Eva came back again with a black and grey jump-suit. It was stiff and long and practically stood up by itself.
‘Hold this,’ she told him.
Ben took it by the shoulders and she knelt down and started undoing zips in a workmanlike way.
It was a peculiar garment. It even had its own boots, dangling off the end of the legs as if someone had welded a pair of wellingtons to it.
‘Eva, what is it?’
‘A drysuit.’ She stood up. ‘Put your leg in there.’
He did as he was told. He got one leg in and wiggled it down. It got stuck halfway.
‘There’s something inside,’ he told her.
‘It’s this,’ said Eva. She seized the knee pad and scrubbed the fabric together in her hands, like someone trying to open a stubborn plastic bag. ‘Now push,’ she said.
Ben got one leg in, then the other. But that wasn’t all. Eva knelt down and did up a complicated system of zips around the legs. The suit got tighter and tighter.
‘Now pull those elastic braces up over your shoulders.’
Ben took hold of a brace but the elastic was too tight. It twanged out of his hand and disappeared down the inside of the suit. He laughed.
Eva watched him without a flicker of a smile. ‘A lot of people lark about when they put a drysuit on.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ben. He didn’t think he’d ever come across anyone so serious. He tried the braces again and didn’t do any better the second time.
‘You’ve got to pull hard. They’re made to be tough.’
Finally he got them up and Eva zipped up the back of the suit. Now he was in.
He looked at her again, her Marilyn Manson face framed by the hood, and started to giggle. ‘Now we both look like Teletubbies.’
Eva didn’t think that was funny either. ‘At least you’ve got your sense of humour back.’ She said it with a completely straight face, as though she was a scientist observing an experiment.
Ben felt bad that he might have offended her. She had probably saved his life. ‘Thanks’ — he gestured at his strange outfit — ‘thanks for all this.’ He put out his hand. ‘I’m Ben, by the way.’
Eva shook his hand solemnly. ‘Well, Ben, if I hadn’t come along, who knows what would have happened to you.’
‘You seem to know a lot about all this.’
‘I’m a qualified diver. We’re taught to recognize the signs of hypothermia. Your body loses heat fast when you’re wearing wet clothes. Then you start to go wrong, like an old machine. You can’t think straight. You just want to lie down and sleep but that’s the worst thing you can do because you lose heat even faster if you stop moving.’
She seemed to take a peculiar delight in describing these gloomy details. But Ben had to admit that, although she only looked a few years older than he was, she seemed to know her stuff; it was as though she’d been following him with a video camera.
‘It’s not nice, is it?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Eva. ‘I had it once while wreck-diving in Plymouth.’ She started towards the exit. ‘Come on.’
Ben followed her. It was only when he started to move that he realized there was a bulging seam that forced his legs apart like a bandy cowboy’s. Even worse, his shins felt like they were being scraped raw.
He stopped. ‘Eva, are you sure I’ve got this on properly? It hurts.’
Eva barely even glanced back at him. ‘It’s probably the lining. Those ones are a bit sticky at first if you haven’t waxed your legs.’
Sticky wasn’t the word for it. It was like every hair was being pulled out of his skin. Still, it was better than that awful, creeping, deathly cold.
Ben passed another mirror and saw that the suit was light grey across the shoulders and black further down. In the middle of the chest was a valve with a yellow logo around it. There were curious pockets all over the place with nobbles and zips. He looked like Batman, especially with the hood. But he’d better not say so to Eva.
More seriously, though, he realized how much better he was feeling. He’d felt so cold and miserable before.
‘Come on,’ called Eva in a strict voice. ‘You need more fluids.’
She was a bit of a bossy boots, thought Ben. Still, he was grateful for the company. And if she hadn’t come along, he might still be in the doorway, sinking into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Francisco reached Trafalgar Square. He entered at the top, by the columns of the National Gallery. The water lapped along the tarmac at the bottom edge. Nelson looked out sadly over the flood.
He walked past St Martin-in-the-Fields and saw the station on the other side of the road: Charing Cross.
But then he saw that the station was surrounded by water.
Still, water or not, he had to get in. At least that might mean he’d have the place to himself.
He crossed the road and got as close to the station as he could to assess the situation. The forecourt had an in-and-out drive, bounded by a set of iron railings. They would do.
He launched himself into the water. The current swept him along with surprising power, but Francisco had calculated well. He grabbed the railings. The current tried to pull him away and the tyre iron clipped to his belt dragged him down, but he clung on.
Without letting go, he put his feet down. The water was nearly up to his waist. Holding onto the railings, he began to work his way along. Each step he took, he felt with his feet first. He knew there could be dangers lurking in the water. He felt the smooth pavement under his feet change to the cobbles of the forecourt. He reached the end of the railings, where the exit to the forecourt was.
The station entrance was opposite him now, a series of arches about twenty metres away. It would be good if he could let go and the current could swoosh him through one of those arches like a football into a goal. But judging by the wrappers and rubbish swirling past him, it was running out into Trafalgar Square. If he tried to wade or swim, he would be swept away too.
However, at the end of the forecourt he spotted some cars smashed up against a row of shops, piled up as if in a junkyard. He could use those as handholds.
Francisco reached out for a car on its back like an upturned beetle. His hands caught the filthy underside of its exhaust. It took his weight and he swung onto it, like Tarzan. The exhaust pipe ran up the entire underside of the car and he pulled himself along to the front bumper.
Next was a taxi, which had managed to remain upright. He used its wing mirror to reach the handle-bars of a Suzuki motorbike. Then he moved onto a police car: its open window provided a generous handhold. And then he was in the goalmouth.
It was also under water, but he felt smooth, level tiles under his feet. Within the station the current wasn’t so bad and Francisco stopped to get his breath back.
From that vantage point he took stock. First he checked to make sure there was no one else around. It had become a habit, from long years of doing things and trying to avoid being seen. Right now, though, it would have been good to see his partner José but there was no sign of him. He might as well get on.
Francisco waded over to the red metal left luggage lockers. They’d chosen one on the third rack — at the time this was because it was the least visible to CCTV cameras, but now — luckily it also meant that the contents wouldn’t be ruined.
Francisco’s keys had been confiscated by the police when he was arrested. But it didn’t matter; the tyre iron would do fine. He unhooked it from his belt and edged it into the gap beside the lock. It fitted perfectly.
He levered open the door and started to look through the contents. There was a rucksack and a couple of warm jackets. He threw off his Michelin top and let it float away while he put on one of the jackets from the locker. They were reversible: wear them one way round and they showed distinctive motor racing logos; the other side was a plain colour. That way, if they were spotted, the most likely thing that would be reported was the logo. All they had to do then was switch to the other side and they were incognito again.