Thirst (Thirst Series)

by Guy N Smith

  This morning he should have been in even higher spirits than usual when he took over. His concrete kingdom spread out beneath him; it was a time to revel, to look down and dwell on the satisfaction of it all. But the nagging headache which had plagued him since awaking spoiled it all.

  He licked his dry lips as he took up his position. There was a foul taste in his mouth, and the thought of the breakfast sandwiches in his haversack nauseated him. He could not stop glancing at the thermos flask which stood on the shelf by his side. Two pints of strong hot tea. Enough to last him until the end of his shift at 2 pm.

  He never usually began to drink his tea before 9.30 am. But this morning his routine would have to be broken. His throat was parched. And a combination of thirst and headache was making him feel ill. He wished that he had purchased a packet of aspirin when he had collected his morning newspaper on New Street Station. He had even considered it, looking at a box of foil-wrapped packets on the shelf behind the assistant. He had resisted the temptation. He could not remember the last time he had taken an aspirin. He decided he didn't need one now; the discomfort would pass.

  As he unscrewed the top of the thermos he tried to account for his headache. A rarity, there had to be a reason. His thoughts turned to the previous night. Three halves, his normal quota for the last twenty years. It wasn't that, definitely. He tried to remember what he had eaten. Black pudding for tea. Bread and cheese for supper. Nothing amiss there. He had slept well, too. He always did, from the moment his head touched the pillow at eleven o'clock until he awoke prompt at half-past five.

  Short and stocky, Teddy Williams wore his official peaked cap at all times, to hide his balding head. His ‘Old Bill' moustache was identical to his father's, and his grandfather's. His protruding stomach, he constantly reminded his wife, was hereditary, so there was no point in trying to reduce it. A short-stemmed pipe was clenched between his yellowing teeth from the time he got up in the morning until he went to bed at night. Most of the time it was unlit. He wasn't addicted to tobacco as many were. He simply needed something to suck - revenge for having his dummy taken away from him by his mother when he was four years of age!

  Lord, his head was throbbing. The tea was piping hot, but he gulped it down, and was already refilling the empty plastic cup before he realised what he was doing.

  This would never do. It was the equivalent of having four halves of beer in an evening. A break in tradition - unforgivable.

  Nevertheless he filled the cup and drank the tea greedily and noisily. He sat there for a few seconds, the empty container poised in his hand, a look of bewilderment on his face. His thirst still raged. It was incredible. Already the remainder of the liquid was tempting him.

  A jangling bell interrupted his confused thoughts. Automatically he lifted the receiver of the British Rail telephone at his side.Euston to Birmingham due 7:37. Birmingham to Euston due 7:40.

  Only three minutes separated the time the trains would pass on the viaduct. A slight delay by one, or a saving of time by the other, could mean that they passed each other at Ham's Hall. It sometimes happened that way, about once a week on average. It was immaterial where the trains passed, but to Teddy Williams it was a matter of no small importance. His hands, his skill, moved the points. The safety of several hundreds of passengers was, for a few seconds, his responsibility. He would sit there, see a blur of indistinguishable faces in the hurtling carriages, most of them upturned towards the signal box. A kind of acknowledgement.

  Someone had once taken an aerial photograph of the new line. It had appeared as a double-page spread in the centre pages of theBirmingham Post. Teddy Williams had framed a copy, and it hung in the front room of his small terraced house in Alum Rock Road. Visitors were always welcome there, although lately they were becoming infrequent. Few were interested in the story of the Ham's Hall link. Especially when they had heard it, in detail, several times before.

  He sat there at his post, transfixed, gazing at the scene below him. An artificial world. Ugly to most. Beautiful to himself. Heaven, in a way. And he was one of the chosen few, elected to the highest position of all.

  His head throbbed abominably. His thinking was fogged. He was a king in his own realm. All below him was his. Yet something troubled him - some task which he had to perform, too important to be delegated to his minions. And he had forgotten what it was.

  The nagging doubts bothered him; and the thirst. His tongue protruded beneath his thick bushy moustache, white and swollen. He reached for the flask again, and in his haste his hand knocked against it. It tottered, rolled, and fell to the floor with a crash of breaking glass.

  Feverishly he retrieved it, unscrewed the cap, and began to pour the contents into the plastic cup. Splinters of glass swam in the strong brown tea. The cup was at his lips. Head back, he gulped the contents down.

  Too late he realised that something was wrong. His jaws closed, broken glass lacerating the roof of his mouth. His gums were shredded, his throat blocked. The pain brought him to his feet, doubled up, retching. Vomit and blood gushed from his mouth. A cry of fear and pain escaped his lips, but his reasoning had deserted him.

  He stumbled around the small enclosure. The panel of instruments, which hitherto had been his shrine of worship, now meant nothing to him. Warning lights flashed. They went unheeded. Levers which should have been moved were left untouched.

  He staggered to the windows, seeing but not comprehending: two moving shapes, coming from opposite directions, snake-like. A rushing noise like approaching hurricanes in direct conflict. A single arrogant warning hoot from the northbound train. Not slowing, the driver of each was oblivious to danger, implicitly trusting the man in the box high above.

  One hundred miles per hour without checking … Teddy Williams stared, blood still pouring from his gashed lips, a red haze before his eyes. He recognised the trains. A nagging moment of indecision: there was something he ought to do, but what?

  His throat was blocked. He was choking. But still he attempted to swallow. Liquid of any kind was his most pressing need. Tea or blood, it mattered not.

  Too late the train drivers realised that the points had not been changed. Brakes squealed a futile protest. Sparks flew from the tortured lines. Carriages swayed and bunched.

  Impact.

  Two steel monsters interlocked in a duel to the death, then reared in the air. For a split second the whole scene was one of immobility. Then, slowly, the structure crumbled, carriages still linked together overturning in mid-air, the occupants being hurled together - some already dead, others seriously injured.

  Cascading wreckage swept the lone signal box along with it, merging into one gigantic avalanche which bore down from the raised embankment on to the power station below.

  The nearest cooling tower was struck on its weakest point, the convex of brickwork fifty feet from the summit. It shuddered, vibrated, and then began to collapse in a series of jagged sections, whole areas showering down on to the lower regions of Ham's Hall.

  A second cooling tower was buffeted with even greater force than the first. It snapped off in the middle, falling on to a third.

  A fourth - they disintegrated like a row of Lego brick buildings. The total destruction seemed to gather force as it spread, each collapse more violent than the last: tower after tower; seven in all. The final mountain of rubble sent a cloud of red dust into the sky, obscuring the sunlight.

  Buildings and offices were buried, unmarked graves for hundreds of pulped, unrecognisable bodies. Amidst the echoing rumblings jagged remains of once mighty constructions spilled the last of their bricks almost leisurely. Man's inventive genius was mocked. A few screams, not many, were drowned in the deafening roar.

  There was blackness and choking dust; then the first flames, crackling gently, spreading, leaping. The wreckage burned like some gigantic November the Fifth bonfire, an epitaph to disaster.

  Within minutes the explosions followed - tearing blasts that fanned the flames to even greater int
ensity, hurling missiles of death in every direction.

  The first fire engine was on the scene within seven minutes. The crew watched helplessly from a distance of a quarter of a mile. A bizarre scene. Flames hundreds of feet high, hurled even higher by the explosions in a macabre firework display.

  Deafening sirens came from every direction. But the fleet of firefighters was forced into inactivity: mere spectators. There would be no survivors from the holocaust and there was nothing to be gained by adding to the list of casualties.

  The inferno lasted a day and a night.

  Rodney Matthews was an apprentice electrician at Ham's Hall. He had already decided that his future career did not lie in this sphere, and had handed his notice in. Deep in thought, he was making his way across towards the canteen when he heard the tearing of metal and the deafening protests of the two trains as they rose into the sky several hundred feet above him.

  He stared in disbelief, transfixed, unable to move. He saw the full horror of it all, the signal box disintegrating, the trains hurtling and smashing into the nearest cooling tower. Towers fells like skittles. Too late he was aware of the one, only fifty feet from where he stood, toppling towards him.

  Rodney Matthews should have died there and then. His frail body should have been pulped to an unrecognisable morass beneath the tons of bricks - but it wasn't.

  A section of brickwork fell in its entirety, not even smashing when it hit the ground. It swayed, toppled forward, and came to rest against the rear wall of the main office block. Hundreds of tons of rubble followed it, piled up, but did not break up the structure.

  Rodney was thrown to the ground. He lay there, arms covering his head, and after some minutes he came to the miraculous conclusion that he was unhurt. Total darkness was everywhere; choking dust. He coughed.

  He rose shakily to his feet, groping with outstretched arms. Bricks everywhere made him stumble. Having completed a circular tour of inspection he came to the conclusion that he was trapped in a ten foot square of debris, a space that had no right to exist; due to some freak of gravity he had been spared for the moment.

  All around him he heard the deafening collapse of Ham's Hall; an avalanche. But he was cut off from it, safe in his cocoon or was ittrapped?

  First came panic; then despair when his tearing fingers failed to find a way out. Explosions shook the ground but it did not dislodge any part of his tiny prison.

  The air was foul, but at least it kept him alive. He wondered how long he could survive. Surely somebody would come to his rescue before long. He cowered there, feeling the thunderous vibrations beneath him. Then he heard a crackling sound which at first he could not identify. It was some minutes before he placed the noise: flames. Incessant - building up into an inferno, completing the destruction.

  It was half an hour before he began to feel the heat. At first it was a gentle warmth but, after some time, when he touched one of the bricks, he drew his hand away with a gasp of pain. But no choking smoke, because his enclosure must have been air tight; the smoke could not find a way through. And that meant that his supply of air was restricted. When he had used up the oxygen trapped in with him he would die.

  Rodney Matthews was very frightened, waiting there in the stifling darkness. The heat was increasing by the minute, like an oven which had been turned on in preparation for the cooking of a joint of meat. That was exactly what this place was: an oven. And he was the meat!

  He began to sob in choking gasps that made it even more difficult to breathe. He knew only too well that there was no escape for him. Possibly he was the only one still alive amidst this holocaust. God, how he wished that he had died with the rest of them.

  His hands were over his ears in an attempt to shut out the infernal din of falling masonry and crackling flames. Memories came back to him of a story which his mother had read to him in his infancy:Hansel and Gretel. The old witch used to roast children alive; just like Rodney was being roasted now. He hadn't thought it possible - but it was.

  He began to undress, tearing the garments from his body, but it did not ease his suffering. His flesh was searing, withering. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his tongue was swollen and hard.

  The temperature soared steadily. He fell to the ground exhausted, but unconsciousness was denied him.

  It was lighter now, with a strange glow: the bricks were red hot. He couldn't breathe. His head was bursting. In his ears he seemed to hear sadistic laughter, mocking him. He tore at the ground in his agony. Even the soil was warm.

  He was screaming, but no sound came from his parched lips. Suffocation came slowly. Then his flesh was cooking - done to a turn.

  Another rise in temperature and his charred body began to smoke.

  The fire brigades watched from a distance. Waves of heat made a complete barrier around to the burning area of Ham's Hall. Nobody could get within five hundred yards of the nearest blaze. The explosions were less frequent now, just an occasional bang and a shower of sparks into the night sky.

  A pall of smoke drifted over Birmingham, the sky illuminated by the flames. Yet the city was made all the more eerie by the absence of street lighting. Just the flickering light from the flames: nothing else. Black shadows. Windows were lit by candles and hurricane lamps. The heart which had kept the city alive pumped no more. The power supply was destroyed - totally.

  Ham's Hall was a flat acreage of smouldering debris. Not a single tower remained.

  Fire Chief Parkinson stared fixedly ahead of him, the hot wind fanning his rugged features. His uniform was unbuttoned and his tie was crumpled up in his pocket.

  He had not been feeling well throughout the day, but it was only to be expected. Never in his career had he expected to witness anything like this. He had a few scanty memories of the war years: the bombing, blazing buildings, hoses being played on them. But there was no comparison. Even the Luftwaffe could not have wrought such complete havoc.

  He licked his lips. He had not had a drink for several hours. Nobody had. But the thirst was becoming an obsession. His head ached and his eyes burned. He leaned against the side of his car for support. Jesus, it was enough to make you feel really sick. Hundreds of poor sods had perished in there. For most of them it had been a swift death, crushed by the falling towers. Maybe a few of the maimed had been burnt alive. That always happened with a big fire. You did your best, but you couldn't get everybody out.

  Another couple of hours and they would be able to play the hoses on the embers. It would take days to extinguish the blaze completely. Months to clear the rubble. As for rebuilding . . .

  Parkinson wondered about the power supply. Such a disaster had never been envisaged. This was one of the drawbacks of amalgamation. You put everything under one roof. Fine - until something like this happened.

  ‘The place is going crazy, chief,’ said a fireman who sauntered up to him. ‘There are reports of more train crashes. Every line out of Birmingham is blocked. New Street and Moor Street are closed. What the hell's going on?’

  Parkinson did not reply. His brain seemed numbed. Incapable of coping with this or any other situation. He felt ill and feverish.

  His narrowed eyes reflected the glow from the fires. Why was everybody hanging back, just watching the place burn down? It was their duty, as firefighters, to go in there, heedless of the risk to personal life, and put the blaze out.His duty.His responsibility.

  He started to walk forward, conscious of everybody watching him. An example had to be set. It was up to him.

  ‘Hey, chief. Don't go any closer yet.’

  The plea was ignored. He increased his stride. A robot in full swing. The ground was hot beneath his heavy fireproof boots. Sparks flew up as he walked. One burnt his hand, but he ignored the pain.

  More shouts. But nobody followed. As hot as hell itself all around him; the pungent smell of burning cloth assailed his nostrils. He knew full well that his trousers were smouldering. His boots stamped on glowing embers. Come on, you cowardly bastards,
follow me and stamp it out. He winced with the pain: his lungs were burning. But it was not the fire - something else. His head throbbed.

  A hundred firemen watched. They saw their chief on the edge of the inferno, climbing a long slope of smouldering debris, a silhouette against a fiery background. His clothes were blazing but still he pressed on, stumbling but not falling.

  He reached the summit and turned to face the watchers, arms raised, a horrific blazing effigy at a bizarre bonfire party. Guy Fawkes making his last bow. Then the funeral pyre collapsed in a cloud of sparks and Fire Chief Parkinson was lost for ever.

  ‘Bloody nutcase,’ a fireman muttered. ‘That's what this job can do to you if you don't take a grip on yourself.’

  ‘OK, the rest of you. Let's get the hoses on this lot.’ Deputy Fire Chief Warrington yelled to make himself heard. He was in charge now. There was no point in hanging about. They had all seen what could happen to a guy when the strain told on him. Others might follow suit: dozens of firemen walking to a living cremation. They needed something to take their minds off it.

  Fire engines moved forward. Hoses were unrolled, connected to hydrants. Every man knew his job, the part he had to play. This was efficiency, Warrington told himself. The blaze would be put out in a matter of time, and when everywhere was sodden black ashes he would officially be appointed Fire Chief in Parkinson's place. One could not afford to be sympathetic. You climbed the ladder of success by stepping in dead men's shoes, even if they had literally been burned off the feet of one's immediate predecessor.

  The hoses were played out to within feet of the smouldering boundary of Ham's Hall. Helmeted men worked diligently, relieved that the time of waiting was over. It was always the worst part, watching any building being consumed by fire, unable to check the flames until the initial blaze had died down.

  The atmosphere was hot and stifling. Oxygen masks were necessary for those in the front line of battle. The orange sky was peppered with the flashing blue lights of the emergency vehicles.