Portent (12 page)

    But somebody was already on the stairs, about halfway up and descending slowly. There were no lights on at the top, and the hallway itself was only dimly lit.

    'Diane…?' he said, one foot on the first step.

    She had the children on either side of her, their small faces ethereally pale in the gloom, their bodies tight against her. Diane stopped when she saw him and her voice was hushed and not quite steady, as if she were forcing a calmness that would not frighten the children further. For their fear was evident in their wide staring eyes.

    'They've seen the light again.'

    It was at that precise moment when glass from the windows of the porch and front door and those beside it shrieked inwards, thousands of jagged shards imploding into the hallway like blasted shrapnel, the scream of their bursting the only warning.

    Instinct alone caused Rivers to duck, otherwise his exposed neck and head would have been pierced by the fragments; as it was, hundreds of tiny pieces penetrated the tough material of the corduroy trousers and twill shirt he wore, their force diminished before they reached his skin.

    He cried out from shock rather than pain, and collapsed against the stairs to lie there, arms over his head for protection. All around the house could be heard the sound of smashing glass, as if some terrible gale was swirling around outside and breaking through every window.

    The two children screamed and cowered with their mother on the stairway, Diane hugging them close, protecting them with her own body.

    The window on the landing above crashed inwards as if dealt some tremendous blow from outside, sending a cascade of glittering fragments that fell over the heads and shoulders of those who crouched below. Poggs' wife, who had followed Rivers to the doorway, dropped to her knees behind the door itself as the study's long windows caved inwards, and only the high back of the leather chair saved Hugo Poggs, himself, from the deadly spray.

    Glass streaked down the hallway from the window at the far end, spattering on to the floor in a leaden shower when its force was spent.

    Hunched and trembling, they listened to the smashing of glass that came from other rooms in the house.

    Yet they did not hear the sound of a storm. Nor of any wind. For outside the air was perfectly still.

    

    

    
Vieux Carre (Old Square)

    It hurt. Oh Divine Mother, it hurt.

    She shifted her vast weight in the wicker chair; the interweaved cane creaked, the cushions seemed to sigh. The tiny perfumed handkerchief, her Sunday lace and lavender one, was used to dab moisture from her forehead and neck, the lace soon sodden and the scent soon tainted.

    She levered herself up, hands gripping the curved arms of the wicker chair and testing their ability to endure to the limit. A rotating fan hummed rhythmically over her head as she crossed the floor, but it was the draught caused by the passing of her huge body and not the cooling air currents that stirred the net curtains enclosing the room's huge bed.

    Street noises distracted her and she went to one of the long windows, pushing open its heavy green shutters. She stepped out on to the narrow wrought-iron gallery, while daylight, bright and too eager, rushed past her into the room to be subdued by shadows that did not seem ordinary, so dense and unyielding were they. And outside on the gallery, the afternoon's brightness scarcely made the woman's eyes narrow, even though she had come from such an umbrageous chamber; they stared unblinkingly, dark and protuberant, into the crowds that strolled through the colonnade below.

    A tourist, as loud in attire as he was in voice, noticed her and stopped; he nudged his wife and pointed upwards, exhorting her to catch a slice of real old New Orleans. His wife shuddered at the sight though, and hurried him on, dragging him by the elbow, never once looking back.

    The woman on the balcony breathed in the sultry street-stale air, her fists tight around the filigreed iron of the gallery's rail, and rocked away the soreness inside her head. To and fro, back and forth, a steady rhythm that gradually relaxed into a mild, almost imperceptible, swaying.

    Her gaze fell upon a single black child and would not let him go as he weaved his way through the jostling Sunday strollers and sightseers. The boy came to a halt and looked around him as though someone had called his name. Slowly he turned his head in her direction; he looked upwards and his jaw slackened.

    The boy quickly joined his hands at his chest in supplication, then bowed his head.

    She let him go, her thoughts on other matters, but she had enjoyed the momentary contact.

    The boy sped away, forgetting his original destination, rerouting himself back to his own home where he fell into his surprised mama's arms.

    He would dream badly for the next seven days.

    The woman returned to the darkened room, closing the heavy shutters behind her. Then it was her eyes she closed, and with her black clothing and dark skin she became a shadow among other shadows. Yet had anyone dared to enter at that moment, they would immediately have been aware of her presence, for they would have heard her rumbling breath and they would have smelled her sweat. If anyone had dared to enter.

    She gave a small moan.

    It had hurt.

    And she did not understand.

    She had sensed the threat and had directed her thoughts to the 'place'-oh show me where, Great Mama, oh show me WHERE. The pressure had been almost unbearable, her mind had been flayed; but she had not wavered, she had not retreated, and it had hurt, it had hurt.

    She had felt the breaking, the shattering of light fragments, the pleasure of that, but then the pain.

    This sensing was unlike the others, and she could not understand why it had weakened her so.

    But she was aware that the situation must be remedied. Soon

    - and of this she was sure-she would know how.

    

    

    Although it was not many minutes past eight o'clock, the sun was already drying the sodden land, creating lazy vapour clouds that drifted low to the ground. There was no sharpness to the day, no keen edge to it; even the bird calls sounded listless and unconcerned. The sky was a hazy blue and the greens of the hills around the shallow valley where Hazelrod sheltered were of muted greens.

    Diane led Rivers through the orchard beyond the gardens, explaining the husbandry system of the small-holding as they walked. He listened politely, but his mind was on other matters, namely the bizarre events of the night before.

    The grounds around the house had been deserted-or at least Poggs and Mack, armed with a shotgun, had found no signs of intruders when they had investigated once the bizarre storm had abated. The conclusion last night had been that an unusual wind, perhaps a twister, had encircled the building, driving inwards to shatter windows, while disturbing nothing outside-outbuildings, trees, fences, or anything at all that should have been vulnerable. No one had argued the point-at least no one had suggested otherwise.

    And no one had been seriously hurt, although it had taken some time for Diane to pick out small splinters of glass that had penetrated the heavy trousers and shirt worn by Rivers. His cuts were few, and mainly on the backs of his hands, although there was one gash along his cheekbone that had required some treatment. She, too, had cuts on her hands and two small slashes on her forehead; her hair was full of glass fragments from the landing window above where she had crouched with the children but, because of her protection, Josh and Eva were unscathed. They were dazed, but there were no tears and, apparently, no deep shock.

    Poggs and his wife were also unharmed, although Bibby was badly frightened-more so than any of the others. Those terrible seconds it had taken her to reach the screaming children, that cold eternity of trepid haste, had taken their toll: her deathly pallor was still dreadful to see that morning.

    Next to the orchard was a pasture divided by a low fence where on one side cows grazed and chickens pecked at the earth, while on the other sheep and geese mingled.

    'Your own food factory,' Rivers remarked, leaning on the field's gate and watching the animals.

    Diane shook her head disapprovingly. 'It's a cynical description, but I guess it's right. We keep pigs over on the other side of the orchard, ducks too.'

    'Ducks with pigs?'

    'No. There's a pond and a small stream.'

    'Like I said

    She smiled. 'We also keep bees. But pigs are best-great cultivators, and not a scrap of 'em gets wasted.'

    'I hope you don't have pet names for them.'

    'As a matter of fact, the children do.'

    'So what d'you tell Josh and Eva when it's time for Porky to get chopped?'

    'It's the country, Mr. Rivers, and this is a working farm, small though it is. Sure, we get sentimental about some of the animals, but there's a natural law that prevails here and the children understand it.'

    'I'm not criticizing. So what do you grow? You've got, what-five, six acres?'

    'Ten, much of it woodland. Well, we grow wheat, barley, oats. We also go in for runner beans, French beans, broad beans, and oh yeah-peas. Then there's carrots, fodder beet and kale. Not much of any one thing, you understand-most fields are divided into half-acres.'

    'Just the few of you look after all this?'

    'Mack's worth three good men. We hire help in the busy times.' In the distance one of the cows was moving through the rising steam, its legless body seeming to float above the ground.

    'It sounds like you're ready for the siege,' Rivers remarked, watching the spectral shape.

    'Siege?'

    He turned to face her, one elbow still resting on the gate. 'When it's all finally gone wrong. When we've screwed up the world badly enough for the food supply to become critical for every country.'

    'You really are a cynic.'

    'I know what's happening.'

    'Doesn't everyone have an idea?'

    'There are plenty of pessimists around, but people generally like to avoid bad news. Their own governments work hard to encourage that.'

    'No one can avoid what's plain to see.'

    'What can be seen is only half of it-you know that. Most people imagine we still maintain some control.'

    'You paint a black picture.'

    He gave a short, scoffing laugh. 'I thought that was the one thing we were agreed on-the bloody disastrous state we've brought upon ourselves.'

    'There has to be a way of changing things. At least we're trying to find answers.'

    There was a hint of wickedness in his smile. 'I thought you were trying to take care of yourselves.' He waved a hand at the land around them.

    Her face tightened with anger. 'That was never the idea. We came here ten years ago when it was pretty much the same set-up, only the man who owned the place had died and his widow had problems keeping it running. Poggsy needed somewhere quiet and roomy enough to continue his researches and we all liked the notion of becoming self-sufficient. At that time we had no idea things were going to get this bad-our intention was just to live our lives without adding to the world's ecological problems. We also happen to think Hazelrod's a great environment for Josh and Eva. Would you bring up your own kids in the city if you had a choice?'

    'I don't have any. Kids, I mean.'

    'I know that.'

    'And what else d'you know about me?'

    'Not that much about your personal life. Apart from being a physicist, you've a degree in Computing Sciences. Your full title is Higher Scientific Officer and you've been with the Met for -what? Fourteen, fifteen years now? And during that time you've been involved in such research as the physics of cloud and precipitation, airflow in the lowest kilometer of the atmosphere, the measurement of rain and cloud by radar and from satellites. Exciting stuff like that.'

    She gave him a stiff smile. 'For the past few years, though, you've become involved in more significant matters. The global climate and the development of numerical models to represent and predict atmospheric processes, for instance. It appears that certain people who control government purse strings were finally alerted to the climate problems the world was facing and decided to spend money where it was desperately needed.'

    She looked towards the misty hills, as though her thoughts were distracted. But he discovered that was far from so.

    'This is the interesting part,' she went on. 'You don't work from the Met Office itself, nor from the more specialized Hadley Centre. No, your particular working group, along with two others, operates from a more covert establishment somewhere just outside London. It goes under the guise of an ordinary outstation, or an experimental site, just one of the many dotted around the country. You and your special team are directly answerable to the Met Office's Chief Executive, who also happens to be the UK's Permanent Representative at the World Meteorological Organization in Geneva. He himself is responsible to the Secretary of State for Defence, no less.'

    Rivers was bemused rather than angry. 'I suppose it would do no good to ask where you got this information from.'

    'Poggsy still has contacts within the system. Tell me something. The research plane that crashed with you on board-you weren't there as just a casual observer, were you?'

    He didn't answer straight away. Instead he now looked towards the grey-green hills. 'I'd been storm-chasing for over a year,' he said after a while. 'Through the Indian Ocean, to the Pacific, to the Atlantic, hoping to discover some kind of pattern, no matter how vague or how general. But there wasn't-there isn't-any; at least, none that we've managed to establish. We know the causes, we have an idea where they'll strike, but we still don't know when they'll start.'