Her Name Will Be Faith (58 page)

More MPs appeared with
hand-held floodlights, linked to a portable
generator,
illuminating the stream of frightened humanity, flowing up the
stairs
ahead, along the crowded platform, and beyond them the swirling black water.

Washington, Celestine, and
Patsy with the baby, were half way up the stairs to the street when frantic
screaming exploded from the platform below them. They turned, and, above the
heads of the crowd pressing urgently behind them, saw a great wall of water
gush out of the tunnel they had just left, engulfing everyone on the platform,
sweeping those on
the outer edge away with
it. Those nearest the wall clung together,
clutching at rails, seats, anything that might keep them on their feet in
the surge swirling around their chests.

The
water rose over them and reached even the step on which Washing
ton was standing… and
there, spinning at his feet for a few moments, was a little round straw hat
with a ribbon. Then it was drawn away into the main stream again, and
disappeared.

An
enormous gust shook the Rolls Royce; it rose on two wheels, and then
thudded back down again
with a thump, which drove the breath from J. Calthrop White's lungs. But he had
already been breathless – for over an hour.

He
was on the floor by the back seat, kneeling, heart pounding. He had
never experienced anything
like this, had never expected to. He was J. Calthrop White. He owned things,
from huge buildings down to this car, and he owned people's opinions as well.
Hell, he even owned people. He gave orders, and they were obeyed.

Why was this happening to
him?

Another
gust, and he nearly vomited. The rain was teeming down,
now,
pounding on the roof of the car; he could hear it gurgling in the
ditch.
My God, suppose it rose sufficiently to drown him? God, why
hadn't
he stayed at home? If he could get home, he'd never leave again.
"I mean that,
God," he whispered. "Sincerely."

Maybe God wasn't
listening.

Another
sound. Something against the car. My God, he thought, water,
trying to push it over.
"God," he whispered. "Save me."

The leeward door was
clawed open. J. Calthrop White stared in horror
at the apparition which climbed into the back beside him. It was
capless,
uniform torn and filthy, face a bloody mask – there was
blood on his feet and staining his breeches, as well.

"God,"
the apparition said. "Oh, God." He slumped against the seat for
several seconds then raised his head. "I'm sorry, Mr White. There
isn't any help."

"Where have you
been?" J. Calthrop White demanded.

"Not far," Murray said with a deep sigh.
"Maybe a hundred yards." "You've been gone damn near three
hours."

"Yes, sir," Murray said.
"I've spent all that time trying to get back.
Mr White, it's death to be out there."

"It's damn near death in here too."

"Mr
White," Murray said, as the car seemed to lift into the air and
then thump back down
again. "I think we should pray."

"What
the hell do you think I've been doing?" J. Calthrop White
shouted. Then his voice
lowered. "But you're welcome to join in. And Murray, if we ever get out of
here, you can have your job back."

"Aaagh!" Marcia screamed. "Benny, I'm
scared. I've never heard a noise like this. The whole house is shaking."

"Guess we're getting
the edge of Faith all right," Benny agreed.

They
had slept late, very late, and brunched on tinned soup, cheese
and fruit at twelve
o'clock. Occasionally they had been disturbed by the wind and the thunder. Once
they thought they heard a police siren close at hand, and a loudspeaker
blaring, but the noise had been subdued by
the
pounding rain. Then someone had knocked on the street door, several
times,
and then rung the bell, but they had ignored whoever it had been;
in weather like this, with hangovers, bed had
seemed the best place to
be.

When
they finally got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen —
they had chosen to keep
the one in the basement apartment, which was
actually
below street level — the thunder and lightning and howling wind
didn't
seem so ominous, but having come upstairs again, the upper part of the house
appeared to be swaying, beams and joists creaking and
groaning behind the plaster, and they had to shout to be heard above
the
noise.

"Edge of nothing!
This has to be the real thing. God!" Marcia cowered back against the door
as a violent gust cracked a windowpane.

“Jees!
That whole window will go in a minute; the wood is rotten. We
must nail something over
it." Desperately Benny looked around. "What? Quick, what can we
use?"

"Try the plywood back
off that old bureau that fell off when we moved it." Marcia tugged at the
ancient piece that had served for years as a dressing table.

"Yeah, that'll do.
Look, I'll hold it over the window while you go down for a hammer and
nails."

When
the frail window was safely boarded up, they went round the
other rooms, checking that
everything was secured, and were halfway down the stairs when the lights went
out.

"Damn,"
Benny said. "That means we can't check the weather on
TV." They groped
through the gloomy daylight filtering into the hallway. "Who'd believe it
was one o'clock in the afternoon?"

"Benny, do you think
we're safe here? Shouldn't we be in a stronger, concrete building?" She
peered out at the street. “Jees, it's dead out there. Not a soul in
sight."

"Sweetheart, will you
just look at the bricks and tiles scattered on the
road? It's dangerous outside, even if you were able to stay on your feet.
I reckon we're a whole lot safer
inside, and obviously everybody else
thinks so too. Let's get on with
the painting."

"How the hell can we paint
in this light?" Marcia moaned.

"I guess they'll fix it soon," Benny said,
hopefully.

"You're an optimist.
They took more than a day, last time we had an outage. Well, as there's only
that corner left to do, I guess we could hang
the
drapes and put the loose covers on the settee and chairs." Anything
to
occupy her mind, fight off the pangs of fear which were paralyzing her
movements.

A
sudden tremendous crash rocked the building, scattering crockery in
the kitchen. It continued
to boom and rattle for several minutes.

"Oh, dear God! What
was that?" Marcia was white as a sheet. She followed Benny to the window
— then drew back in horror, tears starting
to course down her cheeks. The old brown house across the street,
loved,
tended and preserved in all its traditional character by a young
couple who had become good friends of theirs, was now only a heap of rubble.
The roof had lifted and fallen back, breaking up as it did so, heavy tiles and
supporting joists devastating the floors and walls below.

"Christ,
how did that happen? Could've been struck by a bomb. I must
go see if I can help
them." Benny started for the door.

"No,
Benny, no! They're not there. They went to Joyce's mother for
the
weekend. Oh, Benny..." Marcia flung herself into his arms. "I'm
so frightened. Could..."
she gulped. "Could that happen to us?"

"No
way. I told Tom he should've had that building surveyed. We'll
be okay, baby." He
held her against him, patting her shoulders and
displaying a confidence he was far from feeling. The only comfort was
that the new joists they had put in on the second
floor had to be a source
of strength. Whatever happened upstairs,
nothing could come through there. They'd just have to stay down here until this
thing blew itself out, and worry about the roof afterwards.

But he couldn't avoid a terrible feeling that maybe
that police siren
and the banging on the door might have been some kind of
warning. If
only he had even a portable radio
– but he'd never bothered; he had
always preferred his collection of tapes and his own kind of music to the
brainless chat which filled so much air time. And anyway,
a hurricane…
in Greenwich Village?

Yet
to think of the place opposite. To see a house just collapse .. .

But he couldn't communicate any of his fear to Marcia; she
was
sufficiently terrified as it
was. He said, "Come on and stop worrying.
We've
got work to do. Where are the hooks for the drapes?"

The young couple tried to concentrate, pushing the hooks
into place
with fumbling
fingers, but they were shaken every few minutes by new
bangs and crashes as lightning struck the taller
buildings around them,
and
the ever increasing wind force carried chimney pots, tiles, and even
sheets of plate glass slicing through the streets. Half
an hour later, the
curtains
were all neatly in place – but it was hard to appreciate the full
effect
against the wallpaper and paint – the light was too bad.

The downstairs windows had old casement shutters, most of
which
Benny had securely fastened
except for the two center folds in the lounge.
Now he closed these as well. "That last gust nearly
took the house with it. We'll just have to sit in the gloom unless you can find
some candles.
There'll have to be..."
He never finished the sentence. A deafening
roaring, creaking, groaning, whirring, moaning sound
thundered round
their heads, and showers
of ceiling plaster rained down on them.

Marcia screamed. Benny grabbed her and drew her towards
the outer wall, praying that the new joists would hold, but if not, that they
would
only give in the center. It
was impossible to speak – but they both
knew the roof had gone. Instinctively they went down the
stairs to the
comparative safety
of the kitchen, closing and locking the door behind
themselves. Marcia slid down the wall to sit on the
floor, hands clasped
over
her abdomen in a gesture of protection for their baby. She must look
after it. All this frightening experience was so bad for
it; she and Benny
would both be devastated
if she miscarried.

Suddenly she realized that the floor was wet.
"Ugh!" She jumped up
and
grabbed Benny's hand. "The rain's coming through the ceiling," she
yelled
in his ear.

But Benny knew it wasn't rainwater. It was already
swirling round
their
ankles, and it smelt… of sea and salt. "Upstairs," he yelled back,
and started for the door, icy fingers of terror clawing at his chest, trying
to
drag Marcia with him.

They never reached it. With a series of massive, rapid
cracks, like a
barrage
of artillery fire, the door was burst open, and a cascade of water,
carrying
nameless, stinking flotsam, converged on them in the gloom.

"Oh, my new drapes!" Marcia cried, a split
second before she was
swept off her feet. She
struggled, lungs bursting, seeking to surface – but
she didn't know which way was up. She thought she
felt Benny brush by
her and made a grab for him, but it was only a
chair.

"Marcia!" Benny plunged this way and that,
surfaced, drew breath…
and
realized his feet were not touching; the water pouring down from
the
street was over his height. "Marcia!" he screamed.