Forget the car, she decided, panicking. She had to get out. She released the locks and pressed down the door handle.
The door wouldn’t open.
She tried again, pushing her shoulder hard against it.
Nothing. The weight of the water outside was holding the door shut. The water was still rising, lapping at the windows like dirty grey lips.
A black car was coming towards her now, rocking on the water. Inside she could see the driver hammering at the windows, trying to get out. Under the water the car smashed into her bonnet with a dull crunch. Then her front wheels reared up off the ground, as if a giant hand was lifting the car.
The heavy Bentley slid along the road sideways, into a mini-van, crumpling it around a lamppost like a tin can. Two pale arms flailed against the bonnet, then slid beneath the surface of the water.
Charleen’s stomach turned over. That had been the driver. She thanked heavens the Bentley was so solid. At least when it eventually stopped she’d be all right.
Then she saw the window coming up: a glossy expanse of plate glass, the lighted interior showing the foyer of a big office building. She ducked.
The plate-glass window shattered as two and a half tonnes of car hit it. The noise was amazing, high and tinkling in the watery air. Shards of glass rained down on the roof.
The arch at the top of the window smashed into the side of the car, rolling it over. Charleen found herself squashed against the ceiling, her head muzzy with the impact. The car was upside down.
And it was still moving. Outside, a confusion of shapes hurtled towards her in the murky water: a desk, chairs, printers, paper, the black eye of a computer screen. All mixed up together, as if caught in a hurricane.
Charleen started to scream …
Jackie got off the Northern Line at Elephant and Castle Underground Station, and made her way towards the Bakerloo Line. It was an old, dirty station and she always tried to tune out her surroundings when she used it. All she was thinking about was getting down to the Bakerloo Line so that she could continue reading the next bit of her magazine.
She walked past the heavy blast doors in the corridor, looking at her feet as she went along, careful not to step on the curved steel tracks near the doors as her stiletto heels would probably slip on them.
Why did those tracks always look so bright and shiny, as though the doors were constantly swinging to and fro over them? If you looked at the blast doors, they were thick with dust and grease. They looked like they had never moved in years — as firmly stuck in position as the riveted sections of the tunnel above.
Jackie reached the steps to the Bakerloo Line and turned to go down. She unfolded her magazine, finding her place. Nearly at the platform now.
A noise behind her made her look round. The other people in the tunnel turned back too.
The giant riveted blast doors were starting to move. For a moment Jackie thought she was hallucinating; she stopped and stared. As she watched, the door swung smoothly away from the wall to close off the passageway.
It was like someone had started a race. One moment the corridor looked quite empty: only a few people were walking to and from the platforms. The next minute they were all running towards the doors and suddenly the corridor seemed very crowded. A big guy pulled Jackie aside and pushed his way in front of her. An elderly man and his granddaughter were crushed against the wall, but no one noticed.
Everyone had just one goaclass="underline" to reach those doors before they closed.
Jackie didn’t see how many people got through. She was short, even in her high heels. The taller, stronger ones reached the doors before her and by the time the weight of the crowd had carried her there, the doorway was sealed shut.
She was thrown against it by the weight of the people behind her. They screamed and started to claw at the doors with their fingers, as though they could pull them open again. But they were solid steel and blast proof. Immoveable.
All over the Tube system, giant doors were closing. The network was sealing itself up.
For a moment Jackie began to wonder if she was having a peculiar dream. In a moment she would wake, either at home in bed or sitting safely on a train, her dream inspired by the sight of those heavy-duty doors and the bright steel runners in the floor. Surely she couldn’t really be here, wedged against the steel doors, the ridges pushing into her ribs, forcing the air out of her lungs so that she could hardly breathe …
Sanjay was on a crowded Tube train, lost in the world of his iPod. The train shuddered to a halt. Even then he didn’t take too much notice. It happened all the time. The train would start again soon.
The faces around him looked irritated. The people who were standing up recovered their balance, adjusted their grip on whatever rail or strap they were holding onto, and resumed what they were doing to pass the time. Some were reading novels, some newspapers; some were counting the stops on the tube map above the head of the person opposite. It was just a normal day travelling on the Tube.
Then the lights went down. That was really annoying. Sanjay took one headphone out in case there was an announcement from the driver. All he heard was people around him complaining.
‘More power cuts.’
‘Because of that bloody rain.’
‘The other day those people were stuck in a train for two hours.’
‘Two hours?!’
There was no announcement. Sanjay put the headphone back in his ear. Lemon Jelly carried on playing their cheerful electronic burbles. And on. And on.
If they were here for two hours, Sanjay had more than enough chillout music to stay the course.
He sat back, so relaxed he felt he could almost go to sleep. Actually it was rather pleasant being in total darkness. Because he couldn’t see the faces around him, he could be anywhere.
Another track finished and Sanjay was aware of a faint squawking outside the world of his headphones. Maybe the driver was making an announcement. He took one headphone out again.
It wasn’t the driver on the tannoy.
It was the sound of people screaming.
Then Sanjay realized that his legs were wet …
Chapter Seven
Francisco Gomez had been lying back on his concrete bunk. The mattress in the police cell was thin and provided hardly any padding. He was looking at the pattern made by the painted bricks on the opposite wall. He had been looking at it for so long that he had lost track of time.
He was thinking that he would have to get used to amusing himself like this. He doubted whether there would be any more inspiring ways of passing the time once he got to prison.
It probably wouldn’t be a prison here in England. He’d been hiding out in London with his partner, but they’d almost certainly ship them back home. They were wanted in Spain for planting a car bomb in Madrid in 2001 that injured 65 people. He and his partner José Xavier had been caught in Chelsea this morning; he’d been thrown into this cell while José had been taken to another police station — he didn’t know where. He wondered if José would manage to escape and reach their rendezvous.
The water came slowly. It seeped in under the door while he was staring at the wall. He only noticed it when he heard a commotion outside.
Suddenly he was aware of footsteps clattering on the bare floors. People were shouting, their words echoing as if in a subway. But that wasn’t unusual in police stations. They were hardly peaceful places.
He ignored it all until he heard a sound that really surprised him. Splashing. That’s when he sat up.
The floor of his cell was under half a metre of water and it was rising. The police station was flooding.