clung onto Eva’s arm as she led him purposefully across the road. He remembered Piccadilly Circus as a crowded, bustling place. Now the huge advertising signs stood dark, brooding over the deserted roads. The giant record shop on the corner was no longer a vibrant place pumping out music. It was empty and silent.
Funny how those things still took Ben by surprise. He felt like any second he would wake up back in his bed in Macclesfield.
‘In here,’ said Eva. She pushed open a door.
Ben found himself surrounded by golf carts and checked trousers. They were in the sports store Lillywhites. And mercifully, it was dry.
‘Up here,’ said Eva. She dragged him towards the stairs.
Ben groaned again. Now that he’d stopped, he didn’t want to move. ‘Can’t we use the lift?’ he asked, before he realized it wouldn’t be working.
‘It’s only three floors,’ she said.
He followed Eva’s jumpsuited rear, pulling himself up by the handrail. She had funny little boots too; they seemed to be part of the jumpsuit. Why was she dressed like a black Teletubby?
She waited for him by the fire doors at the top. He tried to push the door open but the spring was heavy and he had to give it a second go.
They emerged on the shop floor, in the diving department. Ben saw a chair and went to sit down.
‘Don’t sit down for a moment,’ Eva ordered him. ‘I need to see what size you are.’
Ben stopped where he was and looked at her wearily. She looked him up and down. ‘OK, now you can sit.’
Ben sank down on the chair while Eva marched off. Short-sleeved diving suits hung around him, crisscrossed with zips and smelling of rubber. He realized that was what Eva’s weird outfit was: a diving suit.
She came marching back with a handful of multi-coloured items and dumped them in his lap. ‘Eat those. And don’t you dare go to sleep again.’