The Jonah (28 page)

Ellie tried to force a smile. ‘I bought it yesterday. It’s for you, Jim, a present.’

He looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘Don’t you know what day it is?’ Her cheerfulness was a pose, but she had to shake him out of his mood. ‘I read it in your file. It’s your birthday, Jim.’

Ellie cried out at the look of stark horror that suddenly appeared on Kelso’s battered face.

The depression was moving in a south-easterly direction and deepening as it travelled. Its origin had been in the cold waters around the south of Iceland and now it had reached
the Atlantic where the tips of the undulating waves were skimmed off by a sudden breeze that had sprung up from nowhere. Within minutes, the breeze had become a wind and, by the time the
depression’s centre had neared the Hebrides, the wind had become a gale.

By noon, urged on by the wind-drift, the depression had reached its greatest intensity and had swung south into the North Sea. The wind’s ferocity had reached Force 10 with individual
gusts reaching a velocity of 120mph, and it followed in the wake of the depression, circling counter-clockwise and striking the east coast with the strength of a tornado.

The depression began to fill as it moved southwards at a speed of almost 30mph and the waters began to pile up before it. Fishing fleets were forced to flee back to shelter, those not fast
enough and those who had refused to heed the first warnings swamped or swept along by the rushing sea. Other commercial ships tried gamely to resist the surge, but these, too, were forced to flee
to the nearest ports where, even in the most sheltered harbours, docking proved hazardous. The Edinburgh-Reykjavik ferry sank. There were no survivors. Thousands of acres of trees in the eastern
part of Scotland were flattened by the winds that travelled inland. A North Sea oil rig’s leg buckled under the strain of pounding waves but, miraculously, the platform did not topple into
the sea as had a sister rig, the
Alex Keilland
, only a few years before. Those on board, many of whom had been injured when the structure had tilted, had to decide whether to take to the
life rafts or remain on the perilously angled rig. They were aware that Sea King helicopters would never reach the crippled platform in such conditions, yet most chose to stay with the rig: the sea
looked the more dangerous of the alternatives. The banked-up waters sped along the coastline, sweeping inland where the sea defences were weak or the lay of the land was low, devastating coastal
towns and ports, destroying property and lives with merciless fury.

The rise in the sea level increased as the north wind relentlessly pushed it onwards, for movement was blocked further south by the narrowing of the North Sea basin between East Anglia and
Holland, and the bottleneck of the Straits of Dover. The water rapidly accumulated and began to pile up as it moved southwards towards the vulnerable coastal towns.

Sector Officer George Gavin slammed down the phone and stared out into the stormy blackness beyond the windows of the coastguard lookout tower. It would be on them at any
moment. Bloody fools! As in ’53, the warning had come too late! The build-up to the flood had begun in the early hours of the morning, but only when the rising waters had steamrollered their
way down half the coast of eastern England had the alarms gone out.

He checked his watch and swore softly. A few minutes past eight. There was an unnatural darkness outside as though the winter night had suddenly returned. The town would be unprepared, memories
of the last disastrous flood dim in the minds of the older inhabitants, and merely interesting stories to the younger folk. George had been sector officer for that area of coastline even then, and
had felt helpless against the sea’s vicious onslaught: now that same sense of uselessness had returned. The local constabulary, whom he had just spoken to on the telephone, had already been
alerted to the danger and units had been dispersed to the nearest seaside towns. But there was no time for evacuation, only a chance to warn people to get themselves above ground level. If only
more time, more money, had been spent on building sea defences . . . The floor barriers and walls that had been erected after the ’53 flood would have some effect in reducing the catastrophe,
but the Waverly Committee, appointed by the government to indicate a margin of safety for sea defences with regard to risk and costs, had made the 1953 flood the standard for all other floods. A
higher surge had never been taken into account.

It was George’s duty to stay in the lookout tower situated at the southern end of the town’s sea parade until circumstances dictated otherwise, but this time his loyalties were more
immediate. Mary, his wife, was no longer the robust woman she had been in the fifties: tonight she would be propped up with cushions on the sofa in their front room, watching television. She rarely
complained of the arthritis that almost crippled her limbs, but the pain was evident in the lines that had eaten into her face, ageing her once strong features with a severity that had nothing to
do with passing years. George knew he had to get to their small house just a few hundred yards across from the deserted car park behind the lookout tower. There were no other warnings he could give
and even less duties he could perform to help the general situation. Mary’s safety was his prime concern.

The wind smashed into him as he stepped from the cocooned shelter of the tower, almost throwing him down the metal steps. He clung to the handrail for several long seconds, shocked by the
ferocity of the gale and struggling to regain the breath that had been knocked from him. Rain lashed at his face, forcing him to shield his eyes with one hand. He became even more frightened when
the wind buffeted his thin frame, trying to force him away from the railing, and quickly used both hands once more to grip the metal. God, he hadn’t realized the wind was so strong even
though he had seen the waves whipped mercilessly white by it from inside his lookout post! The reports from further up the coast had not prepared him for its intensity. Perhaps it had gained such a
momentum only in the past hour. He began to descend the steps, clinging to the rail and moving cautiously. Had it not been for Mary he would have crept back into his shelter and prayed for the rest
of the night.

By the time he reached ground level, his cap was gone and his eyes stung with salt water pelting in from the sea. He was reluctant to let go of the rail, knowing that he would be fully exposed
to the elements once he left the shelter of the building. Closing his mind against the danger, he stepped out onto the parade, his body crouched low against the tearing wind. Both hands shielded
his eyes now and, when he looked along the edge of the sea wall towards the north from where the worst of the storm was approaching, a numbness ran through him.

He knew there was no chance for him, not even if he ducked back into the shelter of the building. ‘Oh, Mary, Mary,’ he said, as the solid wall of black water hurtled along the
seafront towards him.

The caravan park on the northern fringe of the town was the first area to be hit by the massive wave. It had easily broken through the defences further along the coast, gale
force winds driving the sea swell forward with a force that was impossible to stop.

On site No. 11, Joseph Frazetta was running the buzzing vibrator over the nipples of the girl lying beneath him in the bunk bed. They had arrived earlier that afternoon and this was only their
third bout of lovemaking. Joseph, who was forty-two and had his own small printing company in Colchester, reckoned the caravan – or ‘Mobile Home’ as his wife, Doreen, preferred to
call it – was the best buy he had ever made. Ideal for the family and summer holidays, great for renting out to friends when he wasn’t using it, and terrific for bringing girlfriends to
when he was ‘officially’ away on business. Mandy, the girlfriend who happened to be under him at that moment, was not too ecstatic, though.

The storm outside had bothered her for the past hour. She was sure the wind had shifted the caravan’s position a couple of times. And she was sure, despite Joey’s reassurances, that
it was about to be blown over at any moment. Even the delicious tingle from the humming machine could not push the anxieties from her mind.

‘Come on, babe, relax,’ Joey urged as he moved the top of the vibrator down her ribcage.

‘How can I bloody relax with that commotion outside?’ Mandy complained.

‘It’s nothing. These shacks are solid enough.’ He nuzzled her neck. ‘The worst’ll be over soon, you’ll see.’

‘Oh yeah? What worst? Your dick or that storm?’

He chuckled. ‘You didn’t complain the first time, darling.’

‘No, nor the second. Give us a bloody break, though, Joey. We haven’t even had dinner yet.’

‘Plenty of time for that, babe,’ he soothed. ‘Can’t go out when the weather’s like this.’

Joey ran the vibrator over his own nipples and moaned at the sensation.

‘Who’d you bloody buy that for anyway?’ Mandy asked, the whine in her voice beginning to irritate her lover a little. You’re enjoying it more than me.’

‘Mustn’t be selfish, Mandy.’ He passed the instrument lightly over her lips, then down her neck between her breasts. Despite her concern, she shuddered when the tip ran over
her stomach and into her pubic hair.

‘Ooh, that’s nice, Joe.’

‘Course it is, babe. I told you you’d like it.’ He taunted her by bypassing the place she wanted to be touched and instead brought the skin on her smooth thigh alive. She
pulled at his wrist and guided the pulsating plastic towards the tender opening that had become moist once more. The first sensation was like a pleasurable electric shock and the second, as the
mechanical penis entered, sent shivers of excitement radiating outwards.

‘Ooh, that’s good.’

‘Yeah, me next, darling.’

She groaned, but he hardly heard over the howling outside. ‘Just a bit more with this, Joe. Then you can have me.’

‘No, not you, babe. Me. And the vibo.’

‘What? How . . .?’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Joey.’

‘We all like our little pleasures, doll.’ He was grinning from ear to ear and his eyes closed with pleasure as her writhing increased. They snapped open when he felt the caravan
lurch sideways.

At first, Mandy thought that the sensation had come from within herself such was the pleasure she had been feeling, but as the room around her began to turn she knew something dreadful was
happening.

Then it was as if a giant hand had smacked against the side of the caravan. They tumbled from the bunk bed and everything was plunged into darkness.

‘Joe!’ Mandy screamed, but a crashing, splintering sound drowned the cry. She felt air rush into the room; either the windows had smashed or the walls had cracked. She felt wet. She
was lying in water. Rushing water.

She tried to get to her feet, but the room was spinning, objects falling.

‘Joey, where are you?’

Bedclothes tangled her naked legs and as she reached out to free herself, her hands came in contact with her lover’s body. She pulled at him and felt him stir. ‘Joey, what’s
happening?’

He couldn’t answer, there was too much dizziness inside his head. He must have struck something as he fell from the bed. But what the fuck
was
happening? Water was lapping around
his bare arse.

He managed to crawl onto the bunk bed and he lay there, teeth sinking into a pillow. Mandy managed somehow to scramble up onto his back and she clung to him. Clung to him until the caravan
smashed against a tree and overturned and what was up was now down. And what was a wall became the floor. And what was the floor was just a torrent of foaming water.

There were not many fishermen on the beach that evening, for the bad weather during the day had precluded any reasonable catch. The shore anglers had not even bothered to leave
the comfort of their homes let alone attempt casting lines into the angry sea, and those whose livelihood depended on what their small boats brought in from deeper waters had long since abandoned
their day’s toil. They had returned early and winched their vessels up onto the shingle beach, cursing the weather and their trade which was already dying. One or two worked on in the wooden
huts that stood in a disordered row before the low sea wall, mending torn nets, a task that had to be completed before the next day’s fishing. They stopped and listened when the howling wind
took on a new sound. It was a low rumble and, as it quickly developed into an approaching roar, they realized the noise had nothing to do with the wind. The shadows of their bodies, cast by the
lamps they worked by, grew to giant proportions and curved around the walls and ceilings as the fishermen rose from their benches and hurried to the doors. They looked towards the north, from where
the thundering noise was coming, squinting their eyes against the pelting rain. The disbelief on their faces quickly turned into expressions of despair.