The Jonah (31 page)

He fought with the wheel while the men around him silently prayed. They prayed and he cursed. They should have left it. The reports had said weather conditions would be bad that day. Bad? That
was a laugh! Only greed had sent him to pick up the shipment. It was a big load this time: two containers worth millions to that bastid Slauden! Not that his own share wasn’t worth the risk.
Was it, though? Was anything worth losing your life before its natural time? Andy knew the answer to that. Stupid bastid!

He could see the lights of the town now and he envied the people tucked up safe and warm in their cosy little houses. Bet the boys were in the pub wondering how the
Rosie
was faring.
Well, set one up for me, lads! I’ll be there soon!

‘Tom, mebbe we ought to send up a flare.’

‘No need, Ned, no need. We’ll be safe and dry within the half-hour! Old
Rosie
’s got plenny to say about the matter!’ Adcock gave out a gruff laugh, more to
encourage his crew than as an expression of his own relief. ‘Nearly there, darlin,’ he said softly to the boat, gripping the wheel tightly to prevent it from spinning. ‘Just keep
goin for me, girl, just keep goin.’

A hand clutched at his arm. ‘Skipper! Can you see that!’

He squinted his eyes to follow the direction of his deckie’s trembling finger and his face creased in puzzlement. What the hell are you talkin about, boy! There’s nothing to see but
bloody waves!’

‘Wait till we come up again, Skipper! I’m sure I saw something!’

Adcock steadied himself as the drifter rocked violently. Then they were rising again and as they crested a wave he saw something that he could scarcely believe. It was only its imminent nearness
that made it visible.

Adcock’s eyes were still wide and staring ahead as the boat plummeted downwards once more.

‘What was it, Skipper?’ the deckhand crouched on the floor of the cabin shouted. ‘What’s to see?’

But there was no need to reply, for the mountainous wave that was making its way down the eastern coastline was almost upon them, rearing up out of the night like a rushing wall of blackness, a
wall that crushed everything in its path.

‘Ooooh, Jesus, help us!’ someone screamed as the forty-foot wave blanked out everything before them.

Then the black wall swallowed the boat like a whale swallows plankton.

The flood passed through the town, breaking, destroying, drowning. People and animals were sucked into the swirling waters. Walls were smashed, cars overturned, fragile
buildings demolished. The houses and hotels along the seafront were worst hit, many of the occupants plucked from their homes and swept out to sea. The town’s lifeboat, perched proudly on its
concrete mounts, was wrenched free and thrown against nearby buildings. The stone memorial, dedicated to those from the town who had lost their lives in the treacherous seas over the decades, was
toppled and smashed into unrecognizable pieces. Not one fisherman’s hut remained along the shoreline. Not one house facing the sea remained unscathed. Even the coastguards’ lookout
tower was dragged from its perch and swept away. Stones from the shingle beach hurtled through the water like bullets, embedding themselves in walls, breaking through windows to kill or maim those
inside. The boatyard at the far end of town became a racing flotilla of broken timber.

Those lucky enough to survive the first massive onslaught climbed to their upstairs rooms, battered, frightened but grateful to be alive. Others, those who lived in bungalows, broke through
ceilings to reach lofts. Some climbed onto their rooftops where they were exposed to the full intensity of the howling storms. Men swam through the floating debris, risking the fast-flowing
currents to search for lost loved-ones, wives, children, parents.

The lower regions of the town were devastated and the people knew – those who were still capable of knowing – that the worst was not yet over, that the night would be agonizingly
long and cold, that exposure might claim them even if the waters did not.

The floodwaters reached the estuary and filled it, surging upriver and swamping the surrounding marshes, pushing onwards, the force still behind it, urging it on to destroy, to pound, to
smother.

Dr Vernon Collingbury cast anxious eyes towards the night sky, his vision immediately blurred by driving raindrops on his spectacles. He ducked back into the shelter of the
boathouse.

He had accompanied Sir Anthony to the motor cruiser in the vain hope that he could dissuade the man from his current course of action. When he had become associated with Sir Anthony, many years
before, it was on the assurance that the enterprise, illegal though it was, would be confined to drug processing and distribution alone: no other criminal offences would be committed, nor
permitted. He had been a fool to believe it. A gullible, naïve fool.

Yet there had been no violence until recently. Or had there? What did
he
know of Sir Anthony’s other activities? What did
he
know of what went on outside the processing
laboratory? His job was to direct the team of technicians, skilled men who were hired several times a year, chemists who were brought secretly to Eshley Hall to process the raw material. None of
them ever knew the location, for they were brought back collectively from a prearranged meeting-point; they travelled in the back of a truck which offered no views of the outside world. They did
not even know whom they were employed by. Four men, handpicked by him for Sir Anthony. Two were university dropouts – he had taught them himself and knew their capabilities – and the
other two were men with whom he had worked in the past. Men who could be trusted as long as the money was right. And there was no quarrel about that

Greed – the great seducer. Money – the great reconciler. Kelly, the unfortunate man who had been so severely beaten and then drugged, had asked Sir Anthony why he had indulged in
drugs dealing, but had received no answer. But he, Sir Anthony’s bought chemist knew, for both he and his employer shared the same motive. Sir Anthony had admitted it at the beginning of
their association, for he felt no shame and saw no reason why he, Dr Collingbury, should. It was all for money. No political motive, no burning ambition for revenge on a society that had changed so
radically since the last World War and with which he could – paradoxically though it might have seemed – feel only disgust. Nor was it any great ideal, a fervent belief that the taking
of drugs led to mind-expansion, and through it, enlightenment. No, the motive was purely and simply money. Sir Anthony subsidized his other failing, business interests with the profits from his
highly lucrative private industry. Perhaps somewhere in his own mind he justified his illicit business by blaming others, the politicians and trade unionists who had slowly stifled the
country’s economic growth, forcing such as he to either move their operations to more sympathetic countries, or to indulge in other, less public activities in order to survive. He may have
had those thoughts, but Dr Collingbury doubted it. Sir Anthony was corrupt. But then, little more so than those who had engineered his knighthood.

Dr Collingbury readily agreed to organize the underground laboratory, eager for the wealth that had eluded him throughout his long, tiresome career. The country held more regard for footballers
and pop stars than men of learning. But now, murder had entered the scene. He should have known that with men like Bannen and his thugs working for the same employer, violence was always near to
hand. But murder was even less palatable.

He was sure that Kelly was to be killed; Sir Anthony could not possibly let the man live. And now he had heard them talking of a girl, someone they had brought to the house in the early hours of
the morning. Who was she, and what would they do to her? Sir Anthony had ignored his questions and entreaties as they had made their way along the tunnel to the boathouse. All he was interested in
was whether or not the laboratory was fully prepared for the incoming shipment.

They had walked to the end of the boathouse and stood there in a group, shoulders hunched against the biting gale, concerned over the safety of the
Rosie
and the valuable cargo it would
be bringing back., The motor cruiser had been made ready and Sir Anthony had stepped aboard with one last comment to Dr Collingbury, which had been shouted over the noise of the wind and the
revving engine: ‘You just worry about the work you do for me, Vernon; let me worry about anything else!’

Did ‘anything else’ include murder? Wasn’t the young deckhand’s enough? How many more would there be now that the pattern was set?

As he stood there with the wind sweeping through the boathouse and buffeting his thin frame, Dr Vernon Collingbury considered going to the police. And rejected the idea almost immediately.

‘Let’s get out of this fuckin weather!’

The shout startled him and he turned to see one of Bannen’s henchmen standing behind him. Sir Anthony had taken only Henson, Bannen and another man with him over to the mill, leaving this
one behind to make sure the tunnel doors were securely closed; the river sometimes had a nasty habit in these conditions of overflowing and flooding the underground tunnel leading to the
laboratory.

He nodded his agreement; he must have been standing there for at least ten minutes after the boat’s departure and his clothing was soaked through. Well, his conscience had been wrestled
with and it had been the loser. It accepted the defeat.

‘What’s that noise?’ the man behind him said. Dr Collingbury listened and his eyes grew wide as the sound grew louder.

The man pushed past him and craned his neck around the boathouse entrance. Even in the poor glow from the building’s overhead light his face looked pale as he drew back.

‘What is it?’ Dr Collingbury shook him to get some response, but he was roughly pushed aside as the man ran for the steps at the rear of the boathouse.

The chemist watched the scuttling figure in bewilderment, then looked around the edge of the entrance himself. His vision was still distorted by the raindrops on his glasses, but there was no
mistaking the deep rumble as the tidal wave sped upriver towards him.

He spun round, almost slipping on the wet concrete as he ran towards the tunnel. The wave was well over the banks of the river and even in his panic he knew it would have been fatal to make for
the house through the sloping grounds. ‘Don’t close it!’ he screamed as he saw the man below at the flood door.

The man glanced up at him and hesitated for a second, then continued to push at the heavy metal door from the inside of the tunnel.

‘No! No, please!’ Dr Collingbury fell rather than jumped the last few steps and a shoulder and arm went through the decreasing gap between door and frame.

The man on the other side began to kick at him, for he knew from his brief glimpse of the approaching wave that the tunnel would be completely flooded unless the barrier was shut tight. He was
also aware that the flood door at the other end of the tunnel was wide open. If he had not been so fear-stricken, he would have known that it would have been quicker and easier to pull the chemist
through. Too late he realized his mistake and tried to pull the fallen man into the tunnel.

Dr Collingbury screamed once again as water cascaded down the short staircase and swept the flood door back against the wall. He felt himself propelled along the tunnel and caught quick,
confused glimpses of the other man’s thrashing body. His head struck against the stone wall of the corridor and he was numbed with pain. He spluttered and tried to draw in breath, but the
raging waters around him would allow no respite. He was tumbling, turning over and over in a mad, pounding rush, his limbs brushing against the ceiling then the floor as the river filled the
tunnel.

His drowning was unpleasant, but it did not last very long.

They huddled together in the darkness, both feeling the pressure of the mill above them, pressing down, seeming to be squeezing the ceiling towards the floor. Kelso’s
panic appeared to be under control although occasionally his whole body would stiffen at a sudden sound in the pit. He would flick on the lighter, its flame dwindled to almost a pinpoint, and hold
it before them, sweeping it from left to right, trying to pierce the oppressive gloom. Only when he was satisfied that the noises were those of scuttling vermin, or the building itself groaning
against its own weight, would he extinguish the flame and settle back against her. His body continued to tremble for minutes afterwards, though.