Farraday’s voice was shaky when he spoke and Culver had the impression that he asked the next question for the benefit of his staff rather than his own curiosity.
‘Can you tell us how many will be left alive after all this?’
Eyes riveted on the Civil Defence officer. He was thoughtful for a moment or two, as though silently counting bodies.
‘I would say, and this is purely a rough judgement on my part, that barely a million Londoners will survive.’
He paused again, his eyes cast downwards, as though expecting uproar; but the hushed silence that filled the room was even more daunting.
‘We can’t be sure of any of these figures,’ Dealey said, his voice hasty but sombre. ‘No one can really predict the results of a nuclear attack because there are no precedents – at least, not on this scale.’
‘That’s perfectly true,’ Bryce accepted, ‘but my observations are more than mere conjecture. There have been many well-researched reports, official and unofficial, on just this subject over the past few years, using the devastation inflicted upon Hiroshima and Nagasaki as a basis for speculation. The sophistication and advanced striking power of modern weapons were obviously taken into consideration, along with the living conditions of today’s society. I’m basing my assumptions on a compromise between government and independent calculations.’
‘Nevertheless, we cannot be sure.’ Dealey’s rebuke was unmistakable. Culver guessed that there had been an earlier, more private meeting between those at the top table, a clandestine conference to decide just what the ‘masses’ (there was now a tragic irony in that word) should be told. It seemed they hadn’t all been in agreement.
‘We’ve got families out there!’ It was a wild shout and Culver turned to see a small man at a centre table who had risen to his feet, his fists clenched, a moistness to the anger in his eyes. ‘We’ve got to get to them! We can’t leave them out there on their own—’
‘No!’ There was a brutal coldness to Dealey. ‘We can’t leave this shelter to help anyone. It would be fatal.’
‘Do you think we care about that?’ This time a woman was on her feet, her tears unrestrained. ‘Do you think there’s anything left for us here? Any life for us to live?’
Other voices joined hers.
‘Please!’ Dealey’s arms were raised once more. ‘We must not lose control! It’s only if we survive – and other units like ours – that we can help the people outside. If we panic, then the survivors of the blast will have no chance at all. You must understand that!’
Farraday leapt to his feet. ‘He’s right. If we leave this shelter too soon we’ll be subjected to lethal doses of radiation poisoning. How will killing ourselves save those on the outside?’
They understood the logic of his argument, but such high emotion was not subservient to hard fact. There were more shouts, some of them abusive and particularly directed towards Dealey, as a Ministry of Defence employee.
It was Dr Reynolds who calmly brought the room to order.
‘If any of you go out from this shelter now, you’ll be dead within a matter of weeks, possibly days.’ Her voice was raised just enough to be heard over the clamour. She too was standing, her hands tucked into the pockets of her open white tunic, and it was probably the uniform of her profession that gave her some credibility. She represented the physical antithesis of Dealey, a man who was the puppet of a government that had brought their country to war. Their vehemence towards Dealey may have been unjustified (and most of those present realized this despite their anger) but he was there, one of the faceless bureaucrats, within their reach, within striking distance.
Dr Reynolds was well aware of whom the rising hysteria was aimed at, and in some respects could understand it, for these shattered people needed something tangible to blame, someone to be held responsible. Dealey, as far as they’re concerned, you’re it!
‘I can tell you this,’ she said, the noise beginning to subside. ‘It won’t be a pleasant death. First you’ll feel nauseous, and your skin will turn red, your mouth and throat inflamed. You won’t have much strength. Vomiting will follow and you’ll suffer pretty excruciating diarrhoea for a few days. You may start to feel a little better after this, but I promise you it won’t last.
‘All those symptoms are going to return with a vengeance, and you’ll sweat, your skin will blister and your hair will fall out.
‘You women will find your menstruation cycle will ignore the usual rules – you’ll bleed a lot, and badly. You men will have pain in your genitals. If you do survive – which I doubt – you’ll be sterile, or worse: the chances are that any offspring will be abnormal.
‘Leukaemia will be a disease you’ll know all about – from a personal point of view.
‘Towards the end your intestines will be blocked. You might find that the worst discomfort of all.
‘Finally, and perhaps mercifully, the convulsions will hit you, and after that you won’t care very much. You’ll sink into a brief coma, then you’ll be dead.’
The eyes behind the large glasses were expressionless.
Jesus, thought Culver, she didn’t pull her punches.
‘There are other milder results of irradiation if you’d like to hear them.’ She was coldly relentless, deliberately frightening them into staying. ‘Food won’t do you any good – you won’t be able to extract essential nourishment. All the tissue in your body will age dramatically. There’ll be a contraction of the bladder, bone fractures that won’t mend, inflammation of the kidneys, liver, spinal cord and heart, bronchopneumonia, thrombosis, cancer and aplastic anaemia which will lead to subcutaneous haemorrhaging – in other words you’ll bleed to death under the skin.
‘And if that isn’t enough, you’ll have the pleasure of watching others around you dying in the same way, watching the agonies of those in the more advanced stages, witnessing what you, yourself, will soon be going through.
‘So if you want to leave, if you want to expose yourself to all that, knowing you’ll be too ill to help others, I don’t see why we should stop you. In fact, I’ll plead on your behalf to allow you out, because you’ll only cause dissension in this shelter. Any takers?’
She sat when she was sure there wouldn’t be.
‘Thank you, Dr Reynolds,’ said Dealey, ‘for explaining the reality of the situation.’
She did not look at Dealey, but Culver could see there was no appreciation of his thanks.
‘Perhaps now that you’ve heard everything at its pessimistic worst, we can continue on a more constructive note.’ Dealey briefly touched the bandages over his eyes, as though they were causing discomfort. ‘I said earlier that we were not isolated here in this shelter. I know our lines of communication have been temporarily cut, but at least we’re secure in the knowledge that there are many others who will have survived the blast in shelters such as this. And all these within the central area are connected by either the Post Office tube railway or the London Transport Underground system.’
‘It stands to reason that if our radio and telephone connections have been knocked out then these tunnels will have been destroyed too,’ someone called out.
‘True enough. I’m sure a few of the tunnels have been damaged, perhaps even destroyed completely, but there are too many for the whole system to have been wrecked. And also, certain buildings have been constructed to withstand nuclear explosions, buildings such as the Montague House “Fortress” and the Admiralty blockhouse in The Mall. I won’t give details of all the bunkers and what are called “citadels” that have been built since the last World War, but I can tell you that there are at least six shelters on the Northern Line tunnel system alone, below stations such as Clapham South and Stockwell . . .’
Culver had the feeling that however candid Dealey was appearing to be as he listed other sites in and around London, he was still holding back, still not telling all. He mentally shrugged; it would be hard to trust any ‘government’ man from now on.
‘. . . a
nd a National Seat of Government will be set up outside London, and the country divided up into twelve regional seats, with twenty-three sub-regional headquarters . . .’
Was anyone in the room really listening to Dealey now?
‘. . . county and district controls . . .’
Did any of it make sense?
‘. . . sub-district controls, which will liaise with community posts . . .’
‘Dealey!’
Heads turned to look at Culver. Dealey stopped speaking, and the tell-tale tongue flicked across his lips.
‘Have you told anybody about the creatures out there?’ Culver’s voice was level, but there was a tightness to it. Kate beside him stiffened.
‘I hardly think it need wor—’
‘It’s got to worry us, Dealey, because sooner or later we’ve got to go out there into those tunnels. The main entrance is blocked, remember? The tunnels are our only way out.’
‘I doubt they’ll stay underground. They’ll scavenge for . . . food . . . on the surface. And in that case, they’ll die from radiation poisoning.’
Culver smiled grimly. ‘I don’t think you’ve been doing your homework.’
Farraday broke in. ‘What’s he talking about? What are these creatures?’
This time it was Dr Reynolds who spoke. She removed her glasses and polished them with a small handkerchief. ‘Dealey, Culver and Miss Garner were attacked by rats outside this shelter. It appears they were particularly large and, to say the least, unusually ferocious. They had attacked and were devouring survivors who had taken shelter in the tunnels.’
Farraday frowned and looked back at Culver. ‘Just how large were they?’
Culver opened his arms like a boastful fisherman. ‘Like dogs,’ he replied.
More silence, more stunned dismay.
‘They will be no threat to us,’ Dealey insisted. ‘By the time we leave this shelter, most of these vermin will be dead.’
Culver shook his head and Dr Reynolds answered. ‘You really should have known this, Mr Dealey. Or perhaps you wanted to forget. You see, certain forms of life are highly resistant to radiation. Insects are, for instance. And so, too, are rats.’
She replaced the spectacles.
‘And,’ she continued in almost a sigh, ‘if these creatures are descendants of the Black rats that terrorized London just a few years ago – and from their size, I’d say they were – then not only will they be resistant to radiation, but they’ll thrive on it.’
7
A noise.
He listened intently.
A scratching sound.
He waited.
Nothing. Gone now.
Klimpton tried to stretch his body, but there wasn’t room even to straighten his legs. He flexed the muscles in his back and twisted his neck from side to side, refraining from groaning, not wanting to wake the others.
What time was it?
The digital figures of his watch glowed green on his wrist. 23.40. Night.
There was no other way of telling night from day, not there, not in their small dusty prison.
How long? Dear God, how long had they been down there? Two days? Three? A week? No, it couldn’t be that long. Could it? Time didn’t count for much when shadows failed to move.
But what had woken him? Had Kevin cried out in his sleep once more? What did the boy think of the grown-up world now?
Klimpton reached for the small pen-light he carried in his shirt pocket and flicked it on, sheltering the small beam with his hand. The urge to switch on the larger lamp hanging from a peg just above his head was strong, but he had to conserve the batteries; no telling how long they would have to stay down there. The candles, too, had to be saved.
He shone the light towards his son, the pin-point of light barely touching the boy’s eyes. His sleeping hours had been erratic and restless enough without spoiling what now appeared to be a deep slumber. Kevin’s face was peaceful, his lips slightly parted, only a dust smear on one cheek giving evidence that all was not quite normal. A slight movement of the wrist and another face was revealed close to the boy’s, but this was old, the skin grey, like dry, wrinkled paper. Gran’s mouth was open too, but it held none of the sensuous innocence of his son’s. The opening – hardly any lips any more – was too round, the cavern too black and deep. It seemed every breath exhaled let slip a little more of her life. And, face turned towards her, his son drew in that escaping life in short, shallow intakes, as though quietly stealing his grandmother’s existence.
‘Ian?’ Klimpton’s wife’s voice was distant, full of sleep. He turned the light towards her and she closed her barely-opened eyes against it.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘Thought I heard something outside.’
She turned from him, snuggling further down into the sleeping bag. ‘It was probably Cassie,’ she mumbled. ‘Poor dog.’ Sian had already returned to her dream before he switched the torch off, and he was hardly surprised; like him, she had only slept fitfully and not for very long since they had been ensconced in the improvised shelter.
Ian Klimpton sat there in the dark beneath the basement stairs, his ears sensitive, eyes watching the blackness. There had been many noises through the dark hours, the wreckage above them settling, distant thunder, far-away explosions that still managed to make the remains of his house shiver. Sometimes it felt as though the trains were still running below the foundations, but he was sure this couldn’t be so. Everything above – and even below – must have been destroyed by the bombs. At the very least, there could be no more power to run trains.
Thanks to him, his family had been saved. Sian had scoffed when he had studiously read the Home Office’s survival booklet and he himself had felt embarrassed by his own attention to it. Nevertheless, he had taken it seriously. Not at first, of course. His initial inclination when the booklet had fallen through the letter-box onto the doormat was to glance through it, then toss it into the waste bin; but something had made him keep it, to hide it between books in his study. A rational fear that someday the instructions might come in useful. And later, tension around the Gulf States had caused him to retrieve it and study the directions more thoughtfully.
The booklet had advised householders to find a protected refuge in their own houses, a cellar or cupboard beneath the stairs. Klimpton’s house had both: the steps leading down to the basement area had a cupboard beneath them. To go to such lengths as whitewashing all the windows of his house would have made him the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, even when the world crisis was reaching breaking point, but internal measures could be easily taken without public knowledge. Things like collecting one or two plastic buckets (for sanitation purposes as well as storing water) and stocking tinned food, not upstairs in the larder where it would disappear through daily use, but down in the basement itself, on a shelf where it would be forgotten, unless (or until) it was needed. Keeping sleeping bags and bedding somewhere handy, somewhere they could be conveniently grabbed from should the emergency arise. Having more than one torch – and a lamp – plus a supply of batteries. Candles. Containers. Portable stove. First-aid kit. Other items like magazines, books, comics for Kevin. Toilet paper. Essentials, really.
Of course the clutter under the stairs had to be cleared. And a tattered mattress brought down from the loft to lean against the outside of the cupboard door. He was thankful, too, for the old chest-of-drawers that stood battered and unloved in one corner of the basement; that would afford added protection with the mattress against the door. He hadn’t blocked up the small basement window whose top half was at street level, and there had been no time to do so when the sirens had alarmed the district. But he had done the best for his family, and they had survived the worst.
Perhaps there was more he could have done. He could have built a brick shelter in the cellar. He could have piled up sandbags against the stairway. He could have reinforced the ceiling over their heads, kept the bath and sinks filled, built a stronger lean-to against the s
tairs. He could have moved the family up to the Scottish Highlands.
No. He had carried out his duty. Not many men would have done more. And most of all, he had been with his family when the bombs were dropped.
Klimpton was of the new breed of businessmen. His office was his own study, his master and tool the computer he kept there. He could contact every major office of the company which employed him in any part of the world with just a few deft finger punches of the keyboard. No office politics, no commuter travelling, no grovelling to the boss. Even so, it was a busy life and one he enjoyed. It meant he saw a lot more of Kevin.
The scratching sound again.
Somewhere outside, in the basement itself.
Was it the dog? Had Cassie found a way into the cellar?
Impossible. Klimpton had had to lock their pet out, much to the distress of Kevin, for there was no way they could have an animal living with them. It would have been too unhygienic – and Christ, it was bad enough already without having a dog messing all over the place. And Cassie would need precious food as well. They had had to listen to her howling after the bombs had fallen. Then the whimpering, the whining, for days – could it have been a week? – with Kevin more upset by the noise than by the holocaust. They hadn’t heard Cassie for a long time now, though, and Klimpton wondered if the dog had wandered off to another part of the house, if there was another part standing. Or was she slumped against the cellar door, nose pushed towards the draughty crack beneath, weakened, frightened? Dead?
Maybe she’d got outside and was trying to get through the basement window.
He shifted his legs, groaning as bones wearily protested. The only way he could sleep was in an upright position; there just wasn’t room for them all to lie down.