Flash Flood cr-1

by Chris Ryan

  Ben remembered the helpless figures hurled by the tide against the concrete walls outside. He pushed through the group of people and seized the man’s arm.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  The man looked at him angrily. ‘I’m a strong swimmer — I can get to that rail bridge over there.’

  Ben kept his voice calm and looked into the man’s eyes. ‘I just saw someone die doing that. They must have thought they could make it too. The current is too strong.’

  The man’s colleagues were obviously also having doubts. ‘Don’t, Richard,’ said the woman with the wet gypsy skirt. ‘There must be another way.’

  Richard sighed, then got to his feet, turned and carefully lowered himself back into the room.

  Suddenly the door of the burning cupboard burst open and smacked against the wall. Smoke billowed out, along with a smell of burning cable. From the floor above there was another bang.

  As the crowd surged away from the fire, Ben gradually found himself swept to one side. His elbow caught a door handle and he stumbled backwards into an adjoining room — a small meeting room.

  The stinking cloud of smoke followed him in …

  Chapter Ten

  Ben realized that there were three other people with him in the room: sweaty-shirted Richard; a young Chinese man with an identity pass on his belt that said his name was Guang and he worked in the IT department; and a woman in a glittery top. They stared at the smoke filling the room outside, listened to the screams and the sounds of running feet.

  ‘It’s the transformer for this floor,’ Guang said. ‘It must have shorted. That smoke will be nasty.’

  On the other side of the room’s glass wall was a frosted transfer with the ArBonCo logo. It began to blur as the heat melted it. A figure appeared through the smoke and Ben recognized the thin woman in the headscarf he had spoken to earlier. The woman in the glittery top let her in. She came in coughing on a wave of heat, as though she had escaped from an oven.

  ‘Cheryl, bring her over here to get some air.’ Guang edged around the big table in the middle of the room and opened the windows onto the river. The new arrival leaned on the table, coughing. Cheryl, the woman in the glittery top, put her arms around her shoulders and led her to the window. ‘Come on, Kabeera. You’ll feel better in a minute.’

  Ben noticed that the smoke outside was getting thicker. Richard was standing glaring at him. ‘You stopped me getting out. I’d have swum to that bridge by now,’ he told him.

  No you wouldn’t, thought Ben, but if I say so we’ll just have a pointless argument. On the wall was a display of rescue equipment for oil rigs, including a big, orange inflatable raft.

  ‘Maybe we don’t have to swim,’ said Ben. He moved quickly to the wall and pulled the raft down. ‘Help me with this.’

  Richard looked at him mutinously, refusing to help.

  Ben realized that he couldn’t waste time trying to talk him round. If Bel had been here, she’d have told him he was being an idiot. He’d get the others involved instead. What were their names? Ben searched his brain. Oh, yes. ‘Guang, Kabeera — we’ve got a raft!’ Ben tugged the raft off the wall and laid it on the conference table in the middle of the room.

  Cheryl grabbed the other two, and pointed at the raft on the table. ‘Quick, help with this.’

  ‘Where do we inflate it?’ Guang asked. ‘Everybody look for a valve or a gas canister.’

  On the other side of the glass, the smoke was thick and grey, like insulating wool. All the plastic frosting had turned black and charred. Everyone patted the orange material, searching for the inflation valve. They didn’t have much time.

  Richard found it. ‘It’s here,’ he called. ‘And there’s no gas canister. So what do we do, blow it up like a balloon?’

  It was true. Where there would usually be a tube of compressed gas to inflate the raft, there was just a tab of black fabric. Richard glared at Ben, as though this was all his fault. He really is a sore loser, he thought.

  Suddenly, behind them, there was a bang. Cheryl screamed and Kabeera jumped. A jagged spar of glass the height of the door crashed down into the table between Ben and Richard. It smashed into shards like daggers. They stood frozen, shaken. Ben slowly looked round.

  The glass door had cracked from top to bottom. The door handle was metal and it must have expanded, sending stresses through the glass. Hot smoke began to billow through the hole.

  Kabeera was yelling but the smoke caught her throat and she started coughing again. Cheryl looked at her and suddenly understood what she was trying to say. ‘Use the fire extinguisher!’ she yelled. ‘Blow it up using the fire extinguisher!’

  All at once they were acting together, like a team. Ben pulled the fire extinguisher off the wall. Richard smoothed down the fabric of the raft so that Guang could locate the valve again. Kabeera was coughing, but she and Cheryl managed to push the window open wide.

  Ben put the nozzle of the fire extinguisher up against the valve and pulled the trigger. There was a hiss as the foam flowed into the material. The raft began to take shape — then stopped.

  Ben pressed the trigger again, but the extinguisher was empty. And the raft was only half inflated.

  The temperature was rising and the hot smoke was starting to fill the room.

  There wasn’t another fire extinguisher; and anyway, there was no time to use it. Guang’s voice rang out. ‘Let’s go!’

  Cheryl and Kabeera helped to drag the raft into place on the sill. The smoke curled out of the window, making dark clouds in the wet air. Richard dragged a chair across the carpet to act as a mounting block. Kabeera pulled her headscarf up a little higher to try and protect her throat, but she was still coughing as she climbed up.

  One by one they scrambled onto the raft. Kabeera and Cheryl each went to the front and hung onto the ropes. Ben climbed out and inched his way across. The raft felt soft, like a lilo feels when it is going down. Would it hold? As he looked down he saw the water surging less than a metre below, smashing a wooden chair against the white walls. He remembered those people who had jumped from the London Eye, just bags of bones in the tide by now.

  He must have frozen where he was on the sill. Guang tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. ‘You go over there and hang onto that rope in the middle.’

  Ben had little choice. Water was better than fire.

  Guang and Richard held on at the back, then they pushed away from the window frame. The raft slid easily on the wet windowsill. For a moment it was airborne, then it plunged into the water.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben clung on. Filthy Thames water sluiced over his head. The water was icy cold, sending pains all over his body and making his fingers go numb instantly. His brain played him terrifying images — the woman struggling to climb the coral-tree while the water battered its branches like an angry demon trying to shake her loose.

  Freezing spray filled his eyes, nose and mouth. It tasted of mud and oil. They were travelling fast, as if on rapids, completely at the mercy of the current. The raft wobbled and undulated under them, as though it was about to fold in half at any moment. Ben could make out shapes crouched against the other end, but the spray kept forcing his eyes closed. The only things he could see with any certainty were right beside him in the water, buffeted against the raft: a blackboard sign from a pub; litter bins, surrounded by a confetti of KFC wrappers, coffee cups, tickets, leaflets, half-eaten burgers. A small bundle of drenched clothes bobbed up nearby. Ben saw a face, wet hair like streaks of black seaweed dragged across the forehead. A body. He couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Then it was swept away from them again.

  Suddenly Ben spotted a short black spike in the water. He realized it was the top of a lamppost and his brain did a quick reality check. Those lampposts on the South Bank were about three metres high. He got a sudden blinding sense of panic at the thought of all the water below him. And what if something tore the raft?

  Still the current pulled them on. The
y passed a man helplessly riding a giant seesaw in the air above them. He was clinging onto the gangplank of a restaurant boat, which was waving free over the water. His face was grim, unseeing.

  Now they were passing Westminster Bridge, gliding over the approach road. The bridge itself had shrunk to a small hump in the middle of the water, and Ben could see boats and a floating restaurant stuck at the arch, thumping against the concrete as though the current was trying to use them as a battering ram to smash through to the other side. To their left a Day-Glo orange van hurtled towards a tall grey building and crashed in through one of the windows, leaving a black hole. Ben’s heart turned a somersault. Suppose they were carried into a building? Into the dark? Into a fire?

  Suddenly he realized that one of the shapes on the raft had gone. He looked at the empty section of rope. Just like that, without a sound, one of the people who had been in that room had disappeared. One minute they were there, the next they were gone. Who was it? Ben couldn’t recognize any of the remaining shapes. They were all soaking wet, their clothes darkened by the water, their hair plastered down. Just lumps of wet clothes. He looked around in the water, searching for someone in trouble.

  A big powerboat came speeding past, as tall as a two-storey building. It clipped the raft and sent it whirling round like a fairground ride. Ben hung on, blinded by spray. The raft bounced off a double-decker bus, a truck, a park bench, a bin, all the time undulating like a waterbed. It felt loose, as though it was about to deflate entirely and leave them all struggling in the waves like debris. He was so cold, but he had to stay still and cling on. He felt like he was only a set of fingers clamped around a piece of rope, waiting for it all to stop. The rope was digging into his hands. Everything hurt.

  They glided on past the Houses of Parliament, strangely stunted now that their lower floors were submerged. The graceful tower of Big Ben stood above it all, aloof from the chaos. Beyond it Ben could see what looked like a battleship nudging at the gothic windows of Westminster Abbey. All at once he recognized it as HMS Belfast, which he’d been to see on a previous trip with his mother. It had drifted off its moorings on the other side of the river. It was a surreal sight, these two pieces of London history juxtaposed like that. If I’m going to die, he thought, let it be now. With that image in my head.

  They circled past the abbey and then on down a street of tall white buildings. Ben’s mind was replaying the image of the van disappearing through the window, but they were swept on past the buildings and into an open area.

  Here, only the tops of trees were poking up out of the water. They must be floating across one of the parks. That was even more frightening — it was like drifting out at sea.

  Suddenly the raft hit a tree and Ben was slithering into the water. The raft was bobbing away from him. The last thing he saw was its orange sides, now with only three hunched figures clinging on, unaware they were leaving one more behind.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ben disappeared under the water. He surfaced spluttering, his mouth full of foul-tasting water. He imagined lampposts and trees below him, which meant the water was really deep here. His arms and legs flailed about, trying to find something to cling to. Anything to avoid being swept along by the current like another piece of flotsam.

  A big shape surged past. He didn’t know what it was but something made him pull himself towards it in a strong front crawl. The current held him back as though it had anchored his feet.

  No, thought Ben. I’m not giving up. He put every ounce of his remaining strength into swimming towards whatever it was. As he approached it, he could make out red metallic paint … a chrome bar. It was the top of a car with a roof rack.

  That gave him the extra focus he needed. He looked at the bright metal roof rack and imagined his hands grasping it. Just a few more strokes and he would have something to hold onto again. The effort was agonizing, but still he pulled himself forward. Slowly the bar came closer. He reached out and his fingers brushed against it. Nearly. But then he felt the current threatening to sweep him away. He grabbed at the roof rack like a man trying to catch a trapeze bar.

  Then he felt solid metal under his fingers. He’d done it. He took hold with his other hand and pulled himself forward, hand over hand. Only when he felt something solid under his body did he stop.

  That’s it, he thought, and closed his eyes. Now I can let the water take me where it wants again.

  After a few moments he looked around. The water was becoming shallower. Now he could see more of the roof of the car. Ahead there were more buildings, grand-looking, covered in white stucco like wedding cake. And the dark shiny surface of wet tarmac. He’d reached the edge of the flooded area.

  Ben rolled off the car and into the water. It was up to his waist and he struggled to keep his feet. But he fixed his eyes on those white wedding-cake buildings and half ran, half swam towards them.

  Finally he reached dry land and collapsed gratefully onto the tarmac. He had never felt so exhausted in his life.

  * * *

  A six-seater twin-engined Piper Seneca in dark blue livery with white logos glided across the sky. One thousand feet up and doing a hundred and thirty knots, the Flying Eye was cruising much lower than passenger jets. That was the first thing that Meena Chohan had noticed when she had taken over as Capital Radio’s traffic reporter. If you came into London on a passenger jet, the city looked like a charming toy, jewelled with lights. If you came in on the Flying Eye you saw a bigger, grubbier London.

  Today, looking out over the city was a shock all over again. Meena had never seen anything so forbidding. The sky was the colour of dark dishwater. The flooded area was an inky slick through the familiar city. Not one light shone. When the water poured in, it had extinguished all the office lights, traffic lights, car lights and shop signs, and left everything in darkness. There weren’t even any orange and blue flashing lights from emergency vehicles.

  The darkness had even leaked out to the dry areas. But here at least there were cars: red brake lights and bright headlights trying to escape the capital on grid-locked roads. It was a ghostly sight.

  Meena unbuckled her seatbelt and reached behind her. She unzipped her bag and pulled her phone out, then put it up to her eye.

  Mike Rogers, the pilot, looked at her disbelievingly. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Take us down closer.’

  ‘Are you mad? We should be getting back.’

  Meena had started her career as a journalist on a local paper. She had hung around outside hospitals, court rooms and pubs, alert for the tiny event that would turn into the big story, the scoop that she could sell to the nationals. Old habits died hard. She turned and gave Mike her most pleading look with her deep brown eyes. ‘Please, Mike. Nobody else will get pictures like this. It’s a historic moment.’

  ‘They’re not going to come out anyway, taken with a phone.’

  Meena had the viewfinder to her eye as she leaned out of the open window into the rain. ‘This isn’t just a phone with a poxy camera. It’s a kick-ass camera with eight megapixels and four times zoom. And anyway, it doesn’t matter if the quality’s a bit rubbish if the subject matter’s unique.’

  ‘Meena,’ said Mike, ‘air traffic control is out. We can’t go flying around wherever we please. We need to maintain our height and go back.’

  Meena wasn’t going to be put off. ‘There’s no one else out here. Who are we going to crash into?’

  If Mike answered, she didn’t hear it.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Look at Westminster. Come on, don’t be a spoilsport. Just a bit closer.’

  As Mike took the plane down, Meena saw plenty to snap. Sinking vehicles collided with boats, all coated with the muddy river water. Smoke curled out of buildings, sometimes accompanied by the orange glow of flames. There were people trying to get to dry land on whatever they could find. She saw three people on an orange raft and snapped that. Others remained in their buildings, looking out of the windows at the devast
ation and wondering what to do.

  The bridges down the Thames were just small humps, crowded with stranded people. The high-level railway bridge that led into Waterloo was a thin line with a train standing on top. People lined its length like birds on a telephone cable. At the water’s edge people were crawling out amidst dead bodies and rubbish.

  ‘Take us over Leicester Square,’ she said.

  Mike obliged and took the plane in a circle.

  Leicester Square was where Capital’s studios were. Neither of them had heard from the radio station for a good fifteen minutes now. Normally they had it playing softly in the background, and Meena listened in with one ear so that she was ready for her bulletins. Although she received cues from the producer through an earpiece, it helped to listen to the show. It didn’t look good if there had been a running joke about getting up late, for instance, and the DJ brought it up and she didn’t get the reference. The listeners wanted them to be one big happy bunch of friends, sharing jokes.

  ‘What’s it like?’ said Mike. They were over Leicester Square now, but he was keeping his eyes on the controls.

  ‘It’s dark. Really dark. It’s not flooded but there seems to be debris everywhere. Umbrellas, bags, rubbish. As though there were loads of people there and they’ve run away. Probably all came out of the cinemas when the power failed. Imagine being in there when the lights went out.’

  ‘The lights are generally out in cinemas,’ said Mike.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Meena, and took a picture.

  ‘Bet no one’s in the office,’ said Mike.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Meena. ‘I bet Jimmy’s still in the newsroom. A good journalist doesn’t desert his post.’

  Mike made a disbelieving noise. ‘They’ll have gone just like anyone else. Just like we should.’ He took the plane round in a big circle towards the east, back towards the airfield in Essex.