Flash Flood (15 page)

Nothing unusual about that – so what was it that was making the policeman’s instincts prickle?

From the interior of the great building came the sound of several hundred people, talking softly, moving around. Crowds of them had come in to shelter from the rain, but this man was asking for directions to Charing Cross Station. Was that what was odd, that he preferred to remain outside?
Everyone else who had staggered up the steps had been exhausted, seeking only warmth and something to eat.

Then it hit him – and he automatically tried to contact his station on the radio before he remembered he couldn’t: it wasn’t working. He was sure that a picture of the man the Canon was talking had been circulated around the stations that morning. He was José Xavier, a Basque separatist terrorist who had been arrested last night along with his accomplice, Francisco Gomez. The two of them had been taken to separate police stations to await transfer to the high-security station in Paddington Green for questioning.

But if it was indeed Xavier, where were his handcuffs? Maybe he had escaped before they had managed to cuff him.

The policeman decided to stay out of sight and went back down the steps. If the terrorist saw his uniform, Canon Dibben might be put in danger.

The Canon was still talking to the terrorist. ‘We have hot tea and biscuits inside,’ he told him. ‘Are you sure you won’t have some? You must be exhausted.’

The terrorist did look for a moment as though the
thought of food might tempt him in.
Go on, José
, the policeman willed him.
You need food. Have some food. Then I’ve got you.

But Xavier moved away into the rain. As soon as he left, the policeman hurried up to the entrance, thrust both polystyrene cups into the hands of the Canon, then turned up the collar of his black raincoat. ‘You’d better go inside,’ he said to him. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I have to make an arrest.’

The policeman set off into the rain. He knew he couldn’t let José Xavier walk away. The man was a dangerous terrorist. He had helped plant a car bomb in Madrid that had injured 65 people. If he let him go free, he might be a danger to other members of the public.

The policeman followed the terrorist down a small side street, unhooking the cuffs from his belt as he did so and checking they were open so he could snap them on quickly. He jogged along until he was close behind the check-coated figure. If he acted quickly, surprise would give him the advantage. The terrorist wouldn’t expect to be spotted here.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

The terrorist turned round. The policeman’s hand was on the cuffs, ready to snap them onto the man’s wrist. He grabbed his arm and started to twist it up into an immobilizing position.

Just as he noticed that the man was already wearing handcuffs, though obviously split apart, he felt a red-hot pain in his stomach.

He saw the glint of the blade as it flashed out of his abdomen, his blood smearing the bright steel with red. As the blade came towards him again, he tried to fend it off with his hands, but he was already growing weak and his reactions were sluggish. As the blade went in once more, his entire body was filled with pain and his legs buckled.

José Xavier watched the policeman crumple to the ground, the handcuffs dangling uselessly from his fingers. His blood pooled on the wet pavement though the relentless rain was already hosing it away. The policeman’s eyes didn’t seem to register him any more, they were completely fixed on his internal world of pain.

José looked around. No one had seen the incident –
and anyway, in this flood nobody cared about anything but saving their own skin. He bent down and shook the policeman’s arm until he released the handcuffs. Then he pulled off the policeman’s black waterproof coat and swapped it for his own, throwing the checked coat he’d been wearing over the policeman to hide the spreading pool of blood.

José picked up the policeman’s hat, then turned his back on the huddled shape and continued on his way.

He had a rendezvous to make at Charing Cross.

‘General Chambers, I’ve had a report about the Prime Minister.’ The RAF corporal turned away from her desk to address him.

The General and the Chief Commissioner had been studying a map of the flood zone that Meena Chohan had helped to compile, but hearing the corporal’s news the General went straight over to her workstation. ‘And?’

The corporal took her headset off. ‘It’s not conclusive news, I’m afraid, sir. His staff say he was going to Gleneagles to play golf. His security filed the
flightplan as per normal procedures and are going to get back to us with his exact position.’

The General let out a long, frustrated noise. He had prepared a briefing dossier to bring the Prime Minister up-to-date on what had happened and it had to be delivered as soon as possible. ‘So he could be anywhere between here and Scotland?’

‘That’s right, sir. But we should soon know exactly where he is.’

The General crossed to the controller, whose screen was showing a map of all the rescue helicopters and where they were. ‘I want one of those helis standing by to go to the PM as soon as his location is confirmed. Top priority.’

Meena looked down at the reflection of the Puma in the water. They were over Epping Forest, but now the tops of the trees below looked like a paddy field. She wondered what her home near Chelmsford would look like now. Well, not long and she would find out.

‘Hey, Dorek? Do you think you could drop me at Brentwood playing fields? I’ve missed my lift home with Mike from the Flying Eye.’

Dorek made a minute course correction. ‘Don’t see why not.’

Meena smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ll mention you on the breakfast show tomorrow.’ She’d said it automatically, then caught herself. ‘If there is a breakfast show tomorrow …’

A voice came through on Dorek’s headset; he listened to it for a moment, then stated his position. ‘Just passing over Epping Forest.’

The voice squawked in Dorek’s headset for a moment, then he replied, ‘Roger,’ and changed course again. The helicopter swung around in a big circle and began to head back the way it had come.

‘What’s going on?’ said Meena. ‘Why are we going back?’

‘Sorry, Meena, you won’t be going home for a while. This takes priority. We’ve got to go see someone.’

Ben lay in the pipe and let his forehead rest on the rough concrete. He was exhausted. He’d had enough. He just wanted to tune out the world and go to sleep.

The rain pattered onto the back of his head. It felt pleasantly cool. He hadn’t realized how hot he was getting, inching along in the confined space. His shoulders, knees and elbows were sore from the friction. As he looked at the concrete pipe, the water trickling down the silt in the middle, he imagined pulling himself along on raw elbows again.

Perhaps he should just wait there until someone
came to the building site. At least he could breathe: he wasn’t going to suffocate.

Even Bel might give up in a situation like this. Especially if there wasn’t a camera to see it. She’d probably turn over and have a snooze, and then, when rescuers pulled her out, she’d be berating the government for allowing concrete to be used in construction, because it cost so much energy to produce and contributed to – you guessed it – global warming.

Ben shivered. He was cold again now. He’d have to get going again or he’d freeze. The purple cable snaked on into the distance. It had to lead somewhere. He just had to hope it was somewhere he could go too.

He started to inch down the tunnel again. His elbows, knees and feet were sore and his breathing was loud in his ears, echoing off the walls. In the confined space he could smell his own sweat and his clothes, which reeked of rat.

He started to think of his unpleasant Tube journey that morning, crowded in with people smelling wet and sweaty, water dripping off their umbrellas. He thought that had been unpleasant enough, with the
wet seats and stale tunnel air, but compared with where he was now it was luxury.

He went on and realized that the tunnel was getting darker. Should he stop and turn back? He could barely see his hands in front of him on the ground now.

But he could smell something. He was no longer imagining being in the Tube; surely this
was
the Tube.

Suddenly his elbows had more room to move. Much more room. There was a big space beside him. He explored it with his hands. It was big enough to squeeze out of.

Ben felt almost dizzy with relief.

He pulled himself out and his hands met sharp items on a wet floor. As he brushed them aside, they made a metallic noise and one of them gave off a faint glint of light. But where was the light coming from?

In a wall high above Ben’s head he saw a row of narrow slits. In front of him he could make out an open tool box, with wire cutters, spanners and screwdrivers strewn around the floor. That was what he had felt. In the wall was a cable conduit, its cover off.

Ben stayed on his hands and knees for a moment,
taking in deep breaths. He had done it: he had got out of the tunnel.

The smell of the Tube was really strong now, not just a faint odour stirring the memory, and he saw that the toolbox had a logo on it: London Underground. He must be in a station. The slits above him must be one of those ventilation shafts he had seen on the roofs of station buildings.

As he got to his feet, he realized he was in a tall room and below him he could hear a watery sound, like an open well. Nearby was a sign pointing to a staircase. He went over to have a look and saw that it led down into the dark depths. The slits of light in the roof above reflected down there as if in a mirror. The well was filled with water. Shapes floated there motionless, the water almost covering them like varnish. It was a few moments before Ben realized what they were: heads, backs, hands, a sodden baseball jacket, a hoodie, a Drizabone hat. An iPod floating like a white tentacled thing in the water. Bodies.

He moved away quickly, and saw, on the other side of the room, a heavy dark wood door. It was open. On
the floor by the toolbox was a torch. He picked it up and flicked it on, being sure to point it away from the bodies floating in the stairwell, then went through the door.

He found himself in a corridor. At the end an open door led to the booking concourse, where a sign said
WELCOME TO HYDE PARK CORNER
.

On the back of a chair beside the ticket barriers Ben spotted a navy blue jacket with
LONDON UNDERGROUND
on it. He shrugged off the mac and put on the jacket instead. At least it was warm and dry.

Then he picked an exit from the concourse and went up to street level.

He found himself on an enormous traffic island. He’d almost hoped that the scene would have changed when he got out, but it was the same desolation he’d left behind when he’d gone into the sculptor’s studio in Belgravia. Car and burglar alarms still shrieked alongside the seagulls and the rain came down relentlessly. You didn’t need a compass to work out where the water was; you could see the cluster of helicopters hovering over it like birds of prey. Buses and coaches stood abandoned all round the island, and ducks,
geese and swans from the royal parks still patrolled the puddles. Manhole covers lay on the tarmac, water bubbling up onto the road as though from some cauldron below. It stank of sewage.

But it wasn’t a bad vantage point. The land sloped down towards Buckingham Palace to the south; it was surrounded by the dark lip of the water. If he remembered right, Charing Cross was near the river. All he had to do was follow the edge of the flood water eastwards.

As Ben turned his collar up against the unforgiving rain, he was back in the same miserable rhythm, one foot in front of the other. It was almost as if he had never strayed into the studio; as if he’d just been walking the whole time and imagined the whole bizarre incident. He was hungry and cold. If he kept moving, he thought, surely he’d get warm.

The image of the bodies in the Tube station followed him like a ghost, sending shudders through his rain-soaked skin. He began to think how lucky he’d been. What time had he come out of the Tube at Waterloo? And when had the flood hit? His train into London had been delayed. It could so easily have been
delayed longer. He could have been trapped in the Tube himself. How many people were cocooned in that black water?

He reached Green Park Station and smelled that stale wet Tube station smell like the breath of old drains, heard the slap of water on shaft walls; saw in his mind’s eye the bodies, hanging like discarded wetsuits in a dripping stairwell.

He passed the Ritz and glanced down a side street. He realized that he needed to keep closer to the edge of the water and went down a narrow street – one car wide and lined with very old, expensive-looking shops: a tailor with gold lettering on the window; a tobacconist with a dark oak humidifier, cigars laid out inside it like a bizarre delicatessen counter.

As he made his way south-east, Ben looked down the next street and realized it was flooded. He stopped and thought. Maybe he should turn back.

A figure was walking further down the street, his green gum boots splashing through the filthy water. The water was moving, as though it still carried the ferocious current of the Thames like an electric charge, but it didn’t seem to be causing him any trouble.