Domain (33 page)

She scratched at the itch on her cheek, her eyes still closed, her other senses still captive of sleep. The insect moved on in search of less resisting prey. Kate's full awakening was sudden, eyelids snapping open like released blinds, sprung by returning fear. The white blanketing mist did not disappear with the blinking of her eyes.

It was several minutes before she was aware that the rain had stopped and the sun had turned the earth's wetness to rising vapour. Her fear quietened.

They had escaped the underground refuge and its unnatural vermin. Flight through the rubbled city had been a continuation of the torment, terror of being pursued driving them on through the rain, each jagged streak of lightning making them flinch, the ensuing thunder causing them to cringe. They had stopped only when they found a clearing, each of them dropping to the ground, drenched, exhausted, with little will left to carry on. She had crawled into Culver's arms, and some time in the night the rain itself had wearied and finally, after so many weeks, relented. The day's heat was clammy and insects droned in the steamy air; the sky was a bright, white haze, only a faint colouring indicating the sun's position.

Kate glanced at her watch: nearly eleven-twenty; they had slept the morning away.

Culver lay like a dead man next to her, one arm thrown across his face as if to shield his eyes from the sun's nebulous presence - or perhaps to cover them against further horror. Without disturbing him, she raised herself on one elbow and looked around.

The mist was almost impenetrable beyond thirty yards or so, although occasionally warm air currents disturbed the swirling veils to reveal glimpses of the destroyed landscape beyond. Kate shivered, even though her body was soaked in perspiration.

The area they sheltered in had once been a park, a green, path-patterned oasis surrounded by tall, once-gracious buildings. To one side had been the older law offices of Lincoln's Inn, a complex comprised of buildings dating as far back as the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a high wall separating it from the park. The wall no longer stood, nor did the legal ghetto, for she knew they had climbed through its ruins the night before. She was sure, although she could not see them, that the other buildings which bounded the park would be gone, too, and that the nearby scrubbed stonework of the Law Courts - the huge gothic Royal Courts of Justice - would be nothing but crushed rubble. The park, with its tennis and netball courts, cafeteria, and seat-fringed lawns, had always bustled with life, especially around lunchtime and particularly in the spring and summer months when local office workers poured into it for a brief respite from the city itself; now the grass and leafless trees - those still standing - were scorched black and the only bustle was that of milling insects, their constant droning replacing the sound of voices, of laughter.

And she noticed that the peculiarity was not just in the number of insects, but in the unusually large size of many of them. Maybe they were the meek who would inherit the Earth.

Culver stirred, groaning a little as he wakened. Kate turned to him.

His eyes flickered open and she saw alertness spring into them. There was something more, too: the spectre of deep dread was visible for just an instant as he looked into the drifting mists. Kate quickly touched his face.

'It's all right, we're safe,' she said softly.

He relaxed only slightly and stared up at the white sky. 'It's hot.'

'Humid, almost tropical. The sun must be fierce beyond the mists.'

'Any idea of where we are?'

'I'm pretty sure it's Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

'Uh-huh, I know it.' He raised himself on both elbows. 'It used to be pleasant.' He turned his face towards hers and she saw the question.

'I'm all right,' she told him. 'A little battered, a little bruised, but alive.'

'Did we all make it?'

'I don't know - I think so. Wait - Strachan didn't get out.'

Memories rushed in and his eyes narrowed as if from pain. 'An engineer fell. Two others went down before we even got into the shaft. And Farraday, the others, Bryce...'

'I don't think they had a chance. There were explosions before we got to the ventilation plant. And fire...' Kate shrugged.

She felt Culver appraising her and was conscious of the bedraggled mess she presented, with her torn clothes, tangled, matted hair and grime-smeared skin.

Culver saw the softness of her features, the sadness in her brown eyes. The man's torn shirt she wore was too large and made her look small, vulnerable, and younger than her years. As yet, the ordeal had not etched irreparable lines in

her skin and the dirt on her face combined with the ripped clothing to give her a waif-like appearance.

He pulled her to him and, for a little while, they rested in each other's arms.

Eventually, she asked him: What happens now, where do we go?'

'I think Dealey may have the answer to that,' Culver replied. Despite the rain having fallen for so long, he could still smell the acridity of the scorched grass. Nearby, a blackened tree rested its length along the ground like some discarded giant charcoal stick. Vapour rising from the ground added to the haunting desolation of the scene.

'He seems to be a man who likes secrets.'

Culver's attention was drawn back to the girl. 'It's engrained in him.'

"You'd think he'd have forgotten his civil service training under these circumstances.'

'It's precisely these circumstances he's been trained for. The "them and us" syndrome carries on, no matter what, only I think now there are more of "them" than "us" left. That's the way it's always been planned.'

'Do we have a chance?'

While we've got him we do. He was the only reason I got into the Kingsway Exchange, remember?'

'He needed you then.'

'Devious as he is, I don't think he'll desert us. Besides, I don't think he'll want to travel alone through what's left of this city - the dangers are too great.'

'Dangers?'

The rats, for one.'

‘You think they'd come out into the open?'

He nodded. They'll have a field day. Take a look at these insects: they've thrived on radiation and while there may not

be much vegetation left for them to eat, there's plenty of other food around.'

She did not ask what he meant by 'other food'.

Those that needed to may well have adapted fast. As for the rats, they must be instinctively aware they have the upper hand - look at the way they attacked us in the shelter. They may still feel uncomfortable in broad daylight, but they only have to wait for nightfall. Then, as we well know, there's the problem of rabid animals. And working a way through the ruins will be treacherous; break a leg or ankle and you're in real trouble. No, Dealey's better off in a group and he knows it. Which reminds me, my ankle's hurting like hell.'

She moved down to examine the injured limb and winced when she saw the ragged holes in his blood-soaked sock. Even the top of his boot had blood-smeared puncture marks. Untying the lace, she eased the boot off then began to gently roll down the torn sock; she was relieved to find no swelling.

"When did the rat get at you? Can you remember?'

'Clearly,' he answered. 'It was just before we closed the opening to the vent shaft. Fairbank got me through.'

*We need to clean the wound.'

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled but unused handkerchief. ‘Ill wrap this around it for now and pull the sock back up to keep it in place. We'll have to find somewhere to bathe it, and we'll need antiseptic.'

Thank God Clare kept us regularly dosed against their disease.' A shadow passed over Kate's face as she thought of the doctor's terrible death. She busied herself with the handkerchief, folding it carefully to make a rough dressing. ‘Your ear's been cut through too, Steve,' she informed him, 'and there's a nasty gash in your temple. They'll need looking at.'

Culver touched the wounds, then closed his eyes, quickly opening them again when his thoughts became even more vivid. He stared into the surrounding fog and Kate became aware that he was trembling. She assumed it was a reaction to the previous night's events and quickly changed position to put an arm around his shoulder.

‘You did what you could for all of them, Steve. Don't let it prey on your mind. You can't be responsible for all our lives.'

His words were sharp as he pulled away. 'I know that!'

Kate did not allow the rebuttal; she moved with him. "What is it, Steve? There's something more that you won't tell me. Clare mentioned something to me back there in the shelter, when you were sick. You were delirious, talking, calling out for someone. Clare thought it was a woman, a girl, someone who meant a great deal to you and who drowned. You've never told me, Steve, not in all the time we were inside the shelter; can't you tell me now?'

Kate was surprised to see a smile appear, albeit a bitter one.

'Clare got it wrong. It wasn't someone close and it wasn't a girl. It was a machine.'

She stared at him in confusion.

'A goddam helicopter, Kate. Not a person, not a wife or lover; a Sikorsky S61 helicopter.' His short laugh expressed the bitterness of his smile. 'I crashed the bloody thing because of my own stupid carelessness.'

She was relieved, but could not understand why the memory still haunted him.

As if reading her mind, he added, 'I crashed her into the sea and eighteen men went down with her.'

It made sense to her now: his frequent remoteness, the aloofness towards the happenings around them and the decisions that had had to be made, yet the reckless bravery

to save others, the risks he took. For some reason he blamed himself for the deaths of these eighteen men and, a natural survivor, he disdained his own survival. He had no death wish, of that she was sure, but his 'life' wish was not so strong either. So far it seemed to be the survival of others that drove him on, starting at the very beginning with Alex Dealey. She hesitated for a moment, but she had to dare to ask, had to know how justified his guilt feelings were.

Will you tell me what happened?' she said.

At first, when the coldness crept into his blue-grey eyes, she thought he would decline; then his gaze swept past her, staring intently into the mist as if seeing the destruction beyond. Whatever inner battle was taking place, it was soon resolved. Perhaps his own guilt feelings paled into insignificance against this vast obscene backdrop, itself a devastating indictment of mankind's culpability; or perhaps he had just wearied of his self-inflicted penance and felt admission -confession? - would expel its demons. Whatever the motive, he lay back against the scorched grass and began to tell her.

Tears ago, when the North Sea oil boom really took off, the big charter companies found themselves desperately short of helicopter pilots to ferry oil-rig crews back and forth. Bristow's could take an experienced single-wing pilot and turn him into an experienced chopper pilot in three months, with no charge for the training; an agreement to work for them for at least two years was the only stipulation. I signed on, went through their training, but unfortunately didn't quite manage to fulfil the contract.'

He avoided her eyes and flicked at a fly that was buzzing close to his head.

The money and conditions were great,' Culver went on, 'so was the company. There wasn't much risk involved because flying wasn't permitted under extreme weather

conditions; occasionally an emergency would take us out at such times, and now and again bad weather caught us without warning. The morning my chopper went down into the sea started perfectly: sun shining, calm waters, little breeze. I guess if it hadn't been like that, none of us would have survived.'

He fell into silence once more and Kate thought he had changed his mind, had decided the memory was best left undisturbed. He looked at her as if asking her trust and, by lying close beside him, head resting against his shoulder, she gave it.

'I had a full load,' he finally went on. Twenty-six passengers - engineers, riggers, a relief medical team -

and everyone seemed cheered by the fine weather. I remember the sun dazzling off the water as if it were no more than a huge placid lake. We took off and flew at a height of fifteen hundred feet towards our designated oil rig. We were soon over it and flying past, gradually descending to our inbound level...'

Kate raised her head and looked at him in puzzlement.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Standard procedure for rig landing is to fly five miles beyond, descend to two hundred feet and head back, preferably with the wind behind. The rig shows on radar, although the blip disappears from the scanner when it's within a mile's range; after that you rely on sight.

'Everything was normal, no problems at all. I was still on the outbound course, levelling off, when we ran smack into a thick sea mist.'

He shivered, his body becoming tense, and Kate held him tight.

'It was sudden, but no cause for alarm. I turned the machine and headed back in the direction of the rig, flying even lower to keep visual contact with the sea. I should have

risen above the fog bank, but I figured we were close to the rig and would soon be clear of the mist.

But you see, the fog was shifting and moving in the same direction - that's why it had come up on us so swiftly when we were outbound. Then, without any warning, I had nothing at all to focus on.

'I should have switched to instrument flying, but I was confident I could rely on my own instincts to take us clear; all I had to do was maintain a constant altitude. The Civil Aviation Authority has a term for it:

"Pilot disorientation", an overwhelming compulsion for a pilot to believe in his own senses rather than what his instruments tell him. They say it's a common phenomenon, even among the most experienced aircrew; all I know is that my stupidity cost the lives of those men.'

'Steve, you can't blame yourself.' She tugged at his collar as if to shake sense into him.

'I can, and I do,' he said quietly. 'Every pilot who has lost his aircraft and killed his passengers and who has himself survived feels the same way, even when no fingers are pointed at him. It's something there's just no refuge from.'

She saw it was pointless to argue at that moment. Tell me what happened,' she said, and this time there was no reluctance on his part to continue.

We hit the sea and bounced off. We hit again and the floor was ripped out. One of the flotation tanks must have been damaged, too, because next time we hit, the copter flipped over and sank.

'I found myself outside, lungs full of freezing water. Don't ask me how I got out, I don't remember; maybe through an escape hatch, or maybe I just floated through the ripped floor. I was semi-conscious, but I could see the helicopter below, sinking fast, disappearing into that deep, never-ending gloom. I broke surface, coughing water, half-drowned, that