The soft sounds outside the house, a murmur and a thud, made Anna's eyes brighten with fear. It wasn't until the front door thundered that Alan was sure they had been the sounds of a taxi. 'Taxi for Knight,' the red-faced driver said, sniffing.
'We're ready,' Alan said, trying to pretend that every- thing was normal. The doors of the dripping vehicle had child-proof locks, thank God. He locked Anna in the back and turned away from her desperate look. 'I won't be a moment,' he told the driver, and ran upstairs.
He had to be quick, in case Anna persuaded the driver to let her go. All the same, he faltered when he reached the door of Georgie's bedroom. Suppose the bloody man was there, waiting to be fed or to save the claw? But the room was deserted except for a faint metallic smell that made his stomach churn. He grabbed the claw and felt nothing: no compulsion, no fear. What he had done in Africa had neutralized its influence over him. He shoved it inside his jacket, then he ran down to the taxi and sat beside the driver. 'Norwich,' he said urgently.
The fog appeared to be thickening. The road was a winding tunnel whose walls were closing in. The middle-aged driver slowed down even more whenever he heard a car. Alan tried to avoid meeting Anna's eyes in the mirror, but when he stared through the windscreen he thought sometimes that a figure was pacing the vehicle, just the other side of the wall of fog. Whenever the fog drifted he expected to see the figure waiting, red as blood.
The fog fell back as it reached the streets of Norwich. Five minutes later the taxi drew up in front of the hospital. He ascertained which ward Liz was in and hurried Anna through the gleaming corridors. For a while it seemed the corridor would never end.
Liz was trussed up in a bed at the near end of the ward. Her chest was bandaged, her right leg was held in the air by cords; she tried her best to lift her head to see who had come to the ward. Anna stared at her from the doorway and wrung her hands, then she ran into the ward, crying, 'Mummy.'
Isobel got up to restrain her, and caught sight of Alan. 'I won't be Jong,' he said, striding away before she could stop him. Of course he didn't know how long he would be, he only hoped. At least the sight of her mother in hospital had swept away Anna's fear, and now he had to make sure there was nothing to be afraid of, had to make sure that the claw could harm nobody else. He could feel how hard it would be to break. He climbed into the waiting taxi. 'Liquid Gases,' he said.
They had to go back along the road toward the coast, a journey of several miles. He couldn't have gone straight there, couldn't have risked taking Anna. Even now the sight of the storage tanks, looming like huge balloons out of the fog, made his stomach tighten, made him grasp the claw inside his jacket until the talons scratched his chest. It wouldn't be long now.
The rear lights of the taxi dwindled, staining the fog red, as Alan picked up the phone at the gate. 'Alan Knight for Mr Rothwell.'
'I don't know if he's on site just now. If you'll come to Reception I'll find out.' The owner of the rich deep Norfolk voice, which reminded Alan suddenly and poignantly of Isaac, released the gates for him, and Alan hurried along the paved crooked path which led to Reception. Apart from a tanker, he could hear nothing near him in the fog.
'He shouldn't be more than a few minutes.' The young man behind the window at Reception gazed at him. 'You're the writer, aren't you? I read The Cold Cold War. Borrowed it, actually, I hope you don't mind. The scene when they turn the hose on the girl is the one Mr Rothwell helped you with, isn't it? There were a couple of things there I wanted to ask you about…'
Alan couldn't cope with this just now. 'Do you mind if I find myself a seat in his office? I've been doing quite a lot of walking.'
'I suppose not, seeing it's you.' The other didn't look suspicious, only disappointed. 'You know where it is.'
The upper floor seemed deserted. Nothing moved beyond the frosted glass partitions of the offices. Alan sat by the site manager's desk, which was spread with a flow chart, and hoped he wouldn't have to wait long. If the site manager wanted to know why he wanted a sample of liquid nitrogen, he need only say that he would like to see how it affected metal for himself. Ten minutes' immersion and the metal of the claw ought to be ready to snap.
Perhaps the floor wasn't entirely deserted. Someone must have come in through an exit to the site, for he could hear them snuffling. Colds were to be expected in this weather. He glanced along the corridor, but could see nobody. He might be better occupied in finding Rothwell, since the manager didn't know he was waiting. The sooner the claw was beyond anyone's reach, the better.
He hurried to the nearest exit and down the metal staircase on the outer wall. The tanker was still manoeuvring in the fog, quite close now. Gravel crunched under his feet as he made for the building that housed the compressors. What with the fog and the noise of the tanker, he couldn't be sure if anyone had followed him out of the office building, couldn't tell if they were snuffling.
As soon as he stepped over the threshold, all he could hear was the constant shriek of the compressors. He climbed the steps and hurried along the catwalk, past the shrieking barrels fat as railway engines. When he mouthed 'Rothwell' at a man wearing a hard hat and ear protectors, the man pointed him toward the building where the turbines were.
The fog was closer now. It felt like concrete walls, massive and chill. Had it been a tail-light that reddened the fog just as he emerged? It had gone now. He wanted very much to find Rothwell.
The turbine building was smaller, the noise level even higher. All the machines looked grey with fog. He walked through quickly, wishing he could stop his ears. Nothing moved but the machines. Perhaps Rothwell was at the tanks, where the tanker must be loading.
Alan hurried toward the tanks. The shriek of the turbines had just faded into the crunch of gravel, and he was straining his ears to make out whether another sound was moving with him in the fog, when he faltered, clapping his hand over his mouth. He shouldn't look for Rothwell or for anyone, since the only way for the power of the claw to survive was for it to be passed to someone else.
He mustn't involve Rothwell. He'd remembered that the site manager had children. The only safe course now would be to involve nobody. He made for the tanks, as quickly and quietly as he could.
When a rounded shape loomed out of the fog he ran to it, for in the muffled silence he was sure he could hear snuffling. By the time he was close enough to make out that the shape was a tanker filling up with liquid nitrogen, the driver had seen him. 'Looking for someone?' he said.
'Mr Rothwell.'
'He'll be along in a minute.' The driver, a burly humourless man, looked suspicious. As Alan took a step back toward the other tanks he said, 'What've you got there?'
'Nothing.'
It was the worst answer he could have given. He cursed it and himself as soon as it left his mouth. 'Nothing, is it?' the driver said. 'Let's have a look.'
'If anyone does that it'll be Mr Rothwell, not you.' Alan was saying the first thing that came into his head – anything to avoid handing over the claw. He had no chance now of getting to a tank unnoticed and turning liquid nitrogen on the claw. If he tried to sneak away the driver would be after him. He stood trying frantically to think of some way to deal with the claw before Rothwell came, as ice gathered on the pipe that was filling the tanker, melting ice rained down from the tank. He was still trying when he heard the crunch of gravel beyond the cab of the tanker.