by Guy N Smith
Boom! An explosion somewhere in the depths of what remained of Ham's Hall sent a kaleidoscope of fiery patterns into the sky, showing a sea of white faces in the distance on the road behind the fire fighters. The crowds had been gathering throughout the day - spectacle seekers. Amongst them were the ghoulish types who visited every such disaster, prepared to wait until the massive funeral pyre had cooled. Then they would move in, searching for bodies, looting valuables.
Warrington gave the signal: an upraised hand. It was not necessary, but it increased his newly found ego. A general ordering his troops to open fire on the enemy.
Simultaneously, jets of water arced into the air, glistening, seeming to hang suspended like a school of surfacing sea monsters before descending on to the glowing embers which hissed and crackled.
Billows of steam and smoke rose in an obscuring cloud. The watching silent crowd tensed, almost disappointed that the spectacle of the decade was about to be extinguished.
Thousands of gallons of water were played on the remnants of the fire. Those operating the hoses experienced a sense of superiority. But it was short lived.
The glowing fire nearest the hoses dulled and spluttered. Then, without warning, a gigantic sheet of blue-tinged flame shot skywards.
Whoosh!
The firemen fell back in horror. The whole area was ablaze again with multi-coloured tongues of fire that greedily seemed to devour the very ashes that lay smouldering.
Warrington stared with disbelief. There was blazing everywhere as though paraffin was being sprayed on to the smouldering remnants.
‘What the fucking hell's happening?’ a fireman shouted, an expression of horror on his face.
‘I … don't know,’ Warrington muttered. ‘Jesus Christ, I just don't know.’
The flames were gathering fast, spreading, leaping.
‘Turn off those hoses,’ ordered the Deputy Fire Chief. He didn't know why, but for some inexplicable reason it appeared that the water itself was combustible. ‘Stop that bloody water!’
The jets fell away, and within minutes the flames had died almost to nothing.
Warrington shook his head slowly, and walked back to his radio. Surely somebody, somewhere, knew what the hell was going on.
Chapter 6
The meeting in the city centre offices of the water authority had been going on for most of the night. The same men as before, but a totally different atmosphere. Each realised that the very worst had happened. The weedkiller was already in Birmingham, and its effects were far more terrible than any of them had envisaged.
The telephone on the desk rang. The water chief picked up the receiver, answered abruptly, and passed it to the Chief Constable.
‘For you,’ he said. ‘The fire brigade.’
‘Croxley speaking.’ The Chief Constable's expression became grim as he listened. ‘I see. Just a minute. I'll check with the Weedspray chaps.’
He turned, tight lipped, towards Blythe and Broadhurst.
‘This Ham's Hall fire,’ Croxley said. ‘The fire brigade have got the hoses on it … but it seems that the water is inflammable.’
Broadhurst muttered. ‘Oh, Christ!’
‘Hell,’ said Ron Blythe, and bit hard on his pipe. ‘Another setback. Weedspray is the most inflammable of all weedkillers. I guess it's even stronger than we thought, although we never got the chance to test it in such bulk as this.’
‘It's the weedkiller content in the water,’ Croxley said into the telephone again. ‘Yeah. Nothing we can do about it. Unless water can be brought in from elsewhere the fire will just have to be left to burn itself out. Just keep a close watch on it to make sure that it doesn't spread.’
With a sigh he replaced the receiver and turned to face the others.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we are faced with an unprecedented situation. Fires we cannot put out. We might just as well, it seems, pour petrol on them as use this contaminated water. On top of that, we have the whole city without electricity. No street lighting at night, and already bands of looters and muggers are taking advantage of the situation. A series of inexplicable train crashes has meant that every line in and out of Birmingham is blocked. We can only conclude that those in charge of responsible posts - signalmen, drivers etc. - have succumbed to the poison. Panic is already widespread and doubtless it is the intention of every citizen to flee the area … if they can get out in time. Apparently there is already chaos on the roads, although I have not had time to investigate this yet. I understand that at this very moment the Prime Minister has called another emergency cabinet meeting and we are awaiting a decision.’
Silence. A dozen men looked at each other, and none of them had any constructive comment to make. In the adjoining room there was a buzz of low conversation. The mayor and some of the leading councillors were in conference. They, also, were seeking a solution, stunned by the fresh reports of horrors which came in hourly.
Outside, the wail of sirens was continuous as ambulances and police cars attempted to negotiate the packed streets.
‘It seems that the whole of Birmingham will have to be evacuated,’ Ken Broadhurst said after a while.
‘Impossible,’ Croxley snapped irritably. ‘And supposing it was possible it would not solve the problem. It would be playing into the hands of looters and criminals. A state of anarchy would be brought about.’
‘It would save lives.’
‘In theory, yes. In practice, no. We have already had proof of the madness which this weedkiller brings about. Possibly thousands are already in the early stages, without realising it. It would be akin to transporting homicidal maniacs to other towns and cities. Innocent people, people not in the slightest involved in this business, would be subjected to unspeakable terrors. And even now we do not know the full consequences of it all.’
‘If you'll excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen.’ Blythe stood up. ‘I must telephone the hospital. My sister-in-law is a victim of the poison, and I don't know whether or not she is still alive.’
He was glad to leave the room and its oppressive atmosphere. He walked down the stairs to the foyer where there was a pay phone. He could have used the one upstairs, but this was something for which he needed privacy. If Cathy was dead, as surely she must be by this time, then he needed a few moments to grieve by himself.
He dialled the hospital and was greeted by the engaged tone. They would be busy. Very busy. He put the receiver back on its hook, and another thought occurred to him. He tried to get through to Margaret. The phone rang. He let it ring for a couple of minutes. There was nobody at home. Obviously she was still with her mother. He thought of trying to reach her there, but discarded the idea.
He tried the hospital once more, but it was still engaged. Slowly he retraced his steps back upstairs. Depression was closing in on him. A kind of trapped feeling. Trapped in a city of death from which there was no escape.
He re-entered the room. Croxley was talking on the telephone again. Everybody else looked grim, listening, fidgeting.
‘Yes, yes, of course, Prime Minister,’ the Chief Constable's voice was low, scarcely audible. ‘I will instruct my men at once … Yes, I'll report back shortly.’
The receiver was replaced. Croxley looked round, licking his lips.
‘Things worsen by the hour,’ he said. ‘At this very moment multiple crashes are blocking almost every road out of the city. People are trying to leave on foot, by any means they can. The Cabinet have decided upon a state of emergency within the precincts of Birmingham. At the moment there is no hope of solving the problem. Only of trying to contain it within itself. Troops are on their way to the city boundaries. Anybody attempting to leave will be turned back. If necessary, rampaging mobs will be fired upon.’
Oh, God, Blythe thought, they're prepared to sacrifice the population of Birmingham to save the rest of the country if necessary. A limb to be amputated to stop the spread of gangrene. His thoughts returned to Cathy - Simon - himself - all of them in this v
ery room. The government's decision was impartial, like a World War I general prepared to lose a platoon to save a regiment.
He sat down and began to fill his pipe. And for the first time he felt utterly helpless.
The queues had been building up at Elmdon Airport since early morning. People with cases of hastily packed luggage stood or sat with despondent expressions on their faces. Babies slept in the arms of their mothers, and older children clung to their parents.
The public address system crackled into life:
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We regret that all flights to London and Manchester are fully booked for the next forty-eight hours. Flights to France, Spain and most other continental countries are being seriously disrupted due to industrial action by overseas air traffic controllers. Please be patient. We are hopeful that the situation will resolve itself shortly.’
Groans greeted the announcement. Which situation was expected to resolve itself? The air traffic controllers' dispute or the Birmingham water contamination? Most people were prepared to go just anywhere. With a few personal belongings and all their available cash in their pockets they wanted to get as far away from Birmingham as possible. There had been a run on the banks and building societies in the city. The majority of them had now closed their doors. Cash was running out.
The queues at the airport swelled. Everybody had a look of desperation about them. There were a few scuffles and police moved in to keep order. Chanted insults came from the hooligan element.
By midday troops were standing by. There was always the possibility of a full-scale mass riot, a rush to take over the waiting aircraft. Maybe an attempted hijack.
More announcements:Ladies and gentlemen, the next flight in is the 12.03 from Paris.
Very few passengers were alighting from incoming aircraft. Nobody wanted to come to Birmingham. Already news of the disaster had reached the continent and foreign businessmen were hastily cancelling appointments. The pound was falling, but the city of Birmingham had already fallen.
The jumbo jet from Paris was on its way in to make a landing. The go-ahead had already been received from the: air traffic controller. The pilot did not query the all-clear. The men who controlled the runways were trusted implicitly. To doubt them would be to doubt hundreds of others, and pilots would then start becoming their own mechanics and refuellers.
The waiting crowds saw the danger first. On Runway 3 a Heathrow-bound airliner was already beginning to taxi, preparatory to take-off. The jumbo jet was gliding in towards it.
Too late the French pilot attempted to take evasive action. He tried to pull his machine out of its dive, hoping to clear the one on the ground: a brilliant piece of flying that nearly came off. Almost.
With a tearing crash the undercarriage of the jumbo caught the other plane. The two became entangled, rearing up and rolling over like some ridiculous comedy act in a circus ring. Metal was shredded into ribbons. The tangled wreck rolled on a disastrous course, finally coming to a standstill as it became caught up with a third stationary aircraft.
There was a moment's pause; a few brief seconds of silence during which even the terrified watchers did not scream. Then everything exploded in a sheet of blinding flame.
Everywhere there was burning debris. A severed head landed with a sickening thud on the tarmac, fifty yards from the inferno, sightless eyes staring skywards, the mouth open in a scream which had begun in life and ended in death. Bloody limbs and bodies were strewn all around. And for those still inside the aeroplanes, cremation was instant.
People were screaming hysterically. Police and troops watched helplessly. There was nothing anybody could do - not even the lone fire engine and waiting ambulance. Purely as a token gesture the firemen rolled out a hose and connected it to the hydrant. It was going to take more than one machine to put this lot out, but unless they made some sort of effort they were likely to be criticised in the press.
The single gush of water came hissing and spluttering. And then a mighty roar as the flames bunched and expanded, the sudden excessive heat driving the firemen back, forcing them to abandon their engine, running and stumbling towards the watching crowds.
People became compulsive spectators. The scene hypnotised with its dancing blue and green flames. Air traffic controllers watched in dismay and horror. Except one: the one in charge of Runway 3. He lay inert on the floor behind his desk, a swollen purple tongue bulging out of his mouth, his fingernails deeply embedded in the palms of his ulcerated hands, scratching in an attempt to obtain relief even as death had finally granted him release from his suffering.
The exit from Birmingham by road had begun in the early hours of the morning, prior to the Ham's Hall disaster. At first it had been orderly, a build-up of cars that had escaped from the death zone, filtered off the Aston Clearway on to Spaghetti Junction, and from there the drivers had a choice of going either north, east, or west. Few left the city by the south, for already rumour had it that what was Birmingham's fate today would be London's tomorrow. Steer clear of conurbations, people told each other; head for remote places where there are local water supplies, pure and crystal clear.
The steady flow of vehicles - cars with laden roof racks, vans, trailers, caravans - intermingled with it the legitimate traffic, lorries embarking upon long-distance trips, many of the drivers determined not to return until the mounting problems had been sorted out - if ever.
Drivers became impatient and some of the travellers felt unwell. With many it was an imaginary illness, their wildest fears taking control over logical reasoning. Others already had the beginnings of the unquenchable thirst. Fear was, widespread.
Yet, strangely, the initial cause of the carnage on the Aston Clearway was totally unrelated to the contamination of the water supply by Weedspray, and its seeds had been sown long before that tanker had veered off the narrow winding; road in Wales and hurtled into the depths of the Claerwent Reservoir …
The one flame of hope in Benny Wilkes' life had flickered briefly, and then gone out. A ray of light in a world of gloom, and now the blackness of despair surged softly back again.
This morning was the same as all the other mornings which had gone before. The fact that it was Monday made it slightly worse, but Benny had felt like an astronaut marooned in space, floating in eternity; death the only means of release. And even that might never come.
He walked to the bus stop as usual. Tall and stooping, he had the bearing of someone twenty years older than himself and few would have believed that he was only thirty-seven. His fair hair was thinning, and the lines on his face had deepened with the permanent depression that was his. He rarely smiled. Indeed, there was nothing to smile about. His dark pinstriped suit gave him the appearance of an undertaker, or at the very best a humble lawyer's clerk.
Nobody in the bus queue spoke to him. They had given that up a long time ago. Some of them had travelled on that same bus for a decade or more, and they realised the futility of attempting to engage in conversation with this grim silent man with the cigarette planted firmly in the centre of his lips, lengths of ash cascading down the front of his waistcoat at frequent intervals.
Benny still had the letter clutched in his thin white hands. The envelope bore signs of having been ripped open by hasty trembling fingers, and he held on to it with the determination of a drowning man who refuses to accept that the piece of floating driftwood, which might have proved his saviour, is incapable of supporting his weight.
Inside the crowded bus he steeled himself to read the typewritten words again, fascinated by them in the same way that one sentenced to death might regard a copy of the execution order - disbelieving, searching for a phrase which would present some loophole of escape.
There was none. It was terse and to the point. The blow was not even softened by ‘Dear Mr Wilkes'. The letter ran: ‘Dear Sir, We regret to inform you that your application for the post of company representative has been unsuccessful, and the vacancy has now been filled.’ That was i
t. Nothing more.
He replaced the letter in the envelope. Still he held on to it. Perhaps it was sweet to him in the fact that it reminded him of that whichmight have been, the shipwrecked sailor watching the passing ship disappear, unable to withdraw his gaze while it still represented a link between himself and freedom. Even after there was no hope.
That interview had been a waste of time. The lies about being absent from work through sickness had all been in vain. Everything had been futile, and now Benny Wilkes was back where he had started. This time it was worse, though, for complete and utter despair had set in.
Banking! That was the cause of this cancer which was slowly eating away his soul, reducing him to a robot which was at the beck and call of everybody: his employers, the public … his father. God, how he hated his father!He was to blame even more than this artificial existence. Benny's knuckles showed white, and his fingernails dug deeply into the palms of his hands; his lips formed a tight bloodless line, his eyes blazing with the fire of hate that burned deep inside him.
His mind went back to the beginning, twenty-five years before when it had all started, when he was struggling to survive in a public school where everything was against him. Sheer guts had pulled him through, suffering the bullying of senior boys and the scathing sarcasm of self-opinionated masters. That is the fate of every weakling. He had stuck it out, though, and collected five ‘O’ Levels into the bargain.
Then the real nightmare had begun.
‘Banking, my boy,’ Wilkes Senior had stated towards the end of Benny's last year at Wilmington College. ‘is the epitome of respectability. There is no profession quite like it. Indeed, there isnothing else for you in this life. The prospects are astronomical!’
Benny knew that he had always been frightened of his father. It was no good denying it. Somehow, he could not fight against him. His word was law in the home, as it had been in the city branch of the bank which he had managed since the war, up until his retirement. Everything revolved around banking in the Wilkes household.
