“It won’t do us much good when the power goes off,” Jo told him. “Anything we’re going to boil has to be done right now.”
Tamsin’s eyes were wide. “You think there could be a power outage? In New York?”
“It could happen. I guess there was one in Eleuthera, huh?” “Oh, yes. That was scary too.”
“It’s going to be pretty boring, sitting in the dark all evening,” Owen Michael declared. “I know, I’ll get my flashlight.”
“That’s a great idea. Do you have spare batteries?”
“Of course I have spare batteries, Mom. How long do you reckon we’ll be without power?”
“It’s a big storm and moving slowly. Could be the best part of 48 hours.”
“48 hours! Heck!” Owen Michael commented.
“I’m hungry. I’m sure it’s breakfast time,” Tamsin complained.
“Of course it is,” Jo agreed, realizing that she was pretty hungry herself. “Let’s make a really good, big, solid meal,” she suggested. “We can eat what’s left over later, even if it’s cold. I’m going to put some meat in the microwave to thaw and see if we’ve got any fresh vegetables.”
While the meal was cooking, they hauled two single mattresses into their refuge, together with pillows and blankets; there wasn’t actually room for them, and Tamsin suggested putting one in the bathtub and sleeping in there herself, while Owen Michael and Jo shared the other. Jo found some fancy candles she used for dinner parties, and soon had the immaculate bathroom looking like the inside of a camping tent. By now, the howling of the wind, the roar of the thunder, the shuddering of the building in the gusts, seemed almost normal.
When they had eaten and cleared up, Owen Michael disappeared. Jo suddenly remembered the bag she had left in Washington’s office. She thought she would take both Owen Michael and Tamsin down with her to collect it — she did not want to be separated from them for a moment — but when she went looking for the boy she found him standing on a chair carefully placing his beloved model aircraft in the storage cupboard over his closet. Poor kid. He obviously was far more aware of the possible extent of storm damage than she realized. But only she had the almost terrifying feeling of claustrophobia of knowing that they were, so far as she was aware, alone in this huge building.
As the lights had flickered once or twice during their breakfast she decided against using the elevators to get down to the lobby; the thought of their being trapped in one of the cars throughout the storm by a power outage was traumatic. Instead they used the stairs, hurrying down all thirty-eight floors. On the thirty-third she was sure she heard music, but the sound of the wind whistling outside was so great the noise was surrealistic, and she certainly had no intention of going to investigate; they arrived in the foyer panting as much with apprehension as exertion.
Washington’s office was locked, the light off. Jo and the children could look through the glass door and see the suitcase, but there was no way they could get at it short of breaking the lock. And presumably it was safe in there anyway — at least as safe as in the apartment. Besides, Jo was suddenly anxious to regain the safety of her own home, nor did she think she could face the climb back. She stood in front of the silent elevators, chewing her lip for several seconds, while Tamsin held her hand, before pressing the ascent button, feeling her heart give a pit-a-pat of relief as the light glowed normally. Then she glanced round to see Owen Michael standing in front of the street door. “Hey, Mom,” he called. “Come look at this.”
She left Tamsin at the elevator, hurried to his side, to gaze through the glass at the street, just as jammed with vehicles as before, but now deserted by humans, save for the single lane which had been cleared and along which cars were proceeding in a steady stream, and for the policemen and National Guardsmen huddling in groups on corners and intersections, only dashing forward whenever there was a hold up or a driver seemed uncertain which way to go.
“Ain’t that something?” Owen Michael asked. “All those automobiles… what happened to all the people?”
“I guess they must live above the flood level, and the police have sent them home,” she said. “Like us,” wondering why the three of them had to be numbered amongst the unlucky ones who hadn’t got out before the martial law went into effect. “New York,” she said. “A ghost city. Now…” Before she could finish, a tremendous gust of wind forced open even the electrically controlled and now locked doors. “Owen!” she screamed, as she was blown back, staggering and then falling, rolling across the tiled floor. So was the boy, fortunately, because the doors had been hurled back so hard on their hinges that they had shattered against the walls — glass splinters showered the foyer, carried on the wind, but miraculously neither of them were hit by flying glass, though the soles of their shoes crushed the shards into the floor and a few small pieces had pierced their hands and knees when they fell.
Neither was Tamsin hurt, sheltered behind the square block of the elevator shaft, but she was screaming her terror.
Jo grabbed Owen Michael, bundled both children into the now waiting car, and pressed the ascent button, praying it would work. It did, and a few minutes later they reached the thirty-eighth floor, breathless and frightened, listening, and indeed feeling, the wind whistling up the stairwell, but in comparative safety, at least for the moment.
They jostled into the apartment and closed the door, looking at each other, still too breathless to speak. Jo found the First Aid box and dabbed antiseptic on their cuts, then she poured herself a drink and gave each of the children a soda. Every so often the apartment door rattled, but she didn’t dare think what the wind might eventually do. Surely, if all the apartment doors, and more important, the door on to the roof, were firmly closed… as the minutes passed her heart settled down, and she decided it was going to be all right.
Now it was just a matter of waiting, and of restoring normalcy, as far as that could be done in the frighteningly abnormal conditions. Jo suddenly remembered that in another hour or so she was due at Pinewoods for breakfast. She picked up the phone to call them and tell them she wasn’t going to make it, but it seemed all the lines even in the New York telephone exchange were busy and she could get no replies at all, although she tried Marcia’s number as well — but Marcia would surely be safely in Connecticut by now. Then she tried Complaints but they were engaged too, so she gave it up for a while, and instead busied herself with removing pictures, ornaments, everything in fact for which she could find safe storage. Plants and photo albums joined them in the bathroom, along with a precious antique tea service which had belonged to her grandmother.
“Have we got a can opener in there?” Owen Michael asked.
“Yes,” she called loudly, to be heard above the storm. But she didn’t know where it was — or care, for the moment. She was staring at a ghost: the fearful apparition of a woman, hair matted into disheveled points, shoulders drooping under damp crumpled clothes, while from deep, dark shadows, the terrified eyes gaped back at her through the bathroom mirror.
My God! Is that really me? Already? And Faith hasn’t even got here, yet. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. What confidence could the children have, seeing her like that? She opened a drawer and pulled out a hairbrush, rushed into the dressing room for a fresh blouse, moistened a tissue in soda water and rubbed it over her face and hands. Forcing a wide smile she said, “Let’s see what’s on TV.”
They sat in silence, half watching some filler program being relayed between announcements, being promised a full weather update as soon as possible — Jo praying for a glimpse of Richard’s face — while the picture was constantly broken up by flashes of lightning, and the building shaken by gusts of wind.
But for the children, she would actually have wanted to be here in the city, close to Richard, sharing, even at a distance, the danger with him. And suddenly she was reminded of the people she had interviewed after he started his ‘hurricane chat’ spots. There was that funny old girl, Lila so
mething, from Florida. She knew all about hurricanes — they didn’t frighten her, she’d said. Not even this one? She was probably huddled in her sister’s bathroom, eating her words. And what about that cab driver who never stopped swearing? Muldoon? And Nancy, of course, her hairdresser? She’d have fled at the first suggestion of a storm. Washington had left early, too; she hoped he’d got all his family to safety by now.
She shuddered; Alloan. The memory of that visitation made her skin crawl. Presumably the police would have got him out of the city, along with all prisoners on remand. Ironic, in a way, that the scum of society should be saved, while possibly hundreds of decent folk could die.
And meanwhile she could do nothing but wait, trying not to wonder what was happening downstairs. Or outside in the city.
SATURDAY 29 JULY: Mid-Morning
City Hall, Broadway And Park Row — 7.00 am
“Here come the choppers,” Mitch said.
“About time,” Naseby grunted. “Everything ready to go?”
“Just about.”
“Well, get them moving.”
Mitch nodded and hurried from the Mayor’s office. Naseby rested his head on his hands for a moment, raised it again as the phone buzzed. “Naseby.”
“I have Mr Hatton from Hunt National, Mr Mayor,” the girl said.
“On a Saturday?”
“Well, it seems he has some problems.”
“Haven’t we all. Put him on. Good morning, Mr Hatton. Can I help you?”
“Mr Mayor, we are facing a serious situation.”
“I know that, Mr Hatton. We are doing the best we can.”
“I’m talking about here on Wall Street. Mr Mayor, we are trying to transfer funds… I’m not just speaking of Hunt. I am speaking for all the banks…”
“You’re transferring funds on a Saturday?”
“Our customers are uneasy about the situation should this hurricane strike New York.”
“I don’t think ‘should’ is any longer the operative word, Mr Hatton.” Naseby gazed through his window into City Hall Park and watched the first helicopter lift off, the wind was now very nearly up to hurricane force, and the big chopper swayed uneasily — it had obviously been packed to the door with files and computer disks… all the million and one records that are required to operate a city. But then the rotors began to win, and the machine rose out of the park, immediately to be replaced by another.
“Quite,” Hatton was saying. “That is the point. The wire services, the telephone systems, just don’t seem able to cope. Everybody and his brother must be using the phone at the same time.”
“I can believe that, Mr Hatton. Just like you and me.”
“Well, really, something has got to be done about it. And now we are told that Wall Street is liable to be flooded.”
“The word is certain,” Naseby said, with gloomy satisfaction.
“That is quite intolerable. Perhaps you do not realize this, Mr Mayor, but it is possible that water may penetrate our vaults.”
“I do understand, Mr Hatton.”
“Well, then, you will understand that as it is quite impossible to transfer all our accounts in time, even if we had sufficient air space, we simply must move out our computer systems.”
“That’s a good idea. If you can.”
“We must be assisted to do so, Mr Mayor. A road must be cleared for us…”
“Forget it, Mr Hatton. Roads are for people. Use helicopters. That’s what we’re doing. Charter every chopper you can… Holy Christ!”
The third helicopter had been put down and loaded, and was now lifting off. But at that moment there was a stronger than average gust of wind; the entire City Hall shook, and the helicopter was whipped sideways before it was properly airborne. The pilot obviously gave it everything he had, and it rose sharply, but still being pushed sideways too fast; its belly brushed a tree and then another, and it turned over, plummeting to the ground to burst into flames with a sickening explosion.
“Did you see that?” Mitch shouted, running into the office.
“I saw it,” Naseby said. “That’s it, Mitch. Send the rest of those guys home. We’re just risking brave men.”
“But…”
“We’ll have to think of something else.”
Mitch hesitated, then left the office.
“Mr Mayor? Mr Mayor?” Hatton asked. “What’s happening? What was that noise? Do you know there’s a fire very close to City Hall?”
“I know, Mr Hatton,” Naseby said. “It means helicopters are out. The wind is just too strong.”
“But what are we to do?” His voice had become a wail.
“Organise yourselves a truck convoy. We will do the same, and we’ll leave together, under police escort. But Mr Hatton, no truck leaves until I am satisfied the roads are sufficiently clear of people. They still have priority.”
East Houston Street — 7.30 am
The door phone buzzed on the wall of the tiny kitchen, barely audible above the blare of the pop music coming out of the cassette recorder. “I’ll get it,” Lila Vail called to her sister, lifting the handset.
“Who is it?” Tootsie called.
“Some guy called Evans. Says he’s a friend of yours,” Lila shouted through the bathroom door.
“Oh, Dai!” Tootsie gave a girlish giggle; she had been widowed several years longer than Lila, and was not without her admirers. “Yeah, tell him to come up.”
The sisters were still in curling pins and dressing gowns when the visitor hurried in. “Say, you girls packed and ready to leave?”
“Leave? What, you planning to take us on vacation?” Tootsie dug him in the ribs with her elbow, adding, “Your old lady gone off to see your mother again?”
The arch reply she anticipated never came. Dai Evans was not his normal self, today; the short, chunky body was unusually tense, his unshaven face grey and serious, lapsing into obvious alarm when he realized they didn’t know what he was talking about. Frowning, he switched off the tape so he could make himself heard without shouting. “Don’t you realize the Mayor has ordered an evacuation of the city?”
“He’s what?” Lila swung round, kettle in hand. “Is it a nuclear attack?”
“When did you girls last have the TV or radio on? It’s this hurricane, Faith. They say it’s the biggest storm in history, and it’s headed straight for us. Could be here this afternoon. Can’t you hear that wind?”
With the cassette off, the howling of the wind was very loud.
“Oh, shit.” Lila poured water on to her tea bag. “You sure had me worried there for a moment. I thought maybe it was something serious. It’s been blowing like that all night. Call that wind? You want to be in Florida when it’s really gusting.”
“It hasn’t got here yet.” Dai grabbed Tootsie’s arm. “This is serious, honey. They’re saying that half of Manhattan will be flooded — and we’re in the wrong half. ”
“Jees, I guess I’d better get dressed. How do we get out?” Tootsie turned pale under her recently applied pancake make-up.
Lila threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, come on, you goddamned fool rabbits. You really should take a spell living down in Florida. We get this crap on the news stations every summer, and the hurricanes to match. Newcomers would fall all about with heart attacks, frightened to death by these panic stirrers. I bet it’s that damned fool, what’s his name, the good-looking boy… Connors, that’s right, Richard Connors. I bet he started all this.”
Dai looked at her, doubtfully. “Yeah, I guess he did. But it seems he’s right this time. The Mayor says so.”
“The Mayor says so,” she mimicked. “Come on, Dai. Can’t you see he’s been got at?” She carried her teacup to the table and sat down, crossing her legs and lighting a cigarette. “Well, I’ll tell you this; you won’t catch me sitting for hours in a traffic pile-up, trying to run away from some non-existent flood waters twelve floors down. So what if the basement floods? That’s the landlord’s problem. I’m staying r
ight where I am.”
Tootsie looked from one to the other. If Lila hadn’t been staying with her, she would have been out of the apartment by now, running like hell. Dai’s news scared her to death, but… well, Lila had lived with hurricanes for years, and she undoubtedly knew more about them than the Mayor… or, probably, Richard Connors. Anyway, she wanted to finish turning up the hem of her dress, and she’d promised to make a big batch of almond cookies for the Senior Citizens’ Party tomorrow. “Don’t worry about us, Dai,” she said. “You get your old lady out of town if she’s scared, but…” She smiled confidently at her sister. “I guess we’re staying. Like a cup of tea before you go?”
Dai wanted to argue, tell them that their lives were in danger, but he could see it would be useless. Some people would always believe only what they wanted to believe. Anyway, the wife was waiting with her bags packed, and he’d told her he was just getting the old Dodge — she didn’t know about the spare time he spent with Tootsie, and he had been going to pretend he had met the sisters preparing to leave and had offered them a ride. He sighed. “Okay girls, if that’s the way you want it. I can only tell you… best of luck.”
When he’d gone, Tootsie turned on the tape again, sat opposite her sister, and lit a cigarette. While the music had been off, the sound of the wind whistling outside of the apartment, the constant growl of the thunder had been very loud and quite frightening. She wanted to shut it out. She also wished she could shut out the nasty niggling feeling of unease at the back of her mind, which seemed to be affecting her chest, giving it an unpleasantly tight feeling. The music would help her to relax and get rid of it, but if she couldn’t, she could always take one of her pills.
East Twentieth Street — 7.50 am
“Come on, you guys, I need help with the dishes,” Nancy called from the kitchen. As expected, there was no reply — they were all playing deaf as usual, and they knew she expected assistance with breakfast, even on Saturdays — the hairdressing salon opened, of course, six days a week. She went to the door and shouted, “I know you can hear me, you lazy bums. I’m going to be late for work again, and I’ve got an early customer who’s always difficult.” Christ, she thought; the kids you could understand, but you’d think Bill…
Her Name Will Be Faith Page 33
