by Chris Ryan
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 devastation 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.
As the plane banked Meena spotted the crowds walking up Shaftesbury Avenue. Everyone was heading away from the flood, trying to escape. Where were they going? That area of London was mainly offices or theatres or shops; nobody lived there. People were all deserting it, trying to get home.
A voice came over the intercom from air traffic control. ‘Hello, Flying Eye. Are you receiving? Sorry about the interruption. We had a power cut there. Are you OK? Over.’
Mike answered, the relief in his voice obvious. ‘We’re receiving you loud and clear. Over.’
Meena spoke into her mouthpiece. ‘Mike, ask them if they’ve heard anything from the guys at the studio.’
Mike asked the question. While Meena waited for the reply, she leaned out again and took a picture as they passed over Tower Bridge. The roads around it had vanished and it looked like a forlorn remnant of London, stuck in the upright position, the two halves of its road deck protruding into the air like a broken toy.
‘No, nothing. There are power cuts everywhere. We’re running on emergency generators. The National Grid’s completely shorted. It’s dark from Birmingham all the way to the coast. You’d better come back.’
Meena didn’t want to leave the action. ‘Mike, tell them there are still a lot of people trying to get out of town on the roads. Shouldn’t we stay out here to give them updates?’
Mike passed her question on. The reply was instant. ‘No point. The transmitter’s down. The emergency services want us to clear the airspace.’
The Millennium Dome came up, shrunk to the size of a saucer. Meena saw that there were people standing on top, waving at the plane.
‘Mike, tell them to report to the emergency services that there are people on the Dome who need to be rescued,’ she said urgently.
The next thing they saw was the Thames Barrier itself – the row of silver metal humps protruding from the water. The big ship was still stranded on one of them, a cluster of small boats tethered alongside it like doctors attending a bedridden patient. Meena snapped it too. ‘Wow. I’ve seen some traffic accidents in my time but that one’s got to win the prize.’
Mike spoke to Control. ‘Is there anything we can do before we come back in?’
‘No. Just be thankful and get the hell out of there.’
Chapter Thirteen
Ben was still sitting on the pavement, his back against the wall. Rain washed down over his face, his hands, his clothes. He let it; at least it would hose off the river water.
After a while he began to look around. He was on a road with grand-looking buildings on each side.
There were pools of water everywhere, like the seashore after the tide has gone out. The water’s edge was a few metres away, lapping around the buildings on the south side of the road. Seagulls wheeled overhead. Geese strutted around the puddles. They must have been carried here from the lakes in the park. A swan sat beside a wrecked car as though guarding it.
But where were all the people?
When he reached dry land, Ben had expected to find fire engines, ambulances, police officers, but he couldn’t see anyone – just a few abandoned vehicles. Just across the road, a van had crashed into a taxi and a car. Their bonnets were crumpled, the doors left open. The van’s windscreen had shattered and oil was leaking from underneath the taxi, giving the water an iridescent sheen.
Only the wail of burglar and car alarms joined the desolate cries of the seagulls. Some of the sounds came from under the water, as though the drowned vehicles were calling for help.
Ben got up and started to move. He was freezing. He stomped over to the taxi and peered in. There was nothing in it. Then he saw that the boot of the car had shot open; folded up inside, he could see a raincoat. Without even thinking he pulled it out and put it on.
It must have been expensive – a pale grey Burberry mac with a checked interior, still dry despite the rain that had been pouring into the boot. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. He didn’t know who he was talking to but it felt very wrong to be
taking things like that. And his dirty wet top would probably leave marks on the lining. He couldn’t help it, though. He desperately needed to get warm.
The next thought that came to him wiped the smile right off his face again: his wallet had fallen out of his pocket so he had no money and no ticket home. What should he do?
Even with the coat, Ben began to shiver. He felt very, very alone.
Why were there no people around? Why was no one organizing rescue parties? He wanted to find people who would know what to do. Like there had been at ArBonCo.
Like at ArBonCo. He remembered Kabeera, Cheryl, Guang and difficult Richard, his companions on the raft. He wondered where their journeys had ended – who was it who had fallen off before him, and had the other three reached dry ground?
He thought about Cally. Less than an hour ago she had been embarrassing him by telling him how he’d grown. Now she might be dead. And what about Bel … ?
That made him pull himself together. His journey on the raft had ended with him here, safe on dry land. Surely what happened from now on couldn’t be as bad as that. Think clearly, he told himself. What’s the best thing to do now?
He pulled the Burberry around him and did up the belt while he thought. Suddenly it came to him. Charing Cross. He’d arranged to meet Bel there at 3.30. Surely she would be doing everything in her power to make the appointment. And with no phones working, going to Charing Cross was the only way he could meet up with her again.
He looked at his watch. The digital display was blank – of course, it had died in the water too. Another thought came to him, stopping him in his tracks like an axe blow. Had Bel managed to get safely away from Westminster? Why had he never wondered if she might be in danger? Would she be at Charing Cross waiting for him? Or was she … ?
Immediately Ben felt a wave of anger. You’d better have got away, he thought. You’ve already rearranged our day. I’ve already had to kill time while you went to your meeting with some politician. He probably didn’t want to talk to you anyway – they usually don’t. You’d better not leave me on my own in this wrecked city. Charing Cross, 3.30, you said. You’d better be there.
Now that he had a plan he felt better. But it gave him more problems to solve. How should he get there? He didn’t know London that well. What if Charing Cross was underwater?
No point in thinking like that. If he found that it was flooded, he’d work out something else to do. The most important thing was to try to get there.
A map. He needed a map. He had no money to buy one so he would have to borrow one again. He went back to the car, but it seemed to be empty of anything useful. Then he peered in through the taxi’s open door, the swan watching his every move with black, alien eyes.
He couldn’t see a map. Maybe taxi drivers didn’t need them because they knew the streets off by heart. He reached in to open the glove compartment, but his hand paused. It felt like stealing.
It’s not stealing, he told himself. It’s survival. I’m only looking for a map, not money or valuables or anything. And the taxi has been abandoned.
There was no map in there anyway. He would have to try the van.
As he walked round the front of the taxi, smashed brake and indicator lights crunched under his feet, making a wet mosaic of red and orange plastic.
Ben was keeping an eye on the swan, which was still glaring at him. He moved slowly and spoke to it soothingly. ‘I only want to look for a map. I’m not going to hurt you.’ He turned away to open the van door.
A honking sound behind him made him whirl round again. The swan was on its feet, half hopping, half charging towards him. Its wings were spread and its head was hooked backwards, like a cobra about to strike.
Ben had heard of swans attacking people but he’d never quite believed it. And until now he’d never realized how big they were and how fierce they looked.
The wings beat ferociously, making a noise like wind snatching at a heavy sail. Another fact he’d heard about swans popped into Ben’s head. Apparently a swan could break your leg with a blow of its wings. Rubbish, he’d thought. But he changed his mind when he heard the sound of those powerful wings.
The swan’s neck uncoiled and its orange beak thrust forward like a dart. Ben backed away, fast.
The bird hopped awkwardly towards him and he retreated further, ready to run. But after another thrust with its beak the swan settled down on the ground again.
Ben stood, frozen. Was it safe to move again?
Then he saw blood trickling into the oily puddle and remembered the swan’s awkward hopping gait. It was injured. That must be why it had attacked.
He continued to back away, his hands low in a gesture of apology. ‘I’m sorry.’
There was another abandoned car on the other side of the road, its front crumpled into a lamppost. As Ben made his way across, a Canada goose came waddling towards him. He stopped, watching it carefully, alert to the slightest sign of aggression in the way it carried its slender black neck. But he soon realized that it wasn’t interested in him. It began to root through the contents of an upturned bin.
Ben peered into the car and spotted what he wanted lying on the passenger seat: a battered A–Z of London. He opened the door and picked it up. ‘Sorry,’ he said to the departed owner, and closed the door again. In the last five minutes he’d been saying that word constantly.
Right, where was he? There was a sign on the building on the corner: Eaton Square. Ben opened the A–Z, but the rain was soaking through the pages. He closed it again, opened the car door and got in. It was such a relief to be out of the rain.
He found Eaton Square in the index. It was near Victoria Station and Buckingham Palace. Most importantly he wasn’t too far from Charing Cross – probably a twenty-minute walk. Provided he didn’t run into any more injured animals.
He looked out at the dismal sky. Having a roof over his head was such a relief. Above him, the rain drummed down relentlessly. He wondered for a moment whether to stay where he was; at least it would be dry. But the rain might continue for hours and if Bel was already at Charing Cross, she would be waiting. Worrying.
He got out, and shuddered as the rain trickled down his neck again. He muttered a warning to Bel under his breath as he started off: You’d better be at Charing Cross when I get there.
After a few minutes he came to a telephone box. Relief flooded through him, along with an overwhelming sense of homesickness. He didn’t have to be alone: he could phone his dad.
He pushed the door open gratefully, then looked at the phone for a moment, wondering what to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used a call box as he usually had his mobile. This one took coins – which was no good – but it also had a number you could call to reverse the charges. Just what he needed. He picked up the receiver.
Nothing. It was dead.
Of course it was. Why had he thought it wouldn’t be?
He jiggled the cradle up and down a few times, hoping the phone would come to life.
Ben started when a car horn suddenly blared out in the empty streets. He looked around. Where had it come from? There were people out there – but where?
He couldn’t see anything, but the rain was blurring the windows of the phone booth: it was like trying to see out of a shower cubicle. He put his head out but the street was empty.
Another sound made him look again. It was the roar of a car engine. Ben jumped out of the phone booth, waving madly. Headlights came speeding towards him. He waved again – perhaps he could get a lift. Just to be with other people would be good.
But the car swished past, sending up a wake of spray like a boat. Ben stared after it as it raced towards a junction, where dark traffic lights stood watching mutely. Its brake lights come on momentarily, then it wheeled round the corner and disappeared.
Ben felt disbelief, then crushing disappointment. Surely the driver must have seen him. If it had been him or his dad and they’d seen someone alone in a situation like this, they wou
ldn’t have just left them.
But this was the big city. He remembered that girl he’d helped with her luggage at Waterloo. Vicky James; he’d even remembered her name. Everyone else, though, had blanked her. In London, if you didn’t know anyone, you were on your own.
Chapter Fourteen
But he wasn’t totally alone.
As he made his way to the junction, he caught a glimpse of movement at an upper-storey window. Someone was watching him.
‘Hello?’ he called, and waved.
The movement stopped. The figure had moved away from the window, not wanting to be seen.
In another house Ben could see a shadowy figure behind a large frosted window. Someone was hurrying up a flight of stairs, a box in his arms.
‘Hello?!’ he shouted.
The shadow quickened its pace up the stairs and vanished, as if it was afraid of him.
At the junction Ben picked a turning and found himself in a road with a few shops – a newsagent and a delicatessen.
The delicatessen was dark, but in the window, arranged on a marble slab, there were loaves of bread and delicious-looking savoury pastries. Ben’s stomach rumbled at the sight of them. He must have used up a lot of calories keeping warm in the water. He tried the door but it was locked.
Reluctantly he tore himself away and trudged on, turning off into another street. The first buildings he came to were hotels. Their names were picked out in neon letters over the doors, but the signs were dark.
A big four-by-four in a parking bay started to shriek, its indicators flashing. The noise continued for about thirty seconds and then stopped. Ben couldn’t see what could have set it off and no one came to investigate. Other alarms and sirens sounded in the distance, as if in answer. Thirty seconds later the alarm came on again. How long would it carry on like that? Until its battery was dead?
Was there another sound too, mingling with the far-off sounds of alarms and sirens. Human cries?
Or was that his imagination?
