He got up off his bunk and paddled across to the steel door. He looked through the tiny hole and saw that the water was higher outside — halfway up the green-painted line that ran at waist height down the corridor. His cell was at the end — had they forgotten he was here?
He shouted out, but several black-uniformed figures were already running down the corridor towards him. They tried to open the cell door next to his, but seemed to be having problems getting in. Finally there was a rush as the water spilled gratefully in.
Francisco shouted out again. ‘Hey! I thought you were looking forward to sending me home.’
Two policemen appeared at his door. ‘Get back, Gomez.’
Francisco waded backwards, unsteady on his feet. ‘Hurry up,’ he said.
The door was unlocked. The policemen tried to pull it open, but once again the weight of water on the outside held it shut.
‘Gomez, you’ll have to push.’ Their voices sounded worried, urgent, as if this was a matter of life and death.
He put all his weight against the door. On the other side the two officers pulled.
Something was very wrong, thought Francisco.
The door opened a crack and that was enough: the water began to pour in. With the pressure equalized the door moved open more easily.
Something else registered in Francisco’s brain. Only two officers had come to get him. Normally he never had fewer than four guards.
‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ said Francisco.
‘We wouldn’t forget you, Gomez.’
He saw they had cuffs, and felt a tiny prick of disappointment. He’d hoped they’d forgotten. One of the officers grabbed his wrists and snapped the cuffs on.
Curiously that made Francisco feel better. Usually they asked very politely if they could put handcuffs on him. Moreover, they hadn’t made him turn round to cuff him behind his back. They were not bothering to do everything strictly by the book. The emergency had taken them by surprise and they had no time for their usual precautions.
How many more important details were they going to miss?
One officer linked his arm through Francisco’s pinioned one. ‘Get a move on, Gomez.’
The water was up to their knees now and still rising. They started to run. Their shouts echoed noisily off the brick walls, as if they were in a public swimming pool. Other officers were already on the stairs, hurrying more prisoners to the upper levels.
By the time Francisco and his escort reached the stairs, the water was up to their waists.
Francisco rushed like everyone else, but inside, mentally, he was taking his time. This emergency — whatever it was — had taken the station by surprise. They were taking shortcuts. And one of those shortcuts might be his way out.
Another of the prisoners was demanding to know what was going on. ‘Where are we being taken?’ His voice sounded slurred, as if he was drunk or on drugs. He had an officer on each side of him, holding him up. The guy could barely walk.
Francisco decided that might be useful. He’d try to make sure he stuck close to him.
As they climbed the stairs, the water rushed down towards them. It was dirty and smelled of mud and oil and salt. Behind them, the basement was now submerged.
The drunk in front fell over again, swearing. The concrete steps were getting slippery. Francisco nearly stumbled into him and one of his guards half hauled him up. They had reached the ground floor now, but they were still wading.
The duty officer was still sitting behind the desk, water lapping around his shins. ‘Take them up to the assembly point on the roof,’ he called.
Now they were on the main staircase that led to the upper floors of the station. This area was office space; it wasn’t meant to house prisoners and the security was much less stringent here. Up the staircase there were big old-fashioned steel-framed windows that opened at the bottom like big cat flaps. It was hot, like a greenhouse, and one of the windows had been opened a little way.
It probably never occurred to them that it was careless. They’d probably never considered they might be escorting a terrorist up this way. These stairs were strictly for well-behaved, law-abiding staff.
Francisco saw his chance. He stuck his foot out, and the drunk crashed to the ground, pulling over the policeman who was trying to drag him up the stairs. At the same moment Francisco brought his elbow up and struck one of his guards in the face. The officer cried out and his hand loosened its grip on Francisco’s arm.
Francisco had his next move planned. He dropped to the ground and rolled over to the window. He pushed it further open with his shoulder and fell into empty space.
He landed in water and immediately went under. He tried to swim but the handcuffs were pinning his arms together. His legs cycled furiously, trying to find solid ground to push up against. He surfaced and shook the water from his eyes.
He was in a residential road in Chelsea, and it was bedlam. The water was nearly up to his waist, and in the middle of the street, cars and dustbins were being swirled along like canoes. He could hear screams and shouts.
It took him moments to suss out the best next step. He spotted a park bench heading towards him, rolled onto it and went with the flow.
Chapter Eight
For a moment, as he continued to stare through the window, Ben had almost forgotten the radio was playing in his headphones. The music seemed to belong to another world, not this strange, flooded landscape he was looking out at.
He retuned to Capital Radio for more news.
‘We’re just receiving reports that central London has been flooded,’ said the DJ. His normally cheerful voice had changed completely. He sounded shocked. ‘There’s been an accident at the Thames Barrier and it’s not functioning — London was left vulnerable to the high rainfall combined with a surge tide …’ He sounded confused, but the basic facts were clear. London was flooded. ‘Here’s Meena Chohan, our traffic reporter, up in the Flying Eye,’ he finished.
The sound of a light aircraft engine came on in the background, and Ben heard the voice of the female reporter who had been speaking earlier.
‘I’m over East London right now and the scene is unbelievable. The river is as wide as a lake. The runways of City Airport have disappeared. Docklands has disappeared. The Docklands Light Railway has vanished. Central London and the City are just a mass of towers sticking up out of the water.’ Her voice sounded shaky, disbelieving, appalled …
‘The flooding just goes on and on. Usually when we’re up here doing traffic reports, we navigate by the pattern of roads and roundabouts. They have all gone.’
Ben caught a glimpse of a small blue object, moving across the sky on the east side of the building. He ran round to watch it. That was Capital Radio’s plane, the Flying Eye.
‘It looks like a completely different city,’ Meena Chohan continued. ‘That water’s got to be at least three metres deep. There’s some dry land up where it’s higher. St Paul’s is OK, but there’s water lapping at the bottom steps. The devastation is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Ben started to walk around the perimeter of the gallery. The building was completely surrounded by water. Water that was moving, carrying along cars, street furniture and helpless people. He was still carrying the binoculars and he lifted them to his eyes to look more closely. He remembered the helpless people he had seen grabbing at lampposts, trees — anything. Helpless as ants. It reminded him of some of the footage he had seen on the TV of the Asian tsunami. He put the binoculars down again.
He supposed Cally would come for him soon. Then he had a horrible thought. Where was she? She’d gone down to the conference room in the basement.