Taking the Heat

by Paul McDermott

  Taking the Heat

  Paul McDermott

  Beaten Track

  www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  Taking the Heat

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  First published 2021 by Beaten Track Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 Paul McDermott at Smashwords

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78645 501 7

  eBook ISBN: 978 1 78645 502 4

  Cover Art: Siobhan McDermott and Debbie McGowan

  Beaten Track Publishing,

  Burscough, Lancashire.

  www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  Everybody talks about the weather…

  …but nobody does anything about it.

  Right?

  Wrong!

  Human action (or inaction) has forced the delicate balance of the Earth’s health close to an irreversible tipping point.

  Under the remote command of the elusive Brigadier Groth, Doctor Joey Hart and his maverick team get one shot at solving the problem.

  If they dare…

  Contents

  Taking the Heat

  About the Author

  Beaten Track Publishing

  Full Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Doctor Joey Hart looked around the fifty or more drinkers gathered for the evening in the Ship & Mitre, and nodded. “Not bad, for a Tuesday,” he remarked to his assistant, Katherine, who had been responsible for organising the event.

  “Best turnout in the three months we’ve been running the Sci-Bar project,” she agreed. “Let’s hope it means that enough people actually care about this month’s discussion topic.”

  Amongst the ‘spinoff’ benefits of Liverpool’s successful year as European Capital of Culture had been the groups starting up in pubs throughout the city centre, from rambling clubs and barber-shop quartets to reading groups, drama clubs and a vociferous body who had decided to promote ‘Philosophy in Pubs’.

  Perhaps as a direct response to this, the Sci-Bar series of talks followed by discussion on a range of scientific topics had proved a real crowd magnet, comfortably filling the Higher Room above the popular city centre CAMRA pub.

  “Best make a start!”

  He tapped a few times on the side of his half-full glass. The hum of excited anticipation from those present swelled momentarily, then subsided.

  “Thanks for showing your interest in this evening’s discussion topic. It would be very encouraging to think the ordinary man or woman in the street might one day have as much influence as our political leaders. They disappointed us yet again last week when they failed to reach any agreement on what we’re discussing tonight—global warming…”

  Joey preferred to speak without notes, and the constant asides and wisecracks which peppered his address appealed to his audience. The free-flowing rounds of drinks loosened tongues and inhibitions too, but without the evening deteriorating into a drunken shouting match.

  “Fascinating subject, Doctor Hart. Thank you seems inadequate, somehow.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it, Mr…?”

  “Whelan. Dave Whelan, and this is my wife, Brenda.”

  “Off duty like this, I’m Joey. What brought you along?”

  “The beer.” Dave grinned. The Ship & Mitre had a reputation for quality beers. “Seriously, though, we were here purely by chance the first time the Sci-Bar evening was held, and we enjoyed it so much I made a point of writing the dates into my diary.”

  Brenda raised her glass, to attract Joey’s attention. “I teach global warming to my Year Six—I’ve lost count of how many times one of them has said, ‘Two degrees isn’t a big difference, Miss.’ Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Like you said yourself, temperatures in general have risen by that much since the earliest records we have, and that’s…how many years? A hundred and sixty?”

  Joey nodded. “Nice to know someone was paying attention. Yes, which takes us back to Victorian times—around 1850—roughly when the Industrial Revolution was taking off in Britain, and people only had a vague idea what pollution meant. But think of all those ‘dark, satanic mills’ and how they poisoned the atmosphere, the rivers and everything else they touched.

  “Despite that, the industry of that particular period did very little to affect the climate. In fact, more than half the rise in global temperatures has happened since roughly the mid-twentieth century, which is over a hundred years after the period we generally accept as the time the Industrial Revolution started.”

  Dave frowned. “So, the fact that our noble leaders have agreed to try to limit global temperature rises to no more than two degrees—”

  “Isn’t worth the paper it’s written on!” snorted Joey dismissively. “Apart from anything else, it’s not even an agreement per se, and it’s only been put forward by a very small number of those taking part—and of those, the only real culprit, as far as carbon emissions is concerned, is the USA. Now, if they’d got China to agree to make an effort, it might have been worthwhile. If you want pollution control, you have to start with the worst offender. Makes sense, yes?”

  “You certainly opened my eyes to a few facts tonight, Doctor…Joey,” Dave corrected himself as the guest speaker looked at him sharply.

  “But is there anything we ordinary folk can do?” Brenda persisted. “I mean, beyond recycling, switching off unused lights and all that. Something which might make a real difference?”

  Joey fished in a pocket and passed her a business card. “Talk to friends. Get in touch with me if you’d like to organise some sort of structured evening, debate, or something of that nature. Can’t promise I’ll be available, but if I can come, I will.”

  Dave looked at the bottom of his pint and decided not to chance another if he wanted to drive home with a clear conscience. “We might just do that, Joey, but it won’t be until after we come back from our holidays.”

  “I’ll be at the college address. I’m using the summer break to do some long-overdue research, so I won’t be going home.”

  ***

  “Eddie, that’s your own fault! What on earth made you decide to follow the sheep to the Costa Fortune for your hols?” … “Yeah, I bet it’s raining, that was a given! Haven’t you noticed how people have stopped going to the Med resorts these last few years? Never thought to ask why?”

  Dave transferred his phone to his right hand and swiped his left on a towel that was already damp with sweat. He continued to rag his friend mercilessly as he took another gulp from the frost-rimmed cocktail glass at the side of his lounger.

  The volume of Eddie’s complaint increased again and now sounded like a full swarm of angry wasps rudely shaken from their nest and looking for their tormentor. Dave thought he really ought to show some sympathy for his friend, who sounded as if he was having a disastrous holiday break in Spain.

  “Yeah, okay.” … “Listen, Ed, I didn’t really mean all that.” … “No, honest! I wouldn’t wish a bad holiday on anyone, no matter who! But you know, if you’d checked the weather reports, you might have had second thoughts.” … “No, seriously. It’s all there for anyone to read on the internet.

  “The stats are there to be read, Eddie. Over the last seven years, each UK summer has been longer and hotter than the one before. Did you know, there are parts of Devon
and Cornwall where last summer’s ban on using hosepipes was never lifted? They were so short of reserves they had to keep it on through autumn and winter. This year, they were on the back foot and piping water in from South Wales even before the summer started, so assuming the weather ‘dahn sahf’ is similar to what we’re having here in Southport, they’re guaranteed in dire straits already and it’s only mid-flaming-June!”

  Alternating between casual holiday chat and surfing the endless information pages on the web, Dave and Eddie lost track of the passage of time. It was only when the early afternoon sun wandered beyond the rim of the awning above Dave at the poolside and caused him to squint against its ferocity that he was brought back to reality.

  “I’m telling you, Ed. I can’t turn on a news programme these days—radio or TV—without some expert wanting to talk about global warming and how the clock’s ticking and we’ve got to do something about it, and yadda-yadda, usually followed by a weepy plea for more money to research whatever it is said expert happens to specialise in, surprise, surprise! And the gravy train chuffs off to its next stop down the line!” … “What, moi? Cynical?? Now, whatever gives you that impression?” … “Yeah, we must get together when you’re home. It’s ages since last time. We can continue this discussion then…

  “Brenda? She was smart, she went indoors for a siesta. It’s way too hot to do anything other than sit by the pool—it was twenty-one degrees when we left home this morning. You can imagine what it was like by midday, and it only took us an hour to get here by train. No airports, no passports, no queues.” … “Yeah, you too. Listen, this might be what they call urban legend, but for what it’s worth, it’s a good idea to stay well away from the drains in Spain.” … “Yes, I said drains and that’s what I meant! Apparently, they weren’t built to cope with large amounts of rainfall, and they’re ancient, falling apart—certainly not suited for the heavy rain you’re getting. Result—backflow, and a very real chance of diseases and suchlike spreading like wildfire.

  “Now, tell me again—when did you say you were going to check out and head home?” … “Look on the bright side—at least it wasn’t a package deal. You’d lose a fortune by cutting the holiday short. You’ve got the car, you can do it in stages through France, stop where it suits you, and still have a holiday of sorts.”

  After a few closing remarks, Dave ended the call and shut down his laptop as he prepared to go into the hotel and wake Brenda. With just a suggestion of regret, he reflected that Ed’s unfortunate experiences with the weather must inevitably affect many others too. Hotter summers combined with very mild winters had become more noticeable—a direct result of the global warming which everyone seemed so anxious to talk about. It was a shame nobody seemed to have figured out an effective solution to the problem.

  In their hotel, Dave discovered Brenda had opted to shower on returning from the beach and had flaked out in her bikini, on a wicker terrace lounger, rather than dressing or drying herself in order to siesta on the bed.

  Dave eased the door open and entered, silent as a cat as he crossed the room. Brenda’s eyes were closed, her breathing regular, her features relaxed. He paused and gazed at her, taking this rare opportunity to lose himself in her beauty. What on earth had he done to deserve someone so wonderful as a soul mate?

  She’d always had the same effect on him, right from the first time she’d walked into his life. He felt it happening again; his breathing quickened, his heart laid down a thudding bass rhythm he was sure had to be loud enough to rouse her. His throat ached, painfully dry. He longed to kiss her tenderly until she woke and he could drown in her violet-blue eyes.

  As if in answer to his silent plea, Brenda’s eyelids fluttered open. There was a secretive smile about her eyes. Dave surrendered himself willingly, falling into their depths once more. She raised a hand in languid greeting; he caught it with the tips of his fingers and brushed his lips against her perfectly manicured nails.

  “Had a good nap?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Don’t think I slept. Too hot, really.”

  “Just had a call from Eddie. He’s run into monsoon weather. Not a happy bunny!”

  Brenda swung her legs off the lounger and snuggled close to Dave’s chest as he sat next to her.

  “Monsoons in Spain? They used to be much further south. The tea crops in Sri Lanka and India depend on torrential rain.”

  “Yeah, I thought that,” Dave murmured, absently stroking Brenda’s golden hair. He felt her tense under his fingers and waited patiently for her to put her thoughts into words.

  “So, we’re now getting the sort of summers which made Spain popular with tourists—”

  “While they’re getting storms like they’ve never seen before,” Dave finished.

  “Makes you wonder what’s happening further south…”

  “Maybe I could look it up on t’internet.” Weekend away or not, he was beginning to think there might be something in this line of thought. “But there’s also this…” He kissed her earlobe, then placed his hand under her chin and eased very slightly away from her to a comfortable focal distance. “If weather patterns are changing—and from what you’ve just said, it seems they are—what’s happening further north from here, if the weather patterns we used to have until about ten years ago are moving that way?

  “Unlike you, I was never much cop at geography in school, but I remember Batty Roberts telling us that the UK was in the temperate climate zone. We never had summers like this. The summers we had as kids—when we got so used to ‘rain stopped play’ right through the cricket season. Even that sort of climate change would have a major effect on the ice fields up around the Arctic Circle, and isn’t the world two-thirds water to start with?”

  “It’s nearer three-quarters,” Brenda said. “But yes, point taken.”

  Dave suddenly became aware that during this interchange of thoughts, they’d somehow managed to stand away from the lounger without either of them being fully conscious of any decision to do so. Standing so close, the kiss was inevitable, and it was followed by several more, each lasting longer, more full of commitment than the one before. Pieces of his ’n’ hers swimwear, all slightly damp—though not from being in the hotel pool—landed in a tangled heap on the floor as Dave swept Brenda into his arms and carried her into the cool shadows of the bedroom.

  Chapter Two

  The narrow strip of pure white, sun-bleached sand between the esplanade and the surf line reflected a blinding glare which made sunblock and dark, matte-black lenses in your Ray-Bans not fashion accessories, just basic survival equipment.

  No traffic had been allowed on the tarmac strip which ran parallel with the beach for several years, making this two-mile stretch a quiet zone: a child-friendly, safe area where those who simply wished to lie and soak in the sun could set out their picnics and scatter blankets, allowing young children to play, knowing there was no danger of them being involved in traffic accidents. Further north, beyond Southport’s iconic, several times rebuilt Victorian pier, there was another beach of similar size which had become the most suitable place for more energetic sun-worshippers to indulge in games of beach volleyball, cricket, or a pick-up skins-vs-shirts soccer match. As the coastline curved gently beyond that, the current and tides had turned the extreme northern end of the bay into a venue where the cream of Europe’s best surfers believed they had died and truly gone to heaven.

  “Turned out nice again,” Dave murmured, faking an atrocious parody of what he imagined a Lancashire Woollyback ought to sound like as he massaged another liberal helping of factor-twenty onto Brenda’s shoulders.

  Brenda rolled onto her stomach and eased the straps of her bikini down her arms so Dave could oil her skin without missing a spot.

  “Where does that come from?” she asked, not really caring what the answer was. His cultured tenor voice was one of the first things which had attracted her to him, and she loved listening to him speak, whatever the occasion, regardless of what he happened to be
talking about. She had a pretty good idea there would be a musical reference somewhere in the background. Musical cues and hints were part and parcel of Dave’s everyday speech, and frequently made the difference between winning and losing a close-fought pub trivia quiz, something which he took seriously.

  He didn’t disappoint her.

  “It’s from something my granddad told me, a famous star of the music halls almost a hundred years ago. Bloke who lived not far from here. George Formby, his name was. They even made a film with that song title…can’t remember if I ever heard it sung, though. Don’t think so. There! That should stop you burning up—as long as you don’t fry in all this oil.”

  “Mmm, thanks!” Brenda rolled again, onto her back, and adjusted the parasol.

  Being their only full day away, they’d decided to do nothing more energetic than laze in the quiet zone for an hour or two before it got too hot, then shoot off somewhere for an early pub lunch. As a result, they were almost the only people on that part of the beach who appeared to be on the ‘right side’ of fifty. None of the radios were particularly loud or intrusive, and seemed to be tuned to Radio 4 rather than pumping out brash, aggressive and eminently forgettable Radio 1 grunge.

  Dave stretched and glanced in both directions as he massaged a few drops of surplus sunblock over both wrists. Although they’d left the hotel in time to make the beach before it got too crowded, they’d barely managed to find a speck big enough for their modest stakeout. Between blankets, sunbeds, inflatable mattresses and picnic tables, there was precious little of the fine, pure white sand visible as far as the eye could see.

  “Just as well we weren’t planning to come back after lunch,” he said as he eased himself back down. “This spot won’t stay empty for too long once we leave, and it’s not even eleven o’clock yet. I can’t imagine how these…older people stick it out, lying in the sun all day. I bet half of them look like lobsters by the time they go home, even with max factor!”