Flash Flood

Chapter Thirteen

Ben was still sitting on the pavement, his back against the wall. Rain washed down over his face, his hands, his clothes. He let it; at least it would hose off the river water.

After a while he began to look around. He was on a road with grand-looking buildings on each side.

There were pools of water everywhere, like the seashore after the tide has gone out. The water’s edge was a few metres away, lapping around the buildings on the south side of the road. Seagulls wheeled overhead. Geese strutted around the puddles. They must have been carried here from the lakes in the park. A swan sat beside a wrecked car as though guarding it.

But where were all the people?

When he reached dry land, Ben had expected to find fire engines, ambulances, police officers, but he couldn’t see anyone — just a few abandoned vehicles. Just across the road, a van had crashed into a taxi and a car. Their bonnets were crumpled, the doors left open. The van’s windscreen had shattered and oil was leaking from underneath the taxi, giving the water an iridescent sheen.

Only the wail of burglar and car alarms joined the desolate cries of the seagulls. Some of the sounds came from under the water, as though the drowned vehicles were calling for help.

Ben got up and started to move. He was freezing. He stomped over to the taxi and peered in. There was nothing in it. Then he saw that the boot of the car had shot open; folded up inside, he could see a raincoat. Without even thinking he pulled it out and put it on.

It must have been expensive — a pale grey Burberry mac with a checked interior, still dry despite the rain that had been pouring into the boot. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. He didn’t know who he was talking to but it felt very wrong to be taking things like that. And his dirty wet top would probably leave marks on the lining. He couldn’t help it, though. He desperately needed to get warm.

The next thought that came to him wiped the smile right off his face again: his wallet had fallen out of his pocket so he had no money and no ticket home. What should he do?

Even with the coat, Ben began to shiver. He felt very, very alone.

Why were there no people around? Why was no one organizing rescue parties? He wanted to find people who would know what to do. Like there had been at ArBonCo.

Like at ArBonCo. He remembered Kabeera, Cheryl, Guang and difficult Richard, his companions on the raft. He wondered where their journeys had ended — who was it who had fallen off before him, and had the other three reached dry ground?

He thought about Cally. Less than an hour ago she had been embarrassing him by telling him how he’d grown. Now she might be dead. And what about Bel …?

That made him pull himself together. His journey on the raft had ended with him here, safe on dry land. Surely what happened from now on couldn’t be as bad as that. Think clearly, he told himself. What’s the best thing to do now?

He pulled the Burberry around him and did up the belt while he thought. Suddenly it came to him. Charing Cross. He’d arranged to meet Bel there at 3.30. Surely she would be doing everything in her power to make the appointment. And with no phones working, going to Charing Cross was the only way he could meet up with her again.

He looked at his watch. The digital display was blank — of course, it had died in the water too. Another thought came to him, stopping him in his tracks like an axe blow. Had Bel managed to get safely away from Westminster? Why had he never wondered if she might be in danger? Would she be at Charing Cross waiting for him? Or was she …?

Immediately Ben felt a wave of anger. You’d better have got away, he thought. You’ve already rearranged our day. I’ve already had to kill time while you went to your meeting with some politician. He probably didn’t want to talk to you anyway — they usually don’t. You’d better not leave me on my own in this wrecked city. Charing Cross, 3.30, you said. You’d better be there.

Now that he had a plan he felt better. But it gave him more problems to solve. How should he get there? He didn’t know London that well. What if Charing Cross was underwater?

No point in thinking like that. If he found that it was flooded, he’d work out something else to do. The most important thing was to try to get there.

A map. He needed a map. He had no money to buy one so he would have to borrow one again. He went back to the car, but it seemed to be empty of anything useful. Then he peered in through the taxi’s open door, the swan watching his every move with black, alien eyes.

He couldn’t see a map. Maybe taxi drivers didn’t need them because they knew the streets off by heart. He reached in to open the glove compartment, but his hand paused. It felt like stealing.

It’s not stealing, he told himself. It’s survival. I’m only looking for a map, not money or valuables or anything. And the taxi has been abandoned.

There was no map in there anyway. He would have to try the van.

As he walked round the front of the taxi, smashed brake and indicator lights crunched under his feet, making a wet mosaic of red and orange plastic.

Ben was keeping an eye on the swan, which was still glaring at him. He moved slowly and spoke to it soothingly. ‘I only want to look for a map. I’m not going to hurt you.’ He turned away to open the van door.

A honking sound behind him made him whirl round again. The swan was on its feet, half hopping, half charging towards him. Its wings were spread and its head was hooked backwards, like a cobra about to strike.

Ben had heard of swans attacking people but he’d never quite believed it. And until now he’d never realized how big they were and how fierce they looked.

The wings beat ferociously, making a noise like wind snatching at a heavy sail. Another fact he’d heard about swans popped into Ben’s head. Apparently a swan could break your leg with a blow of its wings. Rubbish, he’d thought. But he changed his mind when he heard the sound of those powerful wings.

The swan’s neck uncoiled and its orange beak thrust forward like a dart. Ben backed away, fast.

The bird hopped awkwardly towards him and he retreated further, ready to run. But after another thrust with its beak the swan settled down on the ground again.

Ben stood, frozen. Was it safe to move again?

Then he saw blood trickling into the oily puddle and remembered the swan’s awkward hopping gait. It was injured. That must be why it had attacked.

He continued to back away, his hands low in a gesture of apology. ‘I’m sorry.’

There was another abandoned car on the other side of the road, its front crumpled into a lamppost. As Ben made his way across, a Canada goose came waddling towards him. He stopped, watching it carefully, alert to the slightest sign of aggression in the way it carried its slender black neck. But he soon realized that it wasn’t interested in him. It began to root through the contents of an upturned bin.

Ben peered into the car and spotted what he wanted lying on the passenger seat: a battered A — Z of London. He opened the door and picked it up. ‘Sorry,’ he said to the departed owner, and closed the door again. In the last five minutes he’d been saying that word constantly.

Right, where was he? There was a sign on the building on the corner: Eaton Square. Ben opened the A — Z, but the rain was soaking through the pages. He closed it again, opened the car door and got in. It was such a relief to be out of the rain.

He found Eaton Square in the index. It was near Victoria Station and Buckingham Palace. Most importantly he wasn’t too far from Charing Cross — probably a twenty-minute walk. Provided he didn’t run into any more injured animals.

He looked out at the dismal sky. Having a roof over his head was such a relief. Above him, the rain drummed down relentlessly. He wondered for a moment whether to stay where he was; at least it would be dry. But the rain might continue for hours and if Bel was already at Charing Cross, she would be waiting. Worrying.

He got out, and shuddered as the rain trickled down his neck again. He muttered a warning to Bel under his breath as he started off: You’d better be at Charing Cross when I get there.

After a few minutes he came to a telephone box. Relief flooded through him, along with an overwhelming sense of homesickness. He didn’t have to be alone: he could phone his dad.

He pushed the door open gratefully, then looked at the phone for a moment, wondering what to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used a call box as he usually had his mobile. This one took coins — which was no good — but it also had a number you could call to reverse the charges. Just what he needed. He picked up the receiver.

Nothing. It was dead.

Of course it was. Why had he thought it wouldn’t be?

He jiggled the cradle up and down a few times, hoping the phone would come to life.

Ben started when a car horn suddenly blared out in the empty streets. He looked around. Where had it come from? There were people out there — but where?

He couldn’t see anything, but the rain was blurring the windows of the phone booth: it was like trying to see out of a shower cubicle. He put his head out but the street was empty.

Another sound made him look again. It was the roar of a car engine. Ben jumped out of the phone booth, waving madly. Headlights came speeding towards him. He waved again — perhaps he could get a lift. Just to be with other people would be good.

But the car swished past, sending up a wake of spray like a boat. Ben stared after it as it raced towards a junction, where dark traffic lights stood watching mutely. Its brake lights come on momentarily, then it wheeled round the corner and disappeared.

Ben felt disbelief, then crushing disappointment. Surely the driver must have seen him. If it had been him or his dad and they’d seen someone alone in a situation like this, they wouldn’t have just left them.

But this was the big city. He remembered that girl he’d helped with her luggage at Waterloo. Vicky James; he’d even remembered her name. Everyone else, though, had blanked her. In London, if you didn’t know anyone, you were on your own.