The Flood

by John Creasey

  Very smooth.

  “So you noticed that, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wherever we look, a new problem,” Woburn said. “I can take this two ways. Either I can make a hell of a fuss, or I can accept it with fair grace. Which is better?”

  “I think you ought to try to take it calmly,” Eve advised. “If you’re too anxious—” she broke off.

  She was more right than she knew.

  “All right,” Woburn said, and he grinned again; the new comradeship between them helped to ease the strain. “It will be reasonable enough if I try to telephone to Scourie, won’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Just to tell my sister I’m delayed.”

  Eve said quietly: “Of course,” and showed him the telephone. He lifted it, and a girl answered at once: “I’m sorry,” she said, “all the lines outside the Castle are down, I’m afraid. As soon as there’s any news I’ll let you know − I test every half-hour.”

  Woburn said: “I see. Thank you.”

  He put the receiver down, very slowly, and the two of them stood together.

  There didn’t seem a chance; but, believing that his false story was the true one, they might yet let him go.

  Later.

  It was half past twelve.

  At five to one, the telephone bell rang, and Eve lifted it quickly. Woburn stared with a bursting eagerness. But all she said was: “All right, Iris,” and rang off.

  “Luncheon,” she said to Woburn. “Would you like to wash?”

  “Yes, please.” He was lighting a cigarette; he lit them one after the other, and couldn’t check himself. “Who am I likely to meet at luncheon? Faversham, and—”

  “His wife will be there,” Eve said. “And you may meet some of the research staff.” Almost to herself, she whispered: “I wonder if they know? If Faversham knows—”

  Woburn didn’t speak.

  She led him to a cloakroom on the first floor, and left him. There was a small window, almost level with the top of the great wall which made him prisoner. He could see a corner of the rose garden, too, and the tops of some of the cages from here, the sunlit glen, the prowling beasts, and here and there keepers at look-out points, suggesting that the animals were kept under constant surveillance.

  To make sure they didn’t get out of the glen?

  There was another window, overlooking the main gates and the rocky land between here and Scourie.

  Woburn was drying his hands when he saw the smoke, in the direction of the town.

  It looked like smoke.

  It rose, billowing, and the sun shimmered on it, turning the smoke to water and the water into rainbows.

  14

  Woburn reached the hall above the staircase. Eve was coming out of a room on the other side of the gallery. Between them was a long, narrow window. She had noticed nothing, obviously, or her manner wouldn’t have been so calm. At sight of Woburn, she seemed to catch her breath. He beckoned, and strode towards the window. He could see the billowing spray, dark and thundery at the centre, iridescent and beautiful at the edges.

  Eve said: “No, no!” in a whisper.

  Woburn said: “Where’s the lift?” and looked round. He saw it, reached it, and was inside before Eve reached him. He waited for her. The door closed, sealing them in, and he pressed the Tower Room button. The crawling pace created a kind of purgatory.

  The lift stopped.

  They stepped into the room. No one else was there. Over the walls, across the broken land, they could see everything there was to see; another boiling cauldron, water flung hundreds of feet into the air, the centre of it a black and seething mass, and the spray catching the sun on the perimeter. It was exactly what he had seen from the farmhouse window.

  He could see beyond.

  The sea was coming in, behind the eruption. The farmhouse had disappeared. In the loch nearest them the water was seething and writhing, and where there had been land there was just an ever-growing sheet of water, ruffled but not angry. And great cliffs were crumbling, falling, vanishing.

  Gradually, Woburn realised the inescapable truth. When this was over, the Castle would be standing on a vast island, in the middle of a loch larger than any in Scotland.

  The nearest land would be miles away.

  The road leading to the Castle had already disappeared, near the erupting tumult. Everything had gone. There was no chance of going back to Scourie except by boat. And if the octi turned this way, and invaded the glen—

  Woburn heard a sound.

  The lift door opened, and Dr. Faversham came in.

  Obviously, he had expected to see them here. He nodded briskly, stiffly, and took no particular notice of Woburn, who felt sure that they were going to ignore the earlier questioning. Faversham walked smartly towards the window overlooking the great cloud, and stood staring at it for a long time. The rainbow from afar seemed to reflect in his honey-brown eyes. There was a different expression on his face, one almost of exaltation. He stood with both hands raised rather as if he was addressing an audience and anxious to carry his point with a gesture. His lips were parted. His face, very bright in the sunlight, looked golden brown and very strong.

  Woburn couldn’t restrain himself.

  “Don’t you know we’ll be cut off? Can’t you see the danger we’re in? To stand there grinning—”

  Faversham did not even turn to look at him.

  “Yes, I know we shall be cut off,” he said. “I had come to apologise because you were unable to leave the Castle, but, you see − it is fortunate for you that you did not, you would have been about where the land is caving in, would you not? Remarkable. Quite remarkable.”

  “If that water reaches here—”

  Slowly Faversham turned to look at him.

  “It will not reach us,” he said with absolute certainty, “we are in no physical danger here, Mr. Woburn, and we shall soon be on an island in the middle of a loch, and five miles from any other land. A message has already gone to the Government, announcing that if any attempt is made to occupy this island, we shall undermine other parts of the country - including one or two thickly populated towns. Do you think they’ll risk an attack? “

  Woburn said viciously: “You must be madmen, every one of you.”

  “I hope that you will not get too excited and emotional,” Faversham said. “We have little time for that, for we are in the midst of a great experiment. A great experiment,” he repeated crisply: if someone had taught him how to give that phrase a kind of lingering emphasis, he could not have said it better. Through his fears, Woburn began to realise what was so odd about Faversham; he seemed always to be acting.

  He moved towards the door.

  “I think we should have lunch,” he said; “afterwards we can discuss the situation. I am afraid that it means that you will have to stay as our guest, Mr. Woburn, but I assure you that we shall exert ourselves to make you comfortable.”

  He smiled, went to the lift, and held the door open first for Eve and then for Woburn.

  Woburn had to fight to keep his head.

  He could feel the sweat on his forehead and upper lip; and sweat was trickling down his back. He didn’t speak as they crawled downwards. Eve had no colour at all, except in her eyes; they had taken on an unnatural brightness.

  The lift stopped.

  “If you will take Mr. Woburn in, Eve,” Faversham said, “I will join you in a few minutes.”

  He gave a jerky bow, and moved off.

  Eve said: “This— this way.”

  There was nothing to say; nothing to do but obey.

  It was as if, in the moment of his greatest hope, every chance of getting word to Palfrey had been snatched away.

  Woburn followed Eve, who opened one of two huge doors; he held it back. They went in. The dining-room was built on the curve, with windows overlooking the front of the Castle and the portcullis. Nothing more peaceful could have been imagined. A huge refectory table was laid for five, with
ample space between each place. A butler, looking unreal in his immaculate black and white, was placing a bottle of wine by the side of one of the places. In a corner, behind the door, were two people - Adam Reed and a woman whom Woburn had not met before.

  They were standing at an old Jacobean court cupboard, the doors of which were open. Bottles stood on top of the court cupboard, with several glasses; and the light caught them, making a kind of rainbow.

  “Why, hallo,” said the woman,” come and have a drink, Eve! And you must introduce me to Mr. Woburn, I’ve been longing to meet him.”

  She beamed a welcome which had a quality of seductiveness, like everything about her. As he went forward, Woburn had a feeling that he was looking at a stage, not in a room. She was heavily made up, with mascara to brighten her pale eyes, and had exaggerated eyebrows helped with a pencil, a fantastic Cupid’s bow of a mouth. Her hair was a mass of shiny yellow curls, almost like golden feathers, soft and beautiful. She wore a sun dress, cut very low at the front, and a little bolero jacket. One look told the world all there was to know about her figure; it was built for seduction.

  She had a throaty voice, and held her head back as Woburn approached, keeping her mouth open a little and her lips parted. He could just see the tip of her tongue.

  Eve’s face was expressionless.

  “Good morning, Ruby,” she said, and to Woburn: “This is Mrs. Faversham - Mr. Woburn.”

  Ruby Faversham didn’t offer to shake hands, just rested her fingers on his. She was moistly warm. Her nails were long, pointed and sharp, and as red as fresh blood. She leaned towards Woburn, and he could sense the way she wanted to impress him. She wore a strong perfume, heady but not unpleasant.

  “How nice it is to see someone from the outside world.” She breathed whisky fumes into his face. “It’s such a long time since I’ve seen a new face, Mr. Woburn.” She leaned back, still touching his hand, and giggled. “But we don’t have to be stuffy, do we, you won’t mind if we call you by your Christian name?”

  “Not at all.” Woburn was so stiff that he half expected her to mimic him.

  “Why, that’s wonderful.” She was English, and had a good, honest Cockney voice with an overlay of ultra-Oxford mixed with an occasional nasal note which she obviously imagined was American. Here was the original tart, the model first made when the world began, and duplicated everywhere in the world over the centuries. “But we can’t use that name if we don’t know what it is, can we? Or do you know, Eve dear?”

  Woburn wanted to break down his own antagonism; it wasn’t easy. Adam was smiling in that rather vacant way, and Eve seemed remote.

  “Robert. Er— Bob,” Woburn made himself say.

  “Why, Bob.” Faversham’s wife used the long ‘o’ and made the name sound more like ‘Bahb’. “Isn’t that a cute name, Adam? Don’t you think so, Eve? Come on, Bahb, what will you have to drink?” At the end of the next giggle there was a distinct hiccough. “Name your poison.”

  He still felt stiff and awkward. He couldn’t get thought of that raging torrent out of his mind; couldn’t free himself of the realisation that more masses of England were crumbling away into the sea. Was there a village there? Or isolated houses and cottages? Had any of the police or the military been trapped, or Palfrey or the giant?

  “Is there a pink gin?”

  “Sure there’s a pink gin,” said Ruby, “there’s a pink anything. Pink gin, pink mice, pink elephants, if you like them that way. Dear li’l pink elephants, still in the baby stage. Adam, honey, get Bahb a nice pink gin, will you, and mix me another whisky and soda. Pink soda!” She giggled. “Eve, why don’t you say something? Don’t just stand there - say something.”

  Eve said: “Never mind me, Ruby.”

  “But I don’t like to see you so sad. Anyone would think you’d—”

  “Say, Ruby,” Adam Reed interrupted.

  She turned to him, as he picked up a bottle of gin.

  “Say, Adam,” she mimicked. “What is it, honey?”

  “You don’t have to talk like that to Eve.”

  “I don’t? Why ever not? Eve can stand a joke, she always could. We may not have much in common, but you can take it from me I’m fond of Eve, I shall always be fond of— oh”

  Her voice broke, and her expression changed ludicrously. She stood with her arms wide apart, looking as if she would rush to comfort Eve. “Why, Eve darling, what on earth made me pick on you like that? I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten.” She repeated, and caught her breath; and nearly everything that Woburn had thought about her changed. Here was a woman suffering much more than he had dreamed, who was almost at screaming pitch, who had the wild, terrified look that Eve had had for a short while. “God forgive me, I’d forgotten Naomi! Less than a day and—”

  “Ruby, don’t.” Eve was sharp.

  “Take it easy, Ruby,” Adam Reed said, and thrust a glass towards her. “This will—”

  Ruby struck it out of his hand.

  There was a moment of stillness and of brittle tension. The glass fell to the thick carpet, but didn’t appear to break. The drink spilled out, making the red turn dark. The patch spread, slowly, the carpet quickly soaking up the liquid.

  Ruby stared at it, Eve, Woburn, Adam.

  The butler came forward.

  He didn’t speak, but bent down on one knee and picked up the glass. In fact it was broken, for a large piece fell out. He held both pieces in one hand, took a cloth from his hip pocket and mopped up the damp patch. Adam Reed picked up another glass.

  Ruby said very carefully: “You know what’s the matter with me, don’t you? I’m drunk.”

  On the word ‘drunk’, the door opened and her husband came in. He must have heard what she said, but Woburn didn’t see anything to suggest that he noticed or cared. He came smartly towards them, as if his limbs were worked by clockwork, and put on his mechanical smile.

  “So we meet again, Mr. Woburn. I am honoured. I will have a dry sherry, Adam, if you please.” He stepped to his wife’s side, and kissed her cheek lightly. “Good morning, my dear, I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to join you for coffee. Ah.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “I admit that I’m hungry, ravenous in fact. I hope you’re all ready for lunch.” He glanced at Woburn, and something in his expression made Woburn bite on the words which wanted to come out. “Eve, my dear, I am very glad to say that your father is much improved. Much. In fact I shall encourage him to get up for dinner, I think, it will probably be wise.”

  Adam handed him the sherry.

  “Thank you, Adam. Here’s luck.” Faversham sipped; and seemed almost to put the glass to his lips by numbers. When he lowered it, his elbow was bent to a sharp angle, and his little finger stuck up slightly.

  “Paul,” Eve said very softly, “are you really as callous as you sound?”

  “Callous?” echoed Faversham, and seemed really startled. “Certainly not, I—”

  “Have you forgotten that Naomi was killed yesterday? That hundreds of people were drowned? That hundreds more—” she couldn’t go on.

  “My dear Eve,” said Faversham, with quiet dignity, “I certainly have not forgotten about her. But it will do none of us any good to brood. As for the other people - I hope you are not going to suggest that we should weep for them. They were all strangers. When you read of an earthquake in India, or a flood in South America, or a train disaster in the United States, do you weep for people whom you do not know? You are sorry, for a little while you are sad, but you have your own life to live. That is life. No, my dear Eve, I am not callous, I am just practical. I have never seen any point in pretending.”

  “Nothing if not honest, eh?” put in Adam Reed. It was almost a surprise that he volunteered a remark at all. He had been standing and listening, with that rather vacant, perhaps bored look; Woburn could believe that he had a completely empty mind. “I don’t mind admitting I’m hungry too, Paul. What say we eat?”

  Faversham said to Eve: “If you would rather not j
oin us, Eve—”

  She waved him away.

  The meal had hardly started before Ruby brightened up. Woburn and Faversham made little attempt to talk, Eve hardly any, but between Ruby and Adam Reed there passed a constant stream of fatuous jokes which, even in normal circumstances, would have wearied Woburn. Of the two, Ruby was the brighter witted, now and again she was almost funny. Adam was unbelievably stupid. If Ruby laughed at anything he said, he repeated it at great length. Every old joke he could think of came out. He told each with a flatness which robbed it of point, but seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. Every now and then Faversham talked about some topic of the day, forcing the others to silence. He ate as he talked and moved, with great precision; one could almost believe that he counted the number of times that he chewed each mouthful.

  Woburn was almost disgusted with himself.

  He enjoyed the meal.

  There was melon, trout in a sauce which only a genius could make, and saddle of mutton with roasted potatoes and peas and mint sauce. The souffle which followed was almost too fluffy to be true. Faversham obviously enjoyed everything, too, and Adam ate with gusto; at least he didn’t try to talk while eating.

  Ruby pecked.

  Eve sent nearly everything back untouched.

  Woburn found that that mattered. It wouldn’t help if she were to get too hungry; she would only be even more depressed. He found himself looking at her much of the time. There was the lovely line of her chin and throat; the line of her blouse at the breast; fine, almost regal beauty. In some odd way, it was possible to forget what was happening; as if his senses had been dulled. Outside there was the tumult of the bursting octi, and there must be millions upon millions of them under the earth. The water had probably cut the whole island off by now, the land must still be crumbling. Yet Faversham was quite sure that nothing could happen to the Castle.

  Could he be as sure as he sounded? If so, it meant that the octi could be controlled. The very thought set Woburn’s teeth on edge.

  The butler brought brandy.