Portent (22 page)

    His bed had been neatly remade and he sat on the comer for a moment to reflect on last night's conversation with Diane. He thought of the twins, their background, her alcoholic husband and his death-his suicide? And the light. A mystical sign, she'd suggested. Nonsense or… Or what? Get real, he told himself. Telepathy between twins was one thing, he could handle that; but a mystical sign? A sign of what? He drank the last of the coffee. A sign of their paranoia, maybe. And Poggs and his family were dragging him in. He shook his head, annoyed at himself. Annoyed because there was something about these people-perhaps it was their earnest sincerity-that made him half believe.

    He grabbed the bathrobe hanging over the back of a chair and slipped it on before realising it was the spare that Diane had borrowed. Her faint scent was still in the material and he breathed it in, unaware of his own smile. Rivers went through to the bathroom, his mind busy.

    Breakfast of ham, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes was on the table and Diane was fiddling with the small TV when he came into the kitchen fifteen minutes later.

    'Can't get rid of this damn interference,' she said, glancing in his direction. 'Hey, jeans and sweatshirt-doesn't fit the Met Office image.'

    'I'm off duty.' He went over to the television and saw the picture was broken up by now, the sound itself fuzzy. 'The aerial must've shaken loose last night.' He checked the leads at the back anyway. 'I don't know-your radio's got problems as well.'

    He was surprised. 'Atmospherics?'

    'Could be. Sit, before your breakfast gets cold. You're out of eggs, by the way.' She switched off the set.

    Rivers realized he was hungry, ravenously so. He sat at the table and Diane joined him, although all that was before her was a glass of orange juice.

    He pointed with his fork. 'Is that all you're having?'

    'I found a couple of apples earlier. A lot healthier than what you're about to eat, but I didn't figure you for the health-food type.'

    He nodded agreement. 'You'd be right. So tell me the plan today.' She poured him fresh coffee. 'No real plan. We go back to Hazelrod, you talk to the children, we see what develops.'

    'What are you expecting?'

    She shrugged. 'I have no idea. I'm as puzzled as you are about this whole thing. We all are.'

    'Okay. We take it as it comes. But I think you'll be disappointed.'

    'We'll see. I'm just glad you've decided to go along with us.'

    'Let's say I'm curious. My own investigations have got me precisely nowhere so, like I said last night, I've got nothing to lose.'

    'Thank you anyway.'

    It was his turn to shrug.

    

    

    'Why is it so busy?'

    Rivers, in the passenger seat of Diane's Ford Escort, studied the heavy traffic. 'It's the rush to get out of London. They're scared of another earthquake.'

    Ahead, the ramp leading up to the M4 flyover was blocked with motionless vehicles.

    'I hope they've all got somewhere to go.' Diane inched the car forward, progress on the roundabout beneath the motorway painfully slow.

    'I don't think they care,' Rivers replied. 'These people just want to be out in the open, away from falling buildings.' He leaned forward and tried the car radio again, but the static that broke up-occasional moments of clear reception was too painful on the ears. He quickly switched off and gazed out at the sky. Overhead there appeared to be one massive sheet of white cloud, the sun visible only now and again as a vapid and ineffectual disc. The air itself was uncomfortably warm and humid.

    Someone behind thumped impatiently on his horn, and naturally others joined in the chorus. So much for alternate weeks, thought Rivers, as he observed the different colour stickers on windscreens all around. But perhaps these motorists weren't so wrong to panic, for who could say there would not be another tremor? Who the hell would have predicted the first one?

    'We should have taken a quieter road out of London,' Diane said, her hands tense on the steering wheel.

    'There won't be any quiet roads out of London today. Relax, we'll get there eventually. Once we're on the motorway things'll be smoother.'

    'I'm not so sure. I bet it's packed solid up there as well.' The car moved forward a few more inches.

    A police traffic helicopter passed low overhead and veered away to the left, heading across to the south side of the nearby river. Rivers watched it go, envying its freedom. He made up his mind. 'Okay, it might be better to try another way. Rather than make for the ramp, ease us over so we can take the next exit. It'll take us down to Kew Bridge and over the Thames. Traffic might just be a little easier on the other side.'

    She flicked the indicator switch without further discussion and began to edge the Escort over to the left. Other drivers were not keen on the manoeuvre, and Rivers stuck his hand out of the side window in a placating gesture. It took some time, but eventually they drove off the roundabout and headed south along the Chiswick High Road towards the bridge. Soon, however, Diane had to bring the car to a halt: traffic ahead was backed up from a busy junction, the lights there apparently having failed.

    'Getting out of the city is going to take the best part of the day,' Diane complained resignedly.

    Rivers grinned, although he hardly felt relaxed himself. 'Until a few years ago, rush hours in London were like this all the time.'

    'I remember, although we've always avoided the place. Dirty, smelly, about to collapse in on itself-and that was before the earthquake.' She laughed, then became serious again. 'I still don't understand how it could have happened. Surely a fault would have shown up before now.'

    'Probably a fracture so minor no machine could detect it. Then something happened deep down in the Earth-an eruption of some kind-to disturb it, make it worse. That sort of thing is happening all over the world every minute of the day. This one happened to be more serious than most and in a very vulnerable place.' He frowned. Something was going on up ahead, a disturbance of some kind, but he couldn't make out what. Distant shouts came through the open windows of the car. Then he understood.

    'Wind up your window and lock your door,' he ordered Diane sharply.

    She looked at him in surprise and he saw it was already too late. A large brown-skinned face had appeared behind Diane's shoulder.

    For a second or two Rivers was unable to react-the face was familiar, the huge staring eyes, the broad, strangely disfigured nose-but he blinked and the face changed. It was still that of a black person, but the features had altered instantly. Confused-and with a deep dread remaining-he stared back into those hate-filled eyes.

    Diane cried out when a muscled brown arm shot through the window and the youth's head and shoulder followed. His eyes quickly scanned the car's interior and came to rest on Rivers' overnight bag on the back seat. The man made a lunge for it, throwing himself halfway through the window and pinning Diane against her seat.

    Now Rivers moved, anger overcoming his fear. His left fist smashed into the side of the would-be thief's face. He followed up with another swift blow, this one aimed at the bridge of the sprawling youth's nose, sending him scrambling backwards to get clear. Diane pushed frantically at the intruder, helping him on his way.

    Once outside, he recovered enough to scream abuse at Rivers, then yank the door open and hurl himself inside. Diane tried to push him away once more, but he was too strong for her. This time, though, Rivers was ready.

    He had picked up his cane, which had been resting beside his leg in the footwell, and he aimed it at the looming face. The blow was short, sharp, and very hard. The black youth's broad nose became even broader, flattening itself with a cracking sound. The youth grunted and spittle shot from his mouth. Rivers used his hand to shove him backwards out of the car and the would-be thief fell into the road, a thick ooze of blood trickling from his broken nose.

    'Pull your door shut!' Rivers yelled at Diane, but realized he had left himself unprotected when his own door flew open and rough hands reached in to grab him by his neck. He was dragged backwards out of the Escort and, as he sprawled in the space created by Diane's car and the one next to it, sneakered feet began to kick at his body. He managed to hold on to one of the legs that was inflicting the damage and he pulled hard, sending his assailant crashing to the ground. Someone else grabbed him by the hair and shoulders and lifted him. The other man-fair-haired, T-shirted, wearing the usual mugger's mask of snarled hatred-came at him again, aiming a punch at Rivers' exposed gut.

    It hurt, it hurt badly. He doubled up, the man behind unable to hold him upright such was his reflex action, and sucked in air, his throat rasping with the effort. A knee aimed at his face sent him flying backwards against the neighbouring car.

    'The Filth!' he heard someone shout close to his ear and, as he steadied himself against the car's roof, still drawing asthmatic breaths, a body roughly pushed by him. As the fair-haired assailant squared up to him, Rivers saw uncertainty on his pock-marked face. This one was either wondering if he had enough time to do more damage, or if he had time to grab the wallet bulging in Rivers' jeans pocket before the police arrived. Someone else rushed between them shouting another warning.

    Rivers didn't wait for the man to make up his mind. He struck out with a bunched fist, putting all his weight behind the blow.

    His opponent was quick enough to dodge the full impact, but the punch caught him nevertheless. He staggered backwards, recovered his balance, and ran without, even looking at Rivers again. For his part, Rivers leaned back against the car, his chest still heaving, glad to see the thug go.

    Diane had jumped from the Escort the moment the black man had run off and now she flattened herself against its wing as a policeman pushed by. She was relieved to see other uniformed men dodging between vehicles, chasing after the scattering mob. She shook her head in bewilderment.

    'Steamers.'

    Rivers had come to the other side of the Escort's bonnet and was leaning against it, his breathing still laboured, one hand held over his midriff.

    'What?'

    'Gangs used to do it in subways or shopping arcades, now they go in for highway robbery. They get together and wait for a good traffic jam, or even wait at busy road junctions-they know the best places-then run between cars snatching wallets, handbags, anything that's easily available. It's usually over so fast the motorists don't know what's hit them. The police call it "steaming".'

    Diane walked around to him. 'I hadn't realized what I've been missing all these years down in the country.'

    'We were lucky. The police probably already had them spotted-maybe from the traffic helicopter-before they really got started. My guess is mobs have been in action throughout the night and morning, taking advantage of power failures and the chaos after the quake.'

    Other motorists and their passengers, some of them in obvious distress, were climbing from their vehicles to watch the chase.

    'Are you okay?' Rivers asked, his breathing finally beginning to ease.

    'A little shaky, that's all. Thanks for getting rid of the brute.' She noticed a small trickle of blood from his lips. 'Did they hurt you badly?'

    'They did their best.' He dabbed at the blood with the handkerchief. 'Come on, let's get back into the car and be on our way. I'm beginning to hate this city.'

    For some reason she hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder for a brief moment. He regarded her with surprise.

    'Just glad you're with me,' she told him before breaking away and getting back into the car.

    

    

    He sat on a rock not far from the open doorway, his dry leathered face raised as though seeking the sun's rays. But the sun was hidden by the vast sky mist, although its power was scarcely diminished.

    The old man had brooded this way for almost three hours now, as if awaiting some empyrean message, perhaps listening for the fleet wings of a carrier.

    Despite the sultry heat he wore a threadbare jacket and trousers so faded their colour was inferred rather than stated. His grey shirt, a size too large, was buttoned to the neck, as though he distrusted any rare appeasement to the chill breezes that usually inhabited this great strata.

    He waited.

    And he waited.

    Until a recognition whetted his cloudy grey eyes. A recognition of thoughts.

    A thin shivering hand touched his brow and his eyes closed. His shoulders bowed forward and wisps of fine white hair hung almost to his bent knees.

    A single-breath sigh winnowed past his dry old lips.

    So many, so many others.

    And the jeopardy in that, the danger to themselves, and to all.

    His shoulders hunched. Oh so many. And the minds so young. Save for one.

    'Ah.' A sharper sigh this time, provoked by a swift vision of her, a grazing of thoughts, an awareness again of each other's presence.

    This time the awareness would not so easily fade: the iron in that frangible link had been set.

    And a momentum was gathering pace.

    
Pity us all
, he silently implored.
But pity the children most of all: they have not known their time.

    He bunched the collar of his jacket over his chest, even though the warmth remained and the wind was still quiescent.