Chapter 12

The loudspeakers screeched, 'Britannic Rail regrets to announce that all scheduled services from Euston have been cancelled until further notice. These cancellations have been caused by high winds on the line. Travellers are advised to contact the Rail Information Office for further information.'

So what else is new except the excuse, I thought sarcastically. I took out my mobile and dialled home. The phone rang and was picked up. A violent burst of static sizzled in my ear. I hung up and tried again. This time the phone was busy. I tried again, got the static and gave up. I put my mobile back in my wallet, more worried than before.

A violent blast of wind shot wind-dried garbage high up into the vault of the station roof, drowning the roar of the public address system. The station was almost deserted. Only the usual gang of drunken tramps remained. A shrivelled, bearded hobo in an ancient greeny-black suit with bell-bottom trousers staggered by. 'Pay rises? Bonuses? You stinking sons of bitches!' he shouted. I could have sworn this guy was an exploration manager I had once worked for. He flailed the air wildly with his sherry bottle. 'Get back to work, you fucking bastards.' Very highly regarded at one time, too, as I remembered. He glared aggressively at some offending spectre in the deserted corridor. 'What the fuck are you staring at, Jimmy?' he shrieked. The exploration manager had been Scottish, too. The tramp flung his empty bottle against the wall. It bounced off, unbroken. He screamed incoherent filth. He fell drunkenly against the wall, cursing and slid slowly to the floor, joining the bottle and banging it with his head.

I crossed the wide open floor with an eye for falling glass. I needn't have bothered; all the panes were out long ago. I went down to the underground cab rank. There were perhaps fifty to sixty people waiting patiently in the queue, but no cabs. I saw my usual driver, sitting in the usual black Honda hybrid. I ducked under the barrier and slipped into the car, next to the driver. 'We're going to have to stop meeting like this,' I murmured.

'Pardon, sir?' asked the startled driver.

'Uh, when does the meeting start?' I improvised. My humour is usually inappropriate; salvaging post-humour situations has required some learning.

'I couldn't really say, sir,' said the driver defensively. 'I was only told when to come and pick you up here.'

'Good show,' I said cheerfully. We drove up the ramp into Melton Street. The roads were almost deserted. 'Powerful bit of wind isn't it,' I commented.

'Yes, sir,' replied the driver. 'Just started up about an hour ago. Force twelve warnings on the radio.'

'Twelve?' I asked.

'That's what they said, sir.'

'I was worried that the train would have to stop,' I commented. 'The closer we came to London, the worse it got.'

The car was rocked violently by a blast of wind by Gower Street. A gaudy plastic sign ripped off the front of the hospital and crashed on to the deserted pavement. The wind skidded the sign right out into the road. The driver glanced nervously at me, his mouth working. He steered skillfully around the sign. Newspapers blasted past us at impossible speeds. Thick dust made it difficult to see more than about fifty feet. We worked our way slowly down Gower Street, making slow progress against the headwind. An airborne large green plastic dustbin just glanced off our offside wing.

I shrank back from the windscreen. 'Don't you think we ought to stop?' I asked nervously.

'I think we'd be best to keep on moving along, sir,' the driver replied grimly. Suddenly, he swerved violently and jammed on the brakes. I was thrown hard against the seat belt. A deep horn bellowed and a red, double decker bus flashed in front of us. It careered, out of control, and crashed into a office front, not twenty feet from us. A glittering cloud of glass shards, propelled by the hurricane winds, showered our car. Both of us involuntarily covered our faces with our arms.

'Bloody hell!' shouted the driver.

We looked at each other, white faced. 'Jesus, sir, what do you think we ought to do?' gulped the driver. He jerked up the parking brake and stared at the crashed bus. Ominously, no one could be seen moving inside. If they had any sense, I thought, they'd be cowering under the seats.

'It'd be suicide to get out of the car now,' I said. I looked at car's radio phone and pointed to it. 'Can't you call in with that thing?' I asked.

'Well, sir,' he said doubtfully, 'It's supposed to be used only for emergencies.'

'Well, this certainly looks like an emergency to me,' I snapped.

'I mean it's only really supposed to be used for security emergencies, sir,' explained the driver.

'Go on,' I said. 'Call them.'

'I'm not sure, sir,' he said, licking his lips.

'Look, I'll carry the can if there's any problem about using it for this.'

He shrugged, picked up the microphone and clicked the red send button. 'Uh, hello, Bravo Foxtrot, this is four niner. Over.' he said nervously.

A reply came almost instantly. 'Your code, please, four nine. Over,' crackled the speaker.

'Negative security alert, Bravo Foxtrot,' he said. 'Uh, reporting possible serious civilian accident involving bus at Gower Street and Stephen Street. Over.'

'Ah, roger, four nine. Civilian accident at Stephen Street and Tottenham Court Road. Will inform uniform police. Over.

'Thank you, Bravo Foxtrot. Four niner, over and out,' said the driver. He put the microphone back and let off the hand brake. He moved back out into the road.

We worked our way south and turned west. As we passed Centre Point, I looked out and saw several of the third story windows blown out. A steady stream of papers spiralled up from the hole, like smoke from a fire. I remembered the time I'd seen a naked woman swimming in the pool outside Centre Point at ten o'clock in the morning. She hadn't been at all bad looking, either; I guess exhibitionism may depend largely on having something worth exhibiting. The policemen had rolled up their trousers and waded in, chasing her around the pool. When she splashed them, though, they had turned a nasty and bundled her roughly into the van. All the secretaries had tittered with excitement. There wouldn't be any skinny dipping in the pool or tittering secretaries today. The pool was dry. A grey metal office desk had crashed into it from on high, blown out, cracking the thick concrete.

Charing Cross Road was a total mess. A low brick building had slumped into the road, blocking it. We threaded our way south through Soho instead. Small dunes of broken glass drifted inches deep in many places. Finally, the car pulled up behind the Cabinet Offices, near the back of Downing Street. The driver picked up the microphone and spoke. 'Bravo Foxtrot, this is four niner. Over.'

'Your code, four nine. Over.'

'Code five, Bravo Foxtrot. Over and out.' I looked questioningly at him. 'Just letting them know that you're here now, sir,' he explained. 'They'll open that door there for us in a minute.' He pointed toward a heavy wooden door. After a few seconds, it swung open and an old guard beckoned the driver while another man held it open. The driver came up as close as he could and stopped. Short, almost rhythmic, gusts of wind drummed the car. 'I'd better give you a hand there, sir,' he said. He pushed the door open with difficulty and worked his way around the car. I slung the strap of my bag around my shoulder and gripped it tightly. I kicked open the car door with my foot as the driver pulled on it.

When I stepped out into the wind, the force of it caught me by surprise and I tumbled. Have you ever been knocked off your feet by the wind? It's the damnedest feeling. Your whole body flies forward, but your legs move even faster. It's like someone kicking your legs out from under you sideways. You have a tendency to pull your arms close to your body so that, when you fall, you always seem to fall right on your shoulder. That's what I did anyway. Gravel blown over from the Parade Ground slashed painfully at my exposed ankles and calves. The driver helped me up and I fairly staggered to the doorway and was pulled inside by the guards. It was a mercy when the door was banged closed. Quiet. I leaned against the corridor, drained.

'Bad out there was it, sir?' cackled the old guard.

'Terrible,' I replied. I handed him my pass. 'Absolutely unbelievable. A hurricane, I'm certain.'

'Worse to come still, they say, sir,' whined the guard with grim satisfaction. 'Worse than the storms of last year, sir. Much, much worse.'

'I can believe it,' I replied. I could see he was one of those plucky sort of buggers who are only really cheered up by disaster. I straightened my tie. I brushed my jacket and trousers with the back of my hand.

'Room 117 for you today, sir,' said the guard. 'I'll take you there now, sir.' I followed the man through the building. He knocked at 117 and held the door open for me. I stepped into the small, dark panelled room. It faced out into the courtyard. Even in such a sheltered spot, the bare bushes were being smashed flat by the wind.

'You had us worried, my boy!' boomed Sir Anthony. 'Rough trip?'

'Things turned a bit nasty when they ran out of clean antimacassars in second class,' I joked in stiff upper fashion.

Arthur stood. 'We heard you were involved in some sort of accident, Dick,' he said, real concern in his face. 'Are you all right?'

'The accident just missed us, really,' I replied. 'A bus ran into a building. It would have been insanity to have left the car and tried to help. There was glass blowing everywhere. I asked the driver to radio in the location of the accident.'

'Oh, the only possible thing you could have done, Dick,' agreed Sir Anthony.

'Look, before we get started, Arthur,' I said, 'I'd really like to call home. Would you mind?'

'Of course not, Dick,' said Arthur. He gestured towards the phone at the end of the room. 'Dial nine to get an outside line.'

I dialled my home number three times, with a similar result as before. 'Blast it,' I growled.

Arthur walked over. 'What's the matter, Dick?' he asked.

'Can't get through to home,' I said. I was really getting very anxious.

'I'll tell you what, Dick,' said Arthur. 'I'll get my secretary on to it for you. How would that be?'

'That would be very kind of you, Arthur,' I replied with mild surprise. 'I'd be grateful. Thanks.'

Arthur took the phone and dialled a short code. 'Mary,' he said, 'Would you please do your best to get through to Professor Turner's home number. Transfer the call here to 6117 when you do, thanks.'

Sir Anthony turned to me. 'I've got a, harrump, bit of a surprise for you today. We've had a major change of plan.'

'Oh,' I said with a dying fall to my voice. I always have hated surprises of any kind. Rightly so, too.

'You've heard that heavy flooding is predicted for the South Coast?' asked Sir Anthony.

'On the radio it said minor flooding was expected,' I replied.

'Well, that's a result of the decision to, er, reduce public concern about the weather for a while,' said Arthur.

'Lie, you mean,' I retorted.

'You could put it like that, if you prefer, Dick,' agreed Sir Anthony cheerfully. 'Anyway, unusually high tides are predicted for tomorrow morning. This wretched storm isn't supposed to get any better and its winds are piling heavy waves on top of already very high tides.'

'And?' I asked.

'And so the Met Office thinks the middle of Chesil Beach is likely to be swept away tonight,' said Sir Anthony. 'Weymouth is going to bear the full brunt of the tides in the morning. The Government has decided that the coast cannot be successfully defended there. They're going to let the area go. The population is already being evacuated from the area by the Army and emergency services.'

'What do you mean, "They're going to let the area go"?' I demanded.

'The Government has been advised that long term sea defense in that area is likely to prove technically challenging and economically infeasible,' explained Sir Anthony without expression. 'They're letting the sea have the area.'

'Dick, the Minister has expressly asked us to go down to Weymouth tonight and survey the situation there,' interrupted Arthur.

'But how the hell are we supposed to get down there in this weather?' I asked plaintively. 'And what possible good is our rubbernecking going to do if they've decided to let Weymouth drown anyway?'

'Go, Dick, go,' insisted Arthur, 'Not drown. Please.'

'They want a report from us about it, with implications and recommendations for handling future disasters of this sort,' replied Sir Anthony patiently.

The phone warbled. Arthur leapt from his seat and answered it. 'Oh, good,' he said. He held up the receiver. 'It's for you, Dick.'

I stepped over and took the phone from him. 'Hello,' I said.

'Professor Turner,' said the secretary, 'I have your home number for you. The trunk lines have been down. I've had to use an priority emergency re-routing. I'm afraid that you can only have two minutes of connect time.'

'Thank you,' I said. The line popped loudly.

'Dick? Dick?' came Lizzie's voice. I was suddenly limp with relief. It sounded as if she was speaking down a drain pipe or something, though. 'Are you, burp, there, Dick, Dick, Dick?' she gurgled and echoed. I won't try to duplicate the effect any more.

'Yes, Lizzie love,' I replied softly. 'I was just calling to see if everything's all right there. We've only got a minute to speak.'

'Oh, thank goodness you're all right, Dick,' she cried. 'I was so worried about you. It's such a shocking mess up here. A couple more of our trees are down and I'm pretty sure we've lost some tiles off the garage.'

'Jesus, don't worry about that,' I replied. 'Are you and the kids all right?'

'We're fine. I kept them home this morning, Dick,' she admitted. 'I just couldn't bear to see them go off to school this morning, it was so awful.'

'Good,' I said, 'You did the right thing.' That very good school didn't seem so awfully important after all. 'Look, love,' I said, 'I won't be able to get out of London tonight. We've got to go down to the coast for the Minister. The wind's terrible down here, so I don't think there'll likely be any trains running, anyway, until the storm's over and they've cleaned up the mess.'

'Oh, Ratty, where will you stay?' wailed Lizzie. 'I didn't pack any clothes or anything for you. You don't even have a toothbrush.'

'I know, baby,' I said, 'I'll just have to make do. I can pick up anything I really need at the shops. Look, love, I'm in a meeting right now. I'll call you later, if I can get through. Don't worry about me. Take care of yourself and the kids.' I smacked a quiet little kiss into the mouthpiece.

'Be careful, Ratty baby,' she replied. 'Take care of yourself now. Ratty, don't ... ' The connection was cut and the phone buzzed angrily at me. I set the receiver down carefully and walked back to my place.

* * *

Well, what can I tell you about the trip down to Weymouth that'll mean anything much to you? If you've seen one flood, you've probably seen them all; dirty swirling water creeping inexorably, inch by inch. We spent almost all night in a jolting official car, travelling south to an Army camp near Dorchester. We grabbed a few hours of fitful sleep on hard barracks beds. At dawn, we rode out with the sappers in their heavy, high lorries. We stood silent on Furzy Cliff with the bright morning sun behind us and the wind lashing our faces with mindless fury. Giant, dirty brown waves marched slowly over the town and its surrounding flatlands. A fierce southwesterly blast ripped the frothy tops off the waves and contemptuously spat the spray into our faces. Dry sand sizzled against our heavy boots and overalls. Morose, early morning dog walkers joined us on the cliff to watch. Even their dogs were silent and depressed.

Later that morning we walked respectfully, apologetically among silent, huddled refugees in camps near Broadway. We were told that there had been a fair amount of panic during the evacuation. The soldiers had been compelled to use an unpalatable amount of force to get people moving and to keep them moving. Hundreds of people, mainly the elderly, had simply refused to leave their homes because they didn't know what was happening. Some had been rescued from their roofs. A ragtag flotilla of small, private boats, a la Dunkirk, had joined the official lifeboats and helicopters to save people. An unknown number of people had perished, though. Now, the surviving, late residents of Weymouth seemed placid and orderly, even their children. Curiously, they didn't even look particularly English. They just looked like dirty-faced, shocked refugees from any other place, time or disaster; they had no nationality other than disaster. I wouldn't have been particularly surprised if they'd have broken out in Urdu or Chinese or some other language more normally connected with natural disasters.

The Minister got his report from us, of course. We mainly said that the public needed to know more about what was happening in advance. It was clear that the civil defense authorities had been ineffective. We also thought the Army needed a bit more training in restraint if there were likely to be more scenes of this sort. We never heard anything about our report, one way or the other. I suppose it had been sufficient that the Government's head scientists had been there on the scene. Maybe they didn't like the recommendations, but didn't want to string us up right then. Ministers once moved in pretty mysterious ways. Maybe they lost the bloody report or it blew away. Who knows or cares now?

* * *

Jesus, I just looked at my grapefruit trees. They've got some sort of really nasty looking grey things all over them. Like little flat woodlice or tiny chitons. No, Lizzie, I don't want to take my Triffids for a walk, very funny. Those bugs didn't seem to be doing any harm, but they looked disgusting and they're on my bloody trees and they shouldn't be there, dammit! I scraped every last one of them off with the back of my thumbnail and ate them. Exterminate, exterminate. Lizzie says that was disgusting. She's right too, as usual. They didn't taste nice at all, even though they might well be crustaceans. They'd picked up a strong citrus flavour, the oil that should have protected the little trees. Still, waste not, want not. Little bastards.