Cheryl and Kabeera helped to drag the raft into place on the sill. The smoke curled out of the window, making dark clouds in the wet air. Richard dragged a chair across the carpet to act as a mounting block. Kabeera pulled her headscarf up a little higher to try and protect her throat, but she was still coughing as she climbed up.
One by one they scrambled onto the raft. Kabeera and Cheryl each went to the front and hung onto the ropes. Ben climbed out and inched his way across. The raft felt soft, like a lilo feels when it is going down. Would it hold? As he looked down he saw the water surging less than a metre below, smashing a wooden chair against the white walls. He remembered those people who had jumped from the London Eye, just bags of bones in the tide by now.
He must have frozen where he was on the sill. Guang tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. ‘You go over there and hang onto that rope in the middle.’
Ben had little choice. Water was better than fire.
Guang and Richard held on at the back, then they pushed away from the window frame. The raft slid easily on the wet windowsill. For a moment it was airborne, then it plunged into the water.
Chapter Eleven
Ben clung on. Filthy Thames water sluiced over his head. The water was icy cold, sending pains all over his body and making his fingers go numb instantly. His brain played him terrifying images — the woman struggling to climb the coral-tree while the water battered its branches like an angry demon trying to shake her loose.
Freezing spray filled his eyes, nose and mouth. It tasted of mud and oil. They were travelling fast, as if on rapids, completely at the mercy of the current. The raft wobbled and undulated under them, as though it was about to fold in half at any moment. Ben could make out shapes crouched against the other end, but the spray kept forcing his eyes closed. The only things he could see with any certainty were right beside him in the water, buffeted against the raft: a blackboard sign from a pub; litter bins, surrounded by a confetti of KFC wrappers, coffee cups, tickets, leaflets, half-eaten burgers. A small bundle of drenched clothes bobbed up nearby. Ben saw a face, wet hair like streaks of black seaweed dragged across the forehead. A body. He couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Then it was swept away from them again.
Suddenly Ben spotted a short black spike in the water. He realized it was the top of a lamppost and his brain did a quick reality check. Those lampposts on the South Bank were about three metres high. He got a sudden blinding sense of panic at the thought of all the water below him. And what if something tore the raft?
Still the current pulled them on. They passed a man helplessly riding a giant seesaw in the air above them. He was clinging onto the gangplank of a restaurant boat, which was waving free over the water. His face was grim, unseeing.
Now they were passing Westminster Bridge, gliding over the approach road. The bridge itself had shrunk to a small hump in the middle of the water, and Ben could see boats and a floating restaurant stuck at the arch, thumping against the concrete as though the current was trying to use them as a battering ram to smash through to the other side. To their left a Day-Glo orange van hurtled towards a tall grey building and crashed in through one of the windows, leaving a black hole. Ben’s heart turned a somersault. Suppose they were carried into a building? Into the dark? Into a fire?
Suddenly he realized that one of the shapes on the raft had gone. He looked at the empty section of rope. Just like that, without a sound, one of the people who had been in that room had disappeared. One minute they were there, the next they were gone. Who was it? Ben couldn’t recognize any of the remaining shapes. They were all soaking wet, their clothes darkened by the water, their hair plastered down. Just lumps of wet clothes. He looked around in the water, searching for someone in trouble.
A big powerboat came speeding past, as tall as a two-storey building. It clipped the raft and sent it whirling round like a fairground ride. Ben hung on, blinded by spray. The raft bounced off a double-decker bus, a truck, a park bench, a bin, all the time undulating like a waterbed. It felt loose, as though it was about to deflate entirely and leave them all struggling in the waves like debris. He was so cold, but he had to stay still and cling on. He felt like he was only a set of fingers clamped around a piece of rope, waiting for it all to stop. The rope was digging into his hands. Everything hurt.
They glided on past the Houses of Parliament, strangely stunted now that their lower floors were submerged. The graceful tower of Big Ben stood above it all, aloof from the chaos. Beyond it Ben could see what looked like a battleship nudging at the gothic windows of Westminster Abbey. All at once he recognized it as HMS Belfast, which he’d been to see on a previous trip with his mother. It had drifted off its moorings on the other side of the river. It was a surreal sight, these two pieces of London history juxtaposed like that. If I’m going to die, he thought, let it be now. With that image in my head.
They circled past the abbey and then on down a street of tall white buildings. Ben’s mind was replaying the image of the van disappearing through the window, but they were swept on past the buildings and into an open area.
Here, only the tops of trees were poking up out of the water. They must be floating across one of the parks. That was even more frightening — it was like drifting out at sea.
Suddenly the raft hit a tree and Ben was slithering into the water. The raft was bobbing away from him. The last thing he saw was its orange sides, now with only three hunched figures clinging on, unaware they were leaving one more behind.
Chapter Twelve
Ben disappeared under the water. He surfaced spluttering, his mouth full of foul-tasting water. He imagined lampposts and trees below him, which meant the water was really deep here. His arms and legs flailed about, trying to find something to cling to. Anything to avoid being swept along by the current like another piece of flotsam.
A big shape surged past. He didn’t know what it was but something made him pull himself towards it in a strong front crawl. The current held him back as though it had anchored his feet.
No, thought Ben. I’m not giving up. He put every ounce of his remaining strength into swimming towards whatever it was. As he approached it, he could make out red metallic paint … a chrome bar. It was the top of a car with a roof rack.
That gave him the extra focus he needed. He looked at the bright metal roof rack and imagined his hands grasping it. Just a few more strokes and he would have something to hold onto again. The effort was agonizing, but still he pulled himself forward. Slowly the bar came closer. He reached out and his fingers brushed against it. Nearly. But then he felt the current threatening to sweep him away. He grabbed at the roof rack like a man trying to catch a trapeze bar.
Then he felt solid metal under his fingers. He’d done it. He took hold with his other hand and pulled himself forward, hand over hand. Only when he felt something solid under his body did he stop.
That’s it, he thought, and closed his eyes. Now I can let the water take me where it wants again.
After a few moments he looked around. The water was becoming shallower. Now he could see more of the roof of the car. Ahead there were more buildings, grand-looking, covered in white stucco like wedding cake. And the dark shiny surface of wet tarmac. He’d reached the edge of the flooded area.
Ben rolled off the car and into the water. It was up to his waist and he struggled to keep his feet. But he fixed his eyes on those white wedding-cake buildings and half ran, half swam towards them.