Chapter Fifteen
Russell Tracey couldn't sleep.
The grey light of morning was beginning to come to Macclesfield. He rolled over in bed and looked at the digital clock on the table next to him. 4.03 a.m. He sighed. There was no way he was going to nod off now. His wife, Bel, lay beside him. Ex-wife, actually, but since Russell's brush with death in the Congo, they'd been making a go of things. For Ben's sake, they had said at first; but as time passed they had realized it was for their sake as well.
Ben. The thought of his son brought a faint smile to Russell's face. He'd be home in a couple of days, and they were both looking forward to him coming back. Neither of them slept well when he wasn't under their roof. He was an independent lad, though, who had proved enough times that he was able to look after himself. They had to allow him his freedom, allow him to spread his wings bit by bit. The holiday with Alec in Grand Cayman was a good way of doing that.
4.04 a.m. Sleep seemed like only a distant possibility now. Quietly, so as not to disturb his slumbering wife, he climbed out of bed, put on his dressing gown and slippers and padded downstairs.
Russell liked the early morning. He liked the stillness. The dawn chorus was just beginning, and looking out of the kitchen window he felt like he had the world to himself. Leisurely, he set about making a cup of tea; as the kettle boiled he switched on the radio.
At first he winced. It sounded like there was some kind of interference in the background and the urgent shouting of the World Service correspondent grated against his ears. He nearly switched off, but then he realized that it wasn't interference he was hearing, it was wind and rain; and what the correspondent had to say grabbed his attention and made his eyes widen.
'Meteorological experts are calling this the worst storm since records began. Wind speeds of up to 200 miles per hour have been recorded and we've had unconfirmed reports that an aircraft originating from Grand Cayman and bound for Miami has disappeared from air traffic screens. The intensity of the hurricane has made it impossible for search and rescue teams to approach the area.'
A sensation of cold dread crept through Russell's limbs: the dread that only a parent who fears for their child can know. Ben wasn't supposed to be on a flight out of Grand Cayman yet, but Russell knew that feeling of dread wouldn't go away until he was sure that his son was safe. Without turning the radio off, he rushed into the front room and switched the TV on. The news channel was full of images that made his heart stop. Palm trees bent sideways; huge, surging waves crashing over ocean-side roads; cars blown over and house roofs collapsed.
'US authorities have ordered the evacuation of large parts of south-eastern Florida,' a voice announced over the images of devastation, 'but scenes of panic are rife in many of the main urban areas. Weather centres are reporting that Hurricane Jasmine has spawned a tornado which made landfall just before sunset this evening and… yes…' The reporter hesitated. 'Yes… I understand we have just received amateur footage of the tornado now.'
The screen flickered before being filled again with a blurry image. At first it was impossible to see what the footage showed — it was out of focus and indistinct — but then the picture suddenly sharpened.
Russell blinked. He could barely believe his eyes.
The tornado was out at sea and it looked like a huge, black, spinning wheel with an impossibly long spindle. The sky around it was stormy and the twister was sucking up huge swathes of the ocean and spitting them back out again. The funnel of the tornado seemed to dance hypnotically, like a snake waving its body to the tune of a charmer's pipe.
The camera panned round and Russell had to catch his breath. The screen showed some nearby buildings: compared with the tornado they seemed tiny. In reality, Russell could tell, they were huge. It only served to highlight just how big the twister actually was.
The screen went blank. The footage of the tornado couldn't have lasted for more than ten seconds, but it had been enough to make it clear that a major natural disaster was unfolding before his eyes.
'For those who have just joined us,' the news reporter's shocked voice continued, 'we are bringing you footage of the devastating storms that are battering the Florida coast and the Caribbean at this very moment. Hurricane Jasmine took weather forecasters completely by surprise and it is threatening to cause the worst natural disaster this region — no stranger to hurricanes — has yet seen.'
'Oh, my…'
Russell spun round to see his wife standing behind him, her hand over her mouth. He didn't know how long she had been standing there, but she had clearly seen enough to understand what was going on. Ordinarily this would have been the moment when Bel — a vigorous environmental campaigner — would launch into a speech about global warming and the terrible effect man was having on the planet. Not today, though. Today her one concern was the same as Russell's.
'Ben,' she whispered. 'Is he…?'
'I don't know,' Russell replied grimly. He strode over to the little telephone table in the corner of the room and opened the well-thumbed address book that lay there. He found Alec's number and quickly dialled it. His heart was in his throat as he waited for a reply.
But there was none. Just a friendly recorded message. The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please try again later.
Russell cursed. 'The phone lines must be down,' he said flatly. 'I can't get hold of Alec.'
'What about Ben's mobile.'
Russell nodded and tried the number that he knew off by heart. He simply received another recorded message: 'Hi, this is Ben. Leave me a message.'
'Ben,' Russell said gruffly. 'It's me. Your dad. We've just heard about the storms. Call as soon as you can and let us know you're all right.'
He hung up.
'He's OK,' Bel said in a quavering voice. 'I'm sure he's OK. He's a sensible boy. He'll stay out of danger.'
Russell closed his eyes. History had proved that staying out of danger was not something Ben was particularly good at. But he put that thought from his mind. He had to.
'You're right,' he replied after a moment. 'He is a sensible lad. He will stay out of trouble.' He took a deep breath and fixed his wife with what he hoped was a reassuring stare. 'Of course he will,' he said.
When you're driving to your death, it's hard to drive quickly.
It was all Ben could do to keep his foot on the accelerator, and even at this slow speed it was a struggle to keep the truck on course. Ben had to keep moving, though. And he had to keep quiet. He had run out of chances. For now at least.
It was pitch black outside. There was no moon and the air was thick with rain. Danny uttered an occasional instruction, but otherwise they travelled in silence, with only the noise of the storm for company.
Beside him, Ben could sense Angelo trembling. He didn't blame him. If Ben didn't have the business of driving the truck to distract him, he'd be trembling too. He felt like a condemned man in the hour before his execution, and it was a terrifying, sickening feeling. It made his limbs heavy and his spirit weak. Thoughts of his mum and dad flashed through his brain: how would they take it? They wouldn't even know how Ben had died — they'd just assume he came to a sticky end as a result of, or after, the plane crash. They would have no way of knowing that he had fallen victim to a pointless act of revenge for something that had happened thousands of miles away. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe his death would seem less senseless that way.
These were horrible thoughts. It was all he could do to stop panic from overwhelming him; but panic, he knew from experience, wouldn't help him now. He needed a calm head and a clear mind, so that was what he concentrated on keeping.