The Darkfall Switch (2 page)

Fiona's train had just begun to slow down on its approach to Oxford Circus when, without any warning, the swaying bodies were suddenly jerked forward as the train ground to an unexpected stop. At the same instant the main lights in the compartment blinked off, leaving only the dim emergency lamps glowing. Their illumination threw ghastly shadows and for the first time people looked into their neighbours' eyes and saw the beginnings of concern. It was little more than an annoyance at this stage – the fear would come later.

All at once they were people, not just lumps of humanity. They were uncomfortably crowded against each other and incapable of escaping.

Fiona felt her heart start to beat more urgently. She tried to peer past the people near her, to see if the train had actually arrived at the platform. If they had, perhaps the driver would open the doors and let them out.

But when she succeeded her alarm rose, because although she could see that the train had indeed reached the station, it too was lit only by the gloom of emergency lights.

For a while, there was a deathly silence in the train. Then people started grumbling under their breath, pointlessly asking those nearest to them why the doors stayed shut. Then the rising complaints were cut short by the driver's voice coming over the loudspeakers. ‘I'm sorry about this, ladies and gentlemen,' it said. ‘It looks like we have a power failure. I've opened the front doors of the train. Please stay calm and move forward through the train to the front, and then on to the platform. Somebody will give you instructions once you arrive there.'

Fiona relaxed a little. She wondered how long it would take to get the occupants of this compartment out, let alone an entire trainload. There seemed to be an infinite pause before she could hear sounds of movement, and then the people near her started to shuffle slowly forward. The process of leaving the train was painfully slow. Still, there was an air of cheerful resignation about the crowd and as they reached the platform they continued to move forward to make room for others following on.

Fiona moved with the crowd until she reached the open door and stepped on to the platform. It was marginally less crowded here for now, and slightly less hot, but it was still unpleasantly warm.

It took some time, but eventually the train was empty and everybody was standing on the platform, wondering what to do next. Waiting for the promised instructions. It was getting warmer here: the usual draughts of air from approaching and departing trains were missing and an uncanny quiet had settled over the platform and its massed occupants.

When the promised announcement eventually came it was hardly helpful: ‘Attention please!' The metallic voice echoed from the hard walls of the platform. ‘There's been a temporary power loss. We expect power to be restored very soon. Please wait for further announcements.'

There was movement and sound from the far end of the platform and Fiona craned her head to see what was happening. In the gloom she could just make out shadowy figures of people emerging from the other tunnel mouth, and hands reaching down to help them climb on to the already crowded platform.

But soon there was no point. The platform was full.

Fiona wondered about all the trains stuck in these tunnels. How widespread was the blackout? She shivered. It looked like she was going to be here for some time.

It was not a pleasant prospect.

At the London Underground Network Control Centre, the power loss had first become apparent when the centre's own lighting went out and the emergency lamps blinked on.

The ensuing silence had lasted for only a few moments before it was broken by an outburst of chiming alarms and, shortly afterwards, by a rising cacophony of many telephones ringing. The men and women working in the centre were initially startled, then annoyed, at the unexpected turn of events.

Peter Bendell, the duty manager, cursed as he suddenly found himself looking at a blank computer screen. It was the main monitoring screen for the system's sophisticated train display system and its loss meant that he had at a stroke lost all visibility of the many trains operating on the network.

Bendell was quickly inundated by requests for advice and information. It was clear that those who knew the secret priority telephone number had already started to jump the queue by calling in directly to the incident desk. Then, to cap it all, the company's press office rang him on his own mobile to report that newspapers were already starting to call in to find out what had happened.

‘I don't bloody know!' Bendell responded angrily. ‘But it's not just us – it looks like the whole fucking town's gone out.'

He caught sight of his assistant frantically signalling to him across the mêlée. She mouthed some words and held up a telephone. Then, realizing that he didn't understand, she held up three fingers of her left hand, indicating that he should pick up a call on Line 3.

It was Alec Dean, the duty engineer. ‘We've lost all power,' he said.

‘That's fucking obvious,' Bendell snapped. ‘Now tell me something I don't already know.'

Dean was stung into defending himself. ‘It's not just the lighting,' he said angrily, ‘we've lost the traction power, supplies to the signalling system, the escalators, the ventilation – the lot. I've been on to the EDF control room. They say they've lost the main feeder into their system and a big power station's gone off line at the same time. They reckon it looks like most of the South East's lost power. It's a total blackout.'

‘Christ!' Bendell swore. EDF supplied power to the whole of London including the Underground system. The implications were frightening.

‘The whole of South East England?' Bendell asked.

‘Seems like it.'

‘How long before we're back on?'

‘They don't know. It's a complete blank. Until they know exactly what happened they've no hope of restoring the feed to us. They've got loads of other problems to deal with as well.'

‘Fuck them,' Bendell growled. ‘None of them are as bad as ours. We've got thousands of people trapped underground. It's soon gonna get bloody hot and uncomfortable down there. We only need some idiot to panic and—'

‘I'm trying to get hold of Greenwich,' Dean continued, referring to the Underground system's backup power station where, at the instant of power failure, massive gas-turbine generators should have started automatically and swung into action to take over the task of feeding the system.

Bendell was deeply agnostic, but now he subconsciously found himself praying to some hidden deity – any deity would do – for deliverance. Everything depended on Greenwich now. When would it come on?

At the foot of the escalators the crowd began to build up under the barely-adequate emergency lights. Initially nearly everybody had been good-humoured, exchanging resigned banter but then, as the heat began to rise, tempers started to fray.

‘Why don't they tell us what's going on?' one portly businessman muttered. Sweat streamed down his face and dribbled down his multiple chins.

‘Dunno, mate,' a lanky youth beside him said. ‘P'raps they don't know themselves.'

‘Well, they bloody well should,' the businessman snapped. ‘All I know is that I'm not going to stay here and suffer.'

At that, he started to push his way past the few people between him and the foot of the escalator. He started the long climb.

‘Wouldn't try to walk up there if I had his figure,' the youth muttered quietly to nobody in particular, as he watched the slowly ascending figure in the gloom of the sparse emergency lights. ‘Don't look like he's in ace condition.'

It would indeed need a measure of fitness to climb all the way up; the
Central Line platforms at Oxford Street are very, very deep, and the escalators are long.

But the man's movement had triggered off a mood of truculent determination and before long several others had started to follow him.

Soon the trickle became a steady flow, and then it was a flood. People were beginning to climb even what had previously been the down escalator, meeting those who had been descending and forcing them to reverse their direction. But it was a long, hard climb up either one, and even together they weren't enough of an escape route.

Even those – like Fiona – who might have been content to stay and await the restoration of power found themselves being propelled unwillingly up the stairs, along the passageways and towards the stalled escalators. She felt herself being pushed forward and there was nothing she could do to avoid the movement.

‘No,' she said to those near her. ‘We should wait here.'

But nobody was listening. The mass of people moved inexorably along the platform.

It was eerily quiet. Nobody spoke. The only sound was that of countless shuffling feet.

Fiona sighed. There was no point in resisting, so she let herself be pushed along the platform, through the exit and to the foot of the escalator. She resigned herself to it, thinking that at least she would soon be in the fresh air.

But then, soon after she had reached the escalator and started the long walk up, the increasing urgency of the throng took on an air of fear. Something had triggered the fear and people were beginning to panic. It was no longer a walk, more a struggle to keep upright as the mass of bodies surged forward and upward. People at the back were shoving forward, and Fiona found herself being pushed from behind and pressed with increasing force against those in front.

She was behind a woman of uncertain years who was carrying far too much weight and whose body reeked of sweat. Fiona could feel the woman's body straining as she gasped for air and she realized that she was clawing at those ahead of her, trying in vain to pull them away to make room for herself. It was turning into a scrum.

In the crush of bodies it was difficult to take any action other than to try to avoid stumbling, but Fiona saw that the woman's actions were becoming a danger to all around her, and she realized that she had to do
something to protect herself. She somehow managed to pull her hands up to shoulder level and she now used them to push herself away from the woman.

‘Stay calm!' she said to herself. ‘You mustn't panic.'

And then, way beyond her field of vision, somebody in front of the seething snake of bodies fell. It was the portly man who had made the first move to the escalator. Perhaps he stumbled but, whatever the cause, he was quickly submerged under the press of bodies. The crush was propelling people over and across his crumpled body. A woman behind him started to bend over to help him but she fell forward on to him, relentlessly pushed by the surge coming from behind. ‘Stop it!' she screamed. ‘I can't get up.'

But it was futile. Nobody heard her, or cared about what she was yelling. The victim and his would-be helper were just obstacles in the way to safety.

Somebody tried to vault over the bodies but failed. He fell, and others fell on him. Soon a knot of cursing, writhing figures had obstructed the whole width of the escalator in front, behind and on top of him. The procession of tightly packed bodies stalled for a moment. And then somebody screamed.

The sound panicked those on the adjacent escalator and suddenly somebody there fell too and the scene repeated itself until both escape routes were blocked.

Suddenly it was each man for himself as people scrambled, fought and clawed in futile attempts to get up the escalators.

‘Stop it!' This time Fiona shouted the words. ‘Stop it!'

But it was too late; sheer panic worsened the futile stampede. Bodies fell and feet trampled them down, pressing the air from their lungs.

Fiona grabbed at the escalator's wide rubber handrail for support, but it was useless. Her fingers slipped and she was cruelly pushed down. Initially, her descent was slowed by the sheer mass of people surrounding her, but then her face slammed into the sharp metal edge of a step and she cried out in pain. She felt a sudden bony pressure on her head – she couldn't tell if it was a knee or elbow – and the pressure intensified mercilessly. She watched in horror as blood began to seep between the slats under her face. She struggled to rise, but the weight on her back remained, relentlessly holding her in place. The pressure on her was appalling and fear rose in her as she realized that, under the press of the
bodies crushing her, it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.

She whispered a futile prayer as she gasped for air and pressed at everything around her, whether yielding, writhing, struggling bodies or unyielding metal, in repeated vain attempts to rise to her feet.

But it was useless. The pressure increased relentlessly.

It was almost a relief when everything went black.

Dan Foster climbed out of the Morgan +8 roadster and looked around. He had stopped in a pretty tree-shaded avenue close to London’s sprawling Richmond Park. It was early evening and the trees were showing the best of their early-autumn colours in the golden light of the setting sun. The air had been washed clear by the rain that had fallen earlier in the day, and now everything was crystal-bright. It was still warm, and hanging in the air was a slight, not unpleasant, smell of leaves burning on distant bonfires.

He sniffed at the air and clenched his jaw as he removed a bottle of wine from the car. This evening was going to be tough. Three months had passed since the Oxford Circus disaster and the pain of losing his fiancée, Fiona, was still like a raw wound – an injury into which salt was agonizingly rubbed by the slightest reference to her.

Immediately after the disaster he had retreated into a shell, and it had been a long time before his many friends had been able to persuade him to emerge again. Now, this was the first time he had been to a dinner party since her death, and he dreaded what the evening would bring. But he knew he had to face life again some time or other, and it might as well be now. He locked the car and headed for a nearby house.

As he pushed the gate open and stepped on to the crazy-paved path leading to the front door, he paused for a moment to think about the owner of the house in front of him. Alex Cooper was an old friend who had left his home in Hong Kong soon after the former colony’s handover to the Peoples’ Republic of China in 1997. Alex had made his
pile in Hong Kong and, as a result, had been able to buy this elegant Victorian edifice.

Foster had to admire the house. It was a two-storey detached,
red-brick
building, fronted by an elegant lawn. The lawn was bordered with flower-beds that were only now beginning to recover from the summer’s drought. Foster guessed that Cooper employed a gardener, because he had always dismissed gardening as an esoteric art obscured by complicated Latin names and mumbo jumbo processes. His Hong Kong apartment had boasted only a small window box which Cooper’s Canadian wife, Tina, had lovingly nurtured.

Foster was confident that the invitation he had received had come from Alex, most probably over Tina’s objections. He had always suspected that she was suspicious of him, and probably a little jealous too because, as engineers, the two men had much in common. Although they both tried hard to include her in their conversations when she was present they both knew that, at best, she merely perched on the edge of their discussions, apparently amused but not really involving herself, and showing an obvious air of bored tolerance.

He advanced up to the door, rang the bell and was very soon greeted by Cooper who gave his customary broad Cockney greeting, ‘Wot-cher mate!’ and proffered a large paw to be shaken as he looked at Foster. Cooper was faintly surprised that very little seemed to have changed in his old friend: there was still the tan, possibly a little faded now, and perhaps the beard was a little more grey, but he still looked fit and under his smart cord jacket and chinos, his body seemed hard-muscled as ever.

Foster accepted the offered fist and handed over the bottle of wine. Cooper gave the label a once-over and smiled thanks before leading his old friend into the living room.

The room was genuinely beautiful, with intricately moulded plaster cornices, elegant William Morris wallpaper, comfortable chairs and a large settee. A fire blazed in the hearth opposite a wall filled with bookshelves.

‘Very nice!’ Foster commented and Cooper smiled an
acknowledgement
.

‘Yes, Tina’s done it up well,’ Cooper said. ‘Or she’s employed people to do it,’ he added with a wink. ‘I found the house myself and fell in love with it because it’s got a huge brick outbuilding that I saw straight away could be turned into a workshop. I’ll give you a dekko later, if you like.’

Cooper loved engineering. When he had been working in Hong Kong he had enjoyed building beautiful scale models in a tiny workshop that he had converted from one of his apartment’s bedrooms. The machines he needed for this work had had to be laboriously hauled up the outside of their tall apartment block.

‘What’s your latest project?’ Foster asked.

‘A twelfth-scale model of an RNLI lifeboat. I’ll show you later.’

Foster knew better than to ask if the model had been built from a kit. He knew that Cooper would have lovingly hand-crafted the vessel, and that it would be accurate down to the most minute detail. He looked forward to seeing it and the workshop.

At that point Tina walked in. She had filled out a little since he had last seen her in Hong Kong. Her dark hair showed no trace of grey, but Foster suspected that this was due to the careful work of a skilled colourist. Somehow it suited her; she looked elegant and happy.

‘Dan, how lovely to see you again!’ She smiled as she offered a cheek to be kissed. She still retained a trace of an accent from her Canadian roots. Her greeting was warm; one could have been forgiven for thinking that it was quite genuine. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she went on quickly. ‘I’ve asked a friend of ours to join us at dinner.’

Foster looked past her and saw Cooper grimace and open his arms in a gesture of resignation.

‘Tina, it’s your party. You ask whoever you like.’

The doorbell rang before they could settle down. Tina apologized and bustled out of the room, heading for the hallway. ‘Darling!’ Foster heard her cry as she opened the front door. ‘Don’t you look wonderful!’

The woman she brought in was indeed stunning. She was tall, slim and elegantly dressed, with sleek, jet-black hair that shone in the evening light. She was wearing a figure-hugging green dress with a black Pashmina over her shoulders.

‘Come in, Janet, there’s someone you should meet.’ The newcomer looked at Foster and smiled as she proffered her hand. He shook it, feeling the smooth warmth of her skin.

Tina introduced them. ‘Janet, this is Dan Foster, an old friend of ours from Hong Kong.’

‘Janet Coleman,’ the woman said. There was a brief pause as she looked at him, her brow furrowed in thought, before she continued. ‘Foster…. Oh, I remember now! Weren’t you the one who exposed
some sort of scandal involving the government a while ago? You were on TV.’

Foster nodded and was about to speak when Tina commanded, ‘Get the drinks, won’t you, darling.’

Knowing his friend’s tastes Cooper gave him a malt: a Balvenie DoubleWood, surely kept for just this occasion. Tina and Janet each asked for a sherry and after he had poured these Cooper dispensed a stiff gin and tonic for himself. He measured the proportions carefully, as was his habit of old. A G&T had to be just so; nothing but Bombay Sapphire, the proportions exact, the sequence of combining them just right. Foster smiled and then turned and asked the newcomer what she did for a living.

‘I work for an insurance company.’

Once again Tina interrupted. ‘Listen to her,’ she laughed. ‘Just listen! She doesn’t just work for them; she’s the chief executive. And it’s not a small company either: it’s one of the majors.’

Foster realized then that, whether or not she was a friend, Janet was another of Tina’s acquisitions, an accoutrement to bolster her own standing. He decided to pander to his hostess’s whims; he owed it to his old friend to keep her happy.

‘I’m impressed,’ he said to Janet. ‘No glass ceiling with your firm, then.’

‘Don’t you believe it!’ Janet smiled at him, showing perfect white teeth. ‘I just had to work harder, that’s all.’

Foster could imagine it. He found himself admiring her. He guessed she was in her early forties. It would have been quite an achievement for anybody to have reached her exalted rank at such a young age; doubly so for a woman. She looked at him over the rim of her glass and asked, ‘About you. That scandal—?’

‘Sorry,’ Foster cut her short. If they talked about the Chinese episode, the conversation would sooner or later be bound to drift on to the subject of Fiona, and that was a pain he would rather not be forced to endure. Not yet anyway. ‘It’s off limits,’ he said quietly. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

There was a moment’s awkward silence. Tina scowled into her glass while her husband seemed to be taking great interest in the plaster mouldings edging the ceiling.

It was Janet who broke the spell. ‘No, of course not,’ she said
pleasantly, without any sign of rancour at being rebuffed. ‘What shall we talk about instead?’

They ended up discussing the current scandal that had rocked the showbiz world – an opera singer had split from his beautiful and successful wife, the mother of two bright boys aged under ten, and taken up with another man, a famous ballet-dancer. The matter had greatly exercised the redtops of late.

‘This is one of the many times I say I’m switching to the
FT
,’ Cooper said. ‘They’ve scarcely mentioned it.’

‘Why does anyone think we have the slightest interest?’ Janet asked. ‘It isn’t as if there weren’t much more relevant and important things going on.’

Foster decided he liked her even more.

The conversation continued for a while, and then Tina stood up. ‘I’ll see how the dinner’s going,’ she said. ‘Alex, why don’t you show Dan your model now, before we eat?’ Her tone was dismissive, slightly patronizing:
You big boys and your toys
, it hinted.

‘Can I take a look?’ Janet said quickly as they all rose to their feet. ‘I’ve heard so much about it from Tina.’

Cooper looked at his wife. An annoyed frown crossed her face but then she nodded acceptance. ‘Of course,’ she said to Janet. ‘You can stop the boys getting overly bogged down and spoiling the meal by being late.’ There was acid in her tone.

And with that she almost flounced out of the room.

Janet’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. ‘Oh dear,’ she said under her breath, and the two men briefly exchanged conspiratorial grins.

Cooper led the way to the back door and the three of them walked through the fading light along a paved path leading towards a long brick building at the end of the garden. Janet was still wearing the Pashmina and, as he followed her along the path, Foster saw her pull it further over her shoulders against the chill of the evening air.

As they reached the outbuilding Cooper opened the door and switched on the light inside. Foster had moved alongside Janet and they now both gasped. A pool of intense white light illuminated a work-table in the centre of the room on which stood a beautiful model boat, its deep-blue hull surmounted by a bright orange superstructure. High-gloss paintwork glistened under the glare of the overhead lights. Emblazoned on the side of the hull, in stark white lettering, were the numbers 17-21
and under the wheelhouse windows a plate bore the name
RNLB David and Elizabeth Ackland
.

‘She’s a model of the latest Newhaven boat,’ Cooper explained. ‘A Severn class.’

‘She’s beautiful,’ Janet breathed and Foster took a sideways look at her. Her eyes were shining in genuine admiration. ‘How long did it take you to build?’

‘Best part of two years. Keeps me out of mischief. She’s a fully working model. Radio controlled. She’s pretty well finished now; only a few small finishing touches, and then I’ll be able to take her out and show her off.’

Foster took reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on to peer at the model. He wondered about the logistics of taking it out of this building and down to somewhere that could provide enough room for it to sail; the model was nearly five feet long and almost two feet wide and bristling with whip aerials. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it weighed.

He reached out and ran his fingertips over the smoothness of the lovely sleek hull. ‘She’s fantastic, Alex,’ he said approvingly. ‘You’ve done well.’

But before Cooper could respond they heard Tina calling them to dinner.

She produced an excellent meal: mushrooms on ciabatta in a cheese sauce to start, followed by delicious sea bass, cooked to perfection. Cooper brought out a chilled bottle of Chablis but Foster declined; he had a long drive back ahead of him and he didn’t want to risk losing his licence. ‘I’ll round the evening off with another malt later,’ he said, as he took a glass of chilled orange juice from his host.

They were about halfway through the main course when the conversation turned to the power cut that had blacked out most of southern Britain during the recent summer’s heatwave. Janet had raised the question in all innocence, and it was a natural step; she knew that both men had worked with the power industry and she was curious as to how such a cataclysmic disaster could have happened.

She didn’t catch the look that Tina flashed her, but Foster did.

‘It’s OK,’ he said quietly. ‘I can handle it.’ He had changed his mind. Earlier on he had decided not allow the conversation to venture near any
subject that could have led to a reference to Fiona. But he had thought about it since then, and he realized that he had to tackle the problem now; the tragedy was a little further away and he felt more relaxed about discussing it. Anyway, he had to get back to normality at some time: perhaps that time was now.

Seeing Tina’s surprised look when he made his statement, Janet was clearly puzzled, so he explained. ‘I lost my partner in the Tube incident.’

Her hand half rose to her mouth, then stopped. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. ‘I’m so sorry … I didn’t know.’ She was clearly horrified that she had started the conversation.

To save her further embarrassment, Foster cut in quickly, ‘Don’t worry about it. You weren’t to know.’

‘Perhaps, but….’

‘It was a horrible thing. We’d all been warning about it for a long time now. Engineers, I mean. We saw it coming.’

‘What do you mean?’

Foster answered, ‘Back in the ’70s, what was then called London Underground commissioned a big firm of consulting engineers to look into the vulnerability of the Tube system in the face of power cuts. Their report said that the Underground’s supply system was so vital that if it was lost for as much as ten to twenty minutes, people would start to die.’