HF - 05 - Sunset (58 page)

Wood cascaded onto her back and s
truck her bare feet, and they sli
pped. Her hands, reaching downwards, encountered another branch and locked there, tearing at the bark. But now she was falling again, still in the centre of a plunging maelstrom of wood and glass and plaster.

She landed on her feet, with a jolt which went through her entire body, and realized that she had actually reached the ground, without knowing how.

But the ground provided no security
at
that moment. For still she was surrounded by falling debris and now she saw that the tree itself was on its way down, in a deathly slow motion which was accompanied by the most heart-rending sound she had ever heard. Yet again she screamed, and sank to her knees, or perhaps she had spent the last eternity falling to her knees in
any
event, for the pain in her legs was intense.

Her head hit something and for a moment she was senseless, then the crashing noise ended, and in its place there was something far more horrible, a quite unearthly silence. It was as if the entire world had ceased breathing for a space of about a second, she supposed as the gods of destruction sat back and inspected the result of their caprice.

Then, slowly, sound seeped back across the afternoon, the crack of a falling timber, the scream of a trapped woman, the whimper of a dying man, the wail of a wounded animal. And Meg realized she was sobbing, and her legs were caught under a fallen branch lying across her thighs. She opened her mouth to call for help, and again all but choked on the still swirling dust. And in that inhalation caught another, yet more deadly smell, the nostril-tingling odour of burning wood.

A whiff of smoke drifted across the afternoon as well. Oh, my God, Meg thought. Oh, my God. She turned her head to and fro, could see only the tumbling branches, and the swirling dust, or was it smoke?

Beyond the dust and the smoke there was sound, some of it even intelligible. At least, not everyone had died in the holocaust, as yet.

'Help!' she shouted. 'Help me!' she screamed.

But the other sounds were mostly screams themselves. And now it was hot, too hot even for a Jamaican afternoon. And now too she saw the flames, licking at the old wood of the hotel, piled like a waiting bonfire all around her. And the flames were licking at the wood of the tree itself.

But she would die of suffocation, from the smoke. It was thicker now, making breathing difficult.

She seized her right thigh in both hands, discovering for the first time that she had lost her skirt and wore only her shift, while her blouse and jacket were both torn to shreds, as were her hands; blood dripped onto the ground. And her foot was immovable.

But she was sitting on the ground, had in fact been forced into it by the impact. Desperately she tore at the grass with her fingers, sawed her bottom to and fro, worked her heels and her legs, as best she could, sawing and dragging at her body.

Something dropped on her hand, and she shook it off with a wail of pain, for it was a glowing ember. She looked up at the branches which still whirled above her head, saw them glowing as a fresh cascade of embers and burning debris rattled through them, screamed again as she was burned on her cheek and on her shoulder. She rolled on her face, attempting to shield herself, attempting to gain some air to breathe, for now she was entirely surrounded by the swirling smoke.

She dug her fingers and her toes into the earth, pressed her body against it, gasped
...
but she was on her face. She had managed to roll over.

She gave a convulsive surge forward and came free, reached her hands and knees, and was forced flat again by the billowing smoke which robbed her lungs of air.

Which way to go ? She might well crawl into the fire. But how could she avoid crawling into the fire when it was all around her?

Yet she would survive. She was determined about that. Even if she had to crawl through fire. She had survived too much already just to lie down and die now. Besides, not to survive would be to admit that the
mamaloi
was right; the
earth had trembled when she had been born, now it sought to take her back again, for ever.

She dug her toes and fingers into the ground, inched her way forward. Branches scraped at her shoulders, completed the destruction of her clothes, caught in her hair and jerked her head backwards so that she had to claw upwards to free herself while all the while the burning embers scattered around her, striking the grass with giant hisses and setting it alight.

Air, and light. She discovered herself free of the tree, kneeling, peering at the zinnias which lined the hotel driveway. And peering too at a woman, a maid, she guessed, from the girl's white gown. But the gown ended at the waist, and there were only legs. The trunk lay farther on. She had been cut in two by a gigantic piece of corrugated iron, torn from the roof of the hotel.

Meg vomited without warning. Then she rose to her feet, staggered, and actually tripped over the ghastly corpse. Once again she was sick, but even while the bile dripped down her chin she was again on her feet and running down the driveway, leaping over a gigantic rent which had appeared in the tarmacadam, reaching for the safety of the street.

There was no safety in the street. The air was still filled with dust and with fumes and with swirling smoke. Bladings' Hotel was not the only building that had caught fire, while in contrast the drains had burst and water ran across her toes as she looked from right to left.

People screamed and wailed and howled and begged and shouted and gave orders and asked for orders. Dogs barked and ran to and fro. Horses shrieked their terror. Two black men emerged out of the smoke and attempted to seize her arms. Even as she struck at them she realized they were attempting to take her to safety rather than molest her. But she did not wish to see anyone, speak with anyone. Save Alan.

Alan. He had gone to the dock
s. Oh, my God, she thought,
the docks. In the earthquake of 1692 Port Royal had disappeared beneath the waves.

She staggered down the street, was suddenly accosted by a white woman, hair wild, clothes torn, face blackened with smoke.

'Meg,' she shouted. 'Meg Hilton. Oh, my God, Meg Hilton.
’

Meg attempted to shake herself free, but the woman continued to hold her, and now she looked closer she discovered that she was Anna Phillips.

'Anna,' she cried. 'Anna? Oh, Anna. Where's John?'

'I don't know,' Anna Phillips wailed. 'I don't know. He had just set off on his rounds when it happened. Oh, my God, Meg. I don't know.'

'You'll find him,' Meg promised her. 'You'll find him. I know you will. Please let me go. I must find Alan.'

'John,' Anna cried. 'I don't know where he is. Oh, my God, Meg
, have you ever known anything li
ke it ? Oh, my God
...'

Meg pulled herself free, ran down the street, rounded the corner and stumbled into an overturned automobile, its doors flung open and a man half in and half out, his face a mass of coagulating blood.

This time she was not sick. She did not suppose she had any sickness left. She tumbled down the street, pushed someone away when he would have spoken to her, tripped over the body of a dead dog, and reached the docks
...
but the docks were no longer there, the timbers dissolved into the still seething waters of the harbour.

Meg wiped sweat from her face and peered at the ships. But they at least were still all right, although most had steam up. But the
Dreamer
still rode to her anchors, and as she watched, a boat pulled for the shore. Had it then been so short a time since the earthquake ? Now for the first time she saw the sun, just beginning its afternoon droop towards the waves, before it was obliterated by the drifting smoke.

She found herself on her knees, watching the approaching boats. Most of them were from the American warships, filled with white-jacketed seamen, staring at the stricken town as if they were seeing the end of the world.

But one of the boats was from the
Dreamer
and in the stern was Alan McAvoy.

'Alan!' she screamed, nearly hurling herself into the water as the boat came alongside.

'Meg.' He scrambled ashore to hold her in his arms. 'Oh, my dearest Meg.' He held her away from him. 'Are you all right?'

She was in fact just realizing how bruised she was; her stomach and her breasts were aching, as was her right leg, while her back felt as if she had been whipped. But none of those seemed particularly relevant. She was alive, and as far as she could tell, she had not even broken anything.

'I am all right, my darling,' she said. 'I climbed down the tree outside our window.'

'My God,' he said. 'The sight of it. I'll never forget it to my dying day. It was as if a giant had taken a rug and jerked one end of it. These docks
...
they just rose in the air and fell away again. Meg, are you sure you're all right ?'

'Yes,' she said fiercely. 'Yes. Alan
...
could you see the prison?'

'Only the roof,' he said. 'It disappeared. But then, so did most other roofs.'

'We must look there,' she said. 'We must, Alan.'

'But
...'
He hesitated, but she knew what he had been going to say: why risk our lives looking for a man who has been condemned to death?

'We must,' she said. 'I must.'

'And we shall,' he said. 'Supposing we can get through the town.'

‘I
have already been through the town.'

She held his hand and went forward, towards the smoke pall which lay across the stricken city, to be stopped by an armed American marine.

'You can't go in there,' he said.

'But I must,' Meg said. 'My husband is in there.'

'The whole town centre is on fire,' the marine pointed out. 'And buildings are falling like matchsticks. Anyone who hasn't got out isn't coming out. Believe me, lady.'

'But
...'
Meg stared at an officer, white uniform blackened with smoke, coming towards them. 'I must find my husband.'

'In there?' The lieutenant looked over his shoulder. 'Where should he be, ma'am ?' 'Well
...'
She bit her lip. 'At the prison.' 'The prison? Holy Jesus. It's collapsed, ma'am.' 'Collapsed?
But...'

'The walls just caved in. They're saying not a one survived, and if anyone did, why it's been burning now for half an hour.'

'Oh, my God,' Meg said, and sank to her knees. 'Oh, my God.' Poor, poor Billy. No doubt he would have died anyway, even had he never met her. But it was she who, in pursuit of her own ambitions, had taken him from his comfortable middle-class existence and made him a Hilton. And it had been she who had brought him down again when he had tried to act the part. Poor, poor Billy.

She felt Alan's arms round her shoulders. But he did not speak. There was nothing he could say.

'Now then, lady,' said the lieutenant. 'We'll get you to one of the ships, and you'll be able to lie down
...'

'No,' she said, using Alan to pull herself to her feet. 'No. I'd like two horses.'

'Horses, ma'am?'

'Can you get me two horses?' she insisted. 'I have a plantation. I must get out there and see what has happened.'

The lieutenant scratched his head.

'Maybe it would be best, sir,' the marine suggested. 'Anything is better than staying here.'

'And there was that stable just outside of town,' the lieutenant said, half to himself.

'Well, then
..
Meg cried.

'But this whole place has gone wild, ma'am,' the young man explained. 'These black people are figuring the end of the world has come. I couldn't let you ride off by yourself.'

'She won't be by herself,' Alan said. 'I'll be with her.'

'Yeah
...'
Once again the officer hesitated. 'Okay. I'll get you two horses. But you'd better take this, Captain.' He gave Alan his service revolver. 'And take care, for God's sake.'

It was a blessing to be away from the smoke cloud and the unthinkable stenches that lay beneath it, from the crackle of the flames, from the shrieks of the wounded and dying, the rumble of the collapsing buildings. But there was no relief from the fact of the earthquake. Meg rode astride, urged her mount on to the road which led up into the mountains, and discovered that there was no road, the embankment having subsided into rubble, so that the stream which ran beside the original surface was the most practicable route.

But the stream itself was a place of death, a trapped horse, which had drowned, the body of a child, floating on its face, while from above them now there came the hoarse cries of the crows, already beginning to gather.

'My God,' Alan muttered. 'My God.'

The horses picked their way over shattered trees, round fallen bridges. In the first shanty town they came to, a mile from the smoking city, all the lean-to houses had collapsed, but there were at least no dead bodies.

Although there were several live ones. Half-crazed black people, men and women, ran at them, shrieking, and Meg had to use her crop to drive them back, with no success until Alan drew his pistol and fired once into the air. Then the mob hesitated long enough for them to hurry their horses through and gain the open country beyond.