The alcohol, the cigarettes, and the filled stomachs contrived to create a mood of calmness, a natural enough counter-balance to the tension they had endured for so long. They spoke of their future hopes rather than the past tragedy, each one unconsciously trying to evoke some aspiration, something that could be salvaged from their shattered lives.
Dealey had not shared in the conversation, but had sat moodily staring into the fire.
Dusk fell swiftly, more swiftly than was natural for that time of year, and the steam, slowly dissipating throughout the long afternoon, fell low as if humbled by the incredible sunset that followed. They stood as one and gazed into the western sky, their upturned faces bathed in the reflected flare.
The huge, swift-rolling clouds, a confused combination of alto-cumulus and nimbo-stratus, were coloured in violent shades of red, orange, and yellow, their bellies streaked a dazzling gold, their ragged heights pure vermilion. They moved like mountains across the sky, vivid and powerful, overwhelmingly beautiful, and as the survivors watched they felt the earth itself could ignite once more by being so close to their boiling fury. Even though the sun's fiery brilliance was diffused by clouds and atmospheric dust, they could not look directly at it, for its intensity was too blinding, its effulgence too destructive; the sun, too, seemed outraged by
the satellite planet which had dared to re-create a facsimile power to its own.
Jagged glittering streaks patterned the sky like thin, dashed brushstrokes; these were not clouds but dust particles, coalesced and held aloft by warm, rising air currents. In the far distance some were descending vertically like heaven-thrown javelins.
The sky to the east was no less stunning, although its redness was more crimson, its clouds a deep amber in parts. All movement was in that direction as if sucked in by some giant vortex beyond the horizon. The spectacle was both awesome and frightening.
As they watched, spellbound, the red boiling anger gradually subsided, for the sun was sinking further into the horizon, turning the dusk into a softer, less frenzied vision, a warm richness subduing the violent-tossed clouds so that their hurried drifting became graceful, flowing rather than rushing.
The sun disappeared - and again, its descent seemed unnaturally fast - casting in its wake a shimmering radiance that lit the underbellies of the clouds so they seemed glutted with blood. Darkness encroached, a definite curve, vignetted only slightly, moving steadily but warily forward as if afraid of being scorched.
With it came a half-moon, indistinct and rust-stained, peeping only occasionally through the clouds, as though reluctant to bear witness to the spoiled earth below.
The temperature had cooled with the sun's fading, but only slightly; still the group moved closer to the fire and Dealey wondered if a primitive fear had been reborn. There was a silence between them for some time, each person intimidated yet uplifted by what they witnessed. Gradually, conversation resumed and more food was cooked and consumed. The second whisky bottle was emptied.
Evening became night and stars were hidden behind clouds and dust that layered the upper atmosphere; the elusive half-moon changed from russet to a pale sanguine (like the last of Christ's blood on the Cross, Dealey had thought, the final trickle that had run like water; perhaps the moon reflected the blood spilt below). Dealey moved away from the fire, tired of the others' attitude towards him, resenting their scorn. They didn't - couldn't - understand his importance to them, how he and he alone had seen them through the worst of the disaster, guided them through those early days, organizing, administrating -
taking on the damned responsibility^. The events of the day, with its discoveries, and the relief from the violence of the preceding night, had obviously enhanced their drunkenness, for they treated him as though he, personally, had pressed the button that had precipitated this third and final world war. It was a mood that classified government circulars dealing with what was termed the 'ultimate confrontation' had warned against. Civil unrest, aggression against the authoritative body. Subversion, anarchy, revolution. Events inside the Kingsway shelter had proved the correctness of the government view. And even now, when he had led this miserable few to safety (in that his knowledge had provided the escape route) they treated him with disrespect.
He shivered, glad of the blanket, for the warm clamminess of the evening had finally given way to the night's chill. He had watched Culver and the girl leave the fireside, they too taking a blanket with them (for warmth or cover?). It was obvious why they wanted to be alone. Wonderful aphrodisiac was death.
He shook his head, the movement lost beneath the blan-
ket. Culver could have been a useful ally, yet he chose to side with the ... the - Dealey refused to allow the word to form in his mind, but the thought was there anyway - the rabble. The pilot's interrogation earlier in the day had been discourteous to say the least. Harsh, even brutal, might be more appropriate.
—Exactly how many entrances to the main government headquarters below the Embankment were there?—
—Would some still be accessible?—
—Could the shelter have been flooded?—
—Specify the separate tunnels leading to it—
—When was the shelter built?—
—Before which World War: this one, the last one, or the first?—
—Had the government been prepared for this war?—
—How long before the bombs dropped was the evacuation into the shelter taking place? Hours, days, weeks?—
—How many days?—
—What number of people could the shelter hold?—
—Jesus, how were they all chosen?—
—Apart from government and military personnel—
—What skills and what trades?—
—Why those? What bloody influence did they have on the government? What made them so valuable?—
—Planners? What the hell could they plan except how to make money from the ashes?—
—How long could everybody exist down there?—
A pause. An angry, tight-lipped pause. And then
—Would they, this small group of survivors, be allowed in?—
Dealey had answered the questions, calmly at first, but eventually becoming outraged, himself, by Culver's anger. He, Dealey, was only a minion, he didn't run the bloody show, he wasn't privy to every government document or decision. If he had been, he would have been inside the headquarters his bloody self. He just wished they would all get it into their thick skulls that he was nothing more than a glorified bloody building inspector! That was the only reason he had keys and inside knowledge. All right, he was intended to be one of the privileged few, but wasn't included in the early evacuation and, as it turned out, he was lucky to have survived at all. And someone had to take charge down there, in the Exchange, otherwise the survivors would have degenerated into a disorganized, defeatist mob!
His outburst had meant nothing to Culver, for the questioning was not yet over. The pilot was curious about the rats.
Unlike before, when Dealey had been questioned inside the shelter on this special breed of vermin, he finally (and it was obvious to Culver, with no remorse over his previous lie) admitted that he knew they had not been entirely eliminated, nor could they be unless the whole of London's underground network, the sewers, the canals, the railway tunnels, and all basement areas were filled with poison gases or compounds, and even then there would have been no guarantee of total eradication. The task would be too dangerous and too immense. And the vermin could always flee into the surrounding suburbs. Even so, the numbers were thought to be so small that there would be no real danger to the community as a whole and certainly a massive purge on the vermin would cause unnecessary panic in the capital's populace. Far better to be vigilant and act swiftly and silently should there be evidence that they were growing in numbers.