Forecast (16 page)

Hours later, they arrived at the top of a small hill. It overlooked a charcoal
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coloured bay. There in front of them, through a veil of dark haze where the midday sun was being blocked out by the sterile, dark sky they saw it. Sutcliffe paused to take in what had more or less been his home for the past few years.

“It’s gone,” he said.

Faraday held open her arms and shrugged. “Sorry, what is gone?”

Gradually, the land started to form identity and one by one they recognised it. They were back in St. Ives and at the Fable
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1 launch site. Sutcliffe descended the hill and, following behind him, the crew saw the T
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shaped foundations of the ruined F1 Mission Control Base with rubble scattered everywhere. They skirted along the derelict ruins of the base, circled the site a few times, taking it in, investigating, while Sutcliffe sauntered along the wall, touching it, recollecting. He followed it to the side of the main building where he had a view of where the workshop had been. At the bottom of the hill, he peered into a square shaft. The shaft marked the precise spot where the elevator to the White Room had once operated. Hennessey and Matthews looked over in time to see him leap into it and disappear.

“Please be okay, please be okay,” Hennessey said.

Matthews looked at her and grunted. “I’m sure he’s fine, Jen.”

She shook her head. “I was talking about the White Room.”

At the elevator site, the crew peered down and saw their captain standing on a mountain of rubble filling the deep shaft. Sutcliffe expelled a long, defeated breath as the voice of his heart no longer spoke to him. The White Room, deep underground, their only hope for safety, was unreachable.

Matthews glanced at his oxygen gauge and got a shock. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but my oxy
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gen is almost out.”

Keith Burch attempted to force his eyes open, but the effort went unheeded by his body. On his second awakening, he returned to consciousness to find himself lying on his front on concrete with multicoloured shards of glass scattered all about him. Something felt odd. He moved his head slightly, his arms, his legs, then slowly picked himself up, discovering that he was trapped inside the ruins of a burning building – an old, dilapidated church. He was standing amongst broken benches, statues and fallen support columns. Still dazed, he looked up and saw the roof was missing. The broken steeple pierced a night sky bathed in an orange glow. He looked down. His parachute was on fire. He traced the length of the burning parachute still hooked up to his back and, to his horror, realised that the lower half of his spacesuit was also on fire. He screamed. He started beating his legs in an effort to extinguish the flames engulfing his invaluable spacesuit. When the fire went out, he hobbled to an opening and succeeded in getting away from the building.

Now, standing outside the church, he saw the landscape was overcast with a dark, moving sky. An entire forest was ablaze and dense, black smoke could be seen billowing into the sky. His suit was still smoking. He didn’t know where he was and everywhere looked the same; black and ruined and smoke all around. Where was the Fable-1 crew? He tried to radio them but his communicator failed him. Alone and frightened, he knew it was juvenile for a son to crave his mother, but he desperately wanted to be with her. In her lucid days, she would have known what to do and she would have kept him safe. At that moment, all he had left was a little water, ever
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depleting oxygen and his own ingenuity.

The taste of metal and gun oil didn’t matter because the monster barely noticed it. The hunching creature’s teeth clunked along the metal as the pistol slid further down its throat, tears bleeding from its eyes; eyes that did not hide the coldness, the emptiness, as if it had no soul. It tried to grasp at the fading adumbrations of its life. Over and over it tried to wrest a meaning from its numbed and transition
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fogged mind. It knew the world was living in an age of environmental uncertainty, but what had happened? It wished it had died, for survival had embroiled it in what could only be described as a burning hell. The monster stared at the hostile world, allowed itself one last thought, then waited to hear the last sound of its life – the blast.

The blast shook the land. The charge set off a column of explosives creating the first of fifteen bore holes in the ground, initiating the task of building the underground tunnel. Fred Farrell, a geotechnical engineer specialising in underground construction, slopes, rock mechanics and excavations had given the construction of a new drainage tunnel the go
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ahead after determining the geology of the Gloucestershire region was ideal. The new tunnel would have the capacity to hold two million litres of rain floodwater.

Farrell raised his yellow hard hat and saw that a colleague was walking alongside a man he thought he knew. “Fred, this is Benny Samways,” the colleague said. “He’s the new geologist and he’ll be working on the project with us.”

Farrell shook hands with him. “Actually, we’ve met. You went to the School of Geography and Geosciences.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“We attended the same lectures.”

“Yeah, I remember you.”

Farrell paused a moment. “The last I heard, you were arrested for possession of a firearm.”

Samways barely smiled. “I remember hearing the same rumour myself.”

“Well, I never believed it, just to let you know. So, how did you wind up here?”

“Long story.”

“Well, it looks as though we are going to be working on this project together for a while, so I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

“I guess so.”

Samways started to walk away, turned and pointed at Farrell in one smooth movement. “What time do you knock off?”

“About sixish, why?”

“Wanna join me at the pub later to discuss the project?”

“Sure, why not.”

Farrell arrived at the pub on time and ordered a pint. He sat at a table in the window with his arms folded. A little boy running from his parents along the pavement outside tripped and went down hard on his knee. His father scooped him up and cradled him in his arms to silence his cries. The image made him think about his own childless life. He was painfully aware that the only thing missing in his life was a baby, feeling that when his marriage was difficult, the proximity of a sympathetic son or daughter would help resolve their conflicts and perhaps fix their train
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wreck relationship. The main issue was money, or lack thereof. And because of his overwhelming debts, he and his wife lived in squalor. It was no place for bringing up a child. Farrell looked around the pub. Samways wasn’t there yet. Then he was.

“Hey.”

Farrell turned. “Benny, have a seat.”

The pair exchanged basics about themselves and their families, their careers, good times, bad times, the hardships of life and then back to the topic of work. They had reached the limit of ritual small talk and they were both drunk when Samways said, “Ever dreamed of being rich?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“I’m not talking hypothetically.”

“I don’t follow.”

“What if becoming rich was not just a dream but a possibility, Fred. What lengths would you go to in order to become a wealthy man?”

“To be honest, I would kill right now for some serious dosh. You see, a few years ago, I had a gambling addiction and–“

“Yeah, yeah,” Samways interrupted. “Listen, can you meet me tomorrow at the Hayle tunnel site in Cornwall?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Good, see you there at about midday.”

Farrell awoke early and wrestled with his demons, the taste of ale still tart in his mouth. He rarely drank alcohol and whenever he did he always regretted it the next day. Sonia, is wife, had already left for the hospital to do the day shift, so Farrell sat at the breakfast table alone with a plate of toast and a strong coffee.

According to the little clock on the television set, it was eight o’clock already. The Fable
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1 balloon launch was being televised live around the world. Five balloonists were flying an enormous helium balloon to the stratosphere to set a new world record and undertake scientific experiments. Cameras from helicopters swept across the St. Ives cliff-top illustrating the sheer number of people in attendance with the helium balloon standing in the centre of the crowds. The balloon was the biggest Farrell had ever seen. He watched as the balloon jumped off the cliff-top into the sky while a commentator gave details about their mission and the dangers they faced.

Farrell arrived at the tunnel site in Hayle at midday. The tunnel was being widened to facilitate an increase in the storage of rain-water and his main responsibility was to provide a design outline, which included excavation methods and cost estimates as well as an engineering risk analysis. Samways had yet to arrive, so he waited at the tunnel entrance. He sat on the bonnet and stared up at the sky, thinking about the Fable-1 mission, trying to imagine what it was like up there. At that moment, an expanding dark blob appeared in the sky. The balloonists had just set off their smoke identifiers.

Samways arrived an hour late and apologised for not being there sooner. Into the tunnel they went, the entrance leading to a warren of smaller tunnels that merged into one. Samways followed Farrell along a narrow passageway that formed a bottleneck at the end providing enough room for one person to fit through at a time. They descended a metal ladder welded to the wall which dropped down onto a ledge that was raised above a river of muddy drain water running through the long tunnel. Lamps mounted on the wall provided dim light.

Farrell thought Samways was acting strangely. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you somewhere quiet and private. I have a proposition for you.”

“What sort of proposition?”

“Last night you told me how desperate you were for money, that you would kill for some serious dosh.”

Farrell did not like the sound of this conversation. “Yeah, but I didn’t mean I would actually kill someone.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting that you do.”

“That’s a relief.”

“There is a jewellery shop that me and a few others have been sizing up for the past few months. I’ve done some research on the geology of the area and the land beneath the jeweller’s is easily penetrable. There isn’t a great deal of cohesion or cement and the rock is extremely porous. Excavating will be easy, and I even have a mate with the equipment for the job. I have managed to get my hands on the original architectural designs for the jeweller’s shop and the building next door, a betting shop.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Why do you think?”

“Alright, but why do you need plans for the betting shop?”

“My mate is the owner and he will give me his keys for a cut of the money. From there, we will dig a tunnel all the way into the jeweller’s shop. Too easy.”

“Won’t the police find the tunnel and link it back to the betting shop owner?”

“We’ll make it look like a break
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in. There are no cameras inside the betting shop so there’s no way it can be proved.”

Farrell would have been lying if he had said the idea didn’t appeal to him. Money would indeed change his life. And more than anything he wanted his life to change. In view of his standing as a respected citizen, Farrell presumed he would never be suspected. “What exactly is my role?”

“I need two excavators for the job. You have the experience and the knowledge.”

“It’s been five years since I last did any manual work. It’s no longer my field.”

“Are you serious? It’s like riding I bicycle. Fucking not my field. You never forget. And just think, you won’t have to do inspections in grubby sewage tunnels anymore. You won’t have to stay with your wife. You won’t even have to live in this country, if you don’t want to. Put the consequences to the back of your mind, they will only cloud your judgment.”

“The consequences? You mean prison?”

Samways shrugged.

Farrell knew this was an opportunity. He also knew that he was never going to say yes to such an absurd plan. Samways obviously knew nothing about him, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked. Farrell was about to refuse the offer when Samways pulled out a Kimber Elite Compact .45 pistol, spinning it around his index finger like a weapon specialist.

“This is yours,” he said.

Farrell accepted the pistol reluctantly, marvelling over how much it weighed and how uneasy it made him feel. It was the first time he had ever held a pistol and just the thought of it in his possession made his stomach turn.

Just then, a tremor in the tunnel shook dust from the roof.

“What was that?” Farrell said.

The tunnel was shaking with violent shocks. It startled a cluster of rats. It sounded like the entire passageway was caving in around them. A flare at the entrance to the main tunnel above them turned into a tornado of flames, appearing with invasive menace. Even the thick stone couldn’t protect them from the roar of giant rolling fireballs. Farrell lost his footing and fell into the murky water, hitting his head on the bottom. He was under for a while and when he came up for air, Samways was screaming and writhing, his whole frame incandescent with flames, dancing hysterically as fire ravaged across his body. Farrell watched with a feeling of detachment.