Portent (17 page)

    In her convulsions, her legs worked loose and she fell into the back seat. A glancing blow to her forehead caused her to see many more balls of light, this time exploding ones, rainbow-coloured. And as her body was beaten by the stones of pure ice she began to forget about the pain and to think about the one shining light.

    Until this faded too, and there was no more, there was nothing at all left, and Tina shed her body and went off in search of something new, something infinitely more peaceful than earthly success would be. It was a pleasant enough last thought.

    

    

    The pain was bad. Really bad.

    Rivers leaned against a wall, waiting for the daggers that sliced into his leg to blunt, for the hurting to peak out. A woman passed by, wary of him, making no offer of help. Perhaps she had her own worries, friends or relatives caught up in the traumatized sector of the city. Or maybe she thought he was just another street bum, gone on cheap liquor, a fugitive from social order. He looked the part, clothes torn and bloodied, dust in his hair. But the earth tremor had left others in a worse state; some of them it had left dead.

    He straightened, the pain hardly diminished at all, the thought that he had not far to go giving him added strength. One more block, he told himself. One more block and he'd be home. Whether or not he'd be able to climb the steps to his front door was another matter.

    Strange how dusk-like it seemed out on the streets, even though it was only late afternoon. It was as if all the city's dust had been shaken into the air to mix with the still lingering sirocco sand, washing the sky a golden red, with the sun a muted fireball above the rooftops. The excited faces of the people who cluttered the streets were sanguine in the glow, belying their frightened mood. Many seemed to be in a state of shock, while others filled pubs and bars, spilling out on to the pavements, as if to celebrate their survival. The city had taken on an air of vibrancy, a mixture of fear and nervous hilarity, as everyone debated the unbelievable. An earthquake had hit London. Already newscasters were playing down the event, explaining to the public (no doubt urged by the appropriate government department to do so) that Great Britain underwent thirty-three earthquakes a year on average, so the event was not as spectacular, or even as unexpected, as one might imagine. Nevertheless, the impact of this one could not be denied-location alone gave cause for the gravest concern. This one had to have had a magnitude of at least 4.1 on the Richter scale, and scored at least 7 on the Modified Mercalli scale, Rivers thought, an assessment he had been unable to verify as yet. All lines to the Met Office were blocked when he had tried to get through earlier, even those special numbers which only the privileged agency members held. That there had been no warnings, no softer seismic disturbances prior to the main tremor, was not that unusual; but it was worrying. The quake itself had lasted only a few minutes and so far there had been no aftershocks. Now he wondered if there would be any at all.

    From the damage he had observed as he made his way through the streets, he had been close to the epicentre, just above the focus point, when the earthquake had struck. None of the buildings that he had seen had sustained serious structural damage, although several would require urgent maintenance and many windows would need replacing. Roads were cracked and even buckled, but no holes or chasms had opened up, and he'd heard that a water surge along the Thames had wrecked several small craft. Inevitably public transport and communications had been badly disrupted, with subways and overground railways closed until walls, bridges and tracks had been thoroughly examined and all signalling checked. The traffic light system had been knocked out in a large area of the city by a power cut, further hindering the efforts of the police to clear the snarl-ups.

    When Rivers had regained consciousness in his wrecked car he found the woman with the bloodied face slumped against the front passenger seat, the vehicle itself tilted at a crazy angle, almost on its side. The rumbling in the ground had stopped; in fact, everything was unreasonably quiet. He had clambered up the rear seat and pushed open a door.

    People were standing around the street, most of them, it seemed, in a kind of daze. Some were weeping-men as well as women-while others just stared in amazement. Then the noise began-shouts, calls, vehicles being started up again, the crunching of shattered glass as people crossed the road. The chatter had become a clamour as people poured from the buildings.

    Rivers turned the comer into his own road and breathed a sigh of relief. The long journey through the city had drained him of energy, but without a car and with public transport in chaos there had been no choice but to walk home. The painkillers he always carried had scarcely taken the edge off the ache in his leg, and by now he was limping badly. A red slash of congealed blood across the back of his hand stood proud of the minor cuts he had received the night before; his cheekbone was already turning a purplish-blue from a blow he assumed he had received when he blacked out in his car. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, his shirt sodden with perspiration and he leaned heavily on the cane as he doggedly limped on.

    Rivers closed his eyes for an instant in relief when he saw the steps leading up to his home further along the road. Oh for a cool drink and a tepid shower, in that order. But would he have enough strength left to make it up those bloody steps?

    He stopped only thirty yards or so away from the front steps, his leg almost giving way under him. Come on, this is ridiculous, he told himself. He hadn't walked miles through the crowded streets in this strength-sapping heat only to be beaten this short distance from his own doorstep. 'Bastard,' he muttered, referring to his leg.

    Ahead a car door swung open and someone stepped out. 'Diane?'

    She came towards him, unsmiling.

    'Are you okay, Jim?'

    She wore a white short sleeved blouse and light, pleated skirt. 'What are you doing here?'

    'Are you okay? You look terrible.'

    'It's been mentioned.' And that had been before the earth tremor.

    'You look as though-'

    'I've been through an earthquake?'

    'Were you hurt?'

    'Scraped a little. Nothing serious. Tell me why you're here.'

    'Let's get you inside first.'

    'Diane, I'm not sure…'

    She slid under his arm, grabbing his waist. 'Don't be an idiot. Come on, lean on me and let's get up those steps.'

    'At least it's not raining this time.'

    She gave a short laugh. 'Storms and earthquakes. We meet in dire circumstances.'

    'You sound very English.'

    'That's what living with Poggsy and Bibby does for you.'

    'And your husband.'

    'Yeah, let's not forget him.'

    He glanced at her in surprise and saw resignation rather than anger in her expression.

    They passed the car she had been sitting in, a battered red Ford with an open sun-roof. 'I thought you travelled by minibus,' he remarked as they reached the steps. He gritted his teeth, ready for the climb.

    'We only use that for all the family. On my own it's more economical to use that old thing. You ready?'

    He nodded and they began the brief ascent. Rivers suppressed a groan as he used both Diane's shoulder and his stick for support.

    'Can you make it?' she asked, trying to take more of his weight than he would allow.

    'If we stop I'm done for.'

    'A couple more to go.'

    'Where's your husband, Diane?'

    She ignored the question until they were outside the front door. Rivers leaned against the frame, giving himself time to recover his breath and for the pain to subside a little. 'My physic would tell me this is good for me. She'd probably make me go back down and do it all over again.'

    'I know that kind of sadist. I worked as a nurse a short while before I got married. Tony's dead, by the way.'

    'Tony?'

    'My husband, Poggsy and Bibby's son.'

    'I'm sorry.'

    She shrugged. 'I am too-a little.'

    Rivers looked at her quizzically, but she offered nothing more. He dug into his trouser pocket for his keys. Two locks had to be turned before the door would open.

    It was blessedly cool in the hallway and both of them breathed a sigh.

    'You own the whole place?'

    'Just the ground floor. Basement's empty at the moment and two guys share the top.'

    'No more stairs then. Good.'

    He swayed unsteadily and Diane was by his side again, a hand clutching his elbow, her body firm against his.

    'You really are in bad shape.'

    'It comes and goes.' It was said with more levity than he felt. He pointed to a door along the corridor and singled out two more keys on the ring he held. She took them from him and went to the door. He followed and rested against the wall as she inserted first one key, then the other, wondering why she had come all this way to his home. It seemed like Hugo Poggs and his family were not going to let him go so easily. Yet what the hell did they expect from him?

    Diane opened the door and stood aside. 'Can I help you?' she asked.

    'I'm okay now,' he answered brusquely and went through to the apartment.

    She followed without being invited and quickly took in her surroundings. The place was tidy without being fussily so. Filled bookshelves rose on either side of the fireplace; a small-screen wall television set was mounted opposite a wide comfortable-looking sofa; an assortment of magazines and newspapers were stacked on a low coffee table; on a long sideboard behind the sofa were framed photographs-two of an elderly couple, another of a youngish family, a man and a woman seated on a garden swing-seat, two boys kneeling on the grass before them, all of them smiling brightly at the camera. The bleakness of the living room's white walls was broken up by three vivid original landscape pastels, all of them easily recognizable as Provence and signed by David Napp. Rivers' hi-fi system was an old-fashioned Bang & Olufsen. The room's drapes were light and too elegantly feminine to have been chosen by Rivers himself. Unless, of course, she had got him entirely wrong.

    'Look, I need to get out of these things and into the shower,' Rivers was saying as he turned to her. 'I don't want to be unsociable, but…'

    She waved a hand at his unfinished sentence. 'You go ahead and let me mix us both a cool drink. Something with a stiffener in them, yes?'

    'Can't any member of your family take a hint?'

    She smiled. 'Poggsy has taught me to be thick-skinned. Where's your ice-box-your fridge?'

    He nodded towards an open doorway. 'Kitchen's through there. There's vodka, gin, Scotch in the sideboard behind you.'

    'Vodka Collins sound good?'

    'Yeah. I think I've got the makings. I, er, I've got to be alone for a little while.'

    'Don't be embarrassed about plugging in around me. I saw you naked yesterday, remember? I caught sight of the point in your knee. Do those things really work?'

    'They ease it, sure. The oscillation somehow settles the nerve endings. Don't ask me how.'

    'Don't electrocute yourself. I'll fix the drinks and wait here till you're done, okay? Anything else I can get for you?'

    He shook his head. 'Will you answer some questions for me?'

    'More? When you're feeling better.' She crouched at the sideboard, pulling open a door. 'In here, you say. Ah, I see it. Vodka. My, you keep well stocked. I'll do plenty of ice for us both, right?' Rivers had already disappeared into the bedroom.

    'Right,' Diane said quietly to herself.

    'You look better,' Diane said, handing him a tall glass.

    Rivers had changed into light chinos and cotton T-shirt. His feet were bare, his hair still shiny wet. He took the drink from her and pulled over a chair from the writing desk by the window. She raised her glass and took a deep swallow. He did the same.

    'Tell me why you're here,' he said without preamble.

    Diane tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa and leaned against an arm. 'Josh and Eva wanted me to come.'

    'Josh and Eva? Why?'

    'They knew you were in danger.'

    'They saw the earth tremor?'

    'Uh-uh. A negative. They just sensed you were in danger.'

    Before he could stop himself, Rivers said, 'The light…'

    She regarded him curiously. They sensed something was happening to you. Poggsy thought one of us should find out what was wrong, particularly when we couldn't contact you by phone. I was nominated. No, not quite: I nominated myself.'

    'But I thought I saw…' He'd said it slowly almost to himself.

    'What, Jim, saw what?'

    He straightened his shoulders as if reasserting rational thought. 'Nothing. I thought I saw the weird light again, but it was just a mental image, a memory.'

    'You're sure of that?'

    'I'm not sure of anything. But I know it was like before, in the research plane. Except… except it wasn't real this time.'

    'Was it last time?'

    He rested the glass on the coffee table. 'That's an odd thing for you to say, especially when your own children claim to have seen it.'

    'Oh, I'm not saying the light hasn't been seen. I just wonder if it's actually there.'

    'You're not making sense.'

    'What if it's a warning, a mystical sign of some kind that's only in the mind. Don't you find it significant that it always precedes a disaster? That's when the children sense it, just before something terrible happens.'