Terror's Reach (36 page)

'Priya and I are getting on fine.’ More false jollity. 'Talking things
over. Like I said, why don’t you join us?’
'I’m not riding to anyone’s rescue. But I will solve all your problems.
Can you hear that?’

He held the phone at arm’s length. It took less than three
seconds for his father to dump the good-pals routine and snap:
'What?’
'Doesn’t matter. It’s not loud enough.’
'What isn’t?’
'The sound of gas, escaping.’ Quite unexpectedly, Oliver discovered
tears running down his cheeks. He sniffed, then grimaced. 'I’m inhaling
it already, I suppose.’

Now he had his father’s attention. His full and final attention, Oliver

thought, recalling a form of wording his father liked to employ in his
business correspondence.
'Oliver, think about this. Think very, very carefully—’
'I have.’
'No, I mean it.’ His father’s voice was low and husky, like a bad
late-night DJ. 'Please, Oliver . . .’
The P-word. He hadn’t heard that from Dad in . . . what?
A lifetime.
'It’s too late. I’ve opened a couple of the canisters. Liam’s people
brought a small quantity of explosive, but I’m not au fait with this
sort of detonator. Rather than risk any mistakes, I’m going to make
doubly sure by igniting the gas myself. With my trusty box of
matches.’
He laughed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and once again
his father reverted to type.
'No, Oliver. You’ll stop this nonsense immediately. Don’t be so
bloody stupid.’
Stupid. Some epitaph, Oliver thought.
He dropped the phone and picked up the matches.

Joe heard snatches of the conversation, and then only Felton’s side of
it, but that was enough to figure it out.
Oliver was inside Dreamscape, and he had matches.
After swearing at his son, Felton listened for a moment and then
shook his head. He stared at Priya and said, 'The propane.’
She didn’t get it at first. Didn’t react when Felton retreated across
the games room, out of Joe’s sight. She watched him go, curiosity
giving way to anger as she decided this must be a ruse. She raised the
MP5 but Valentin screamed and lunged for the barrel, knowing its
power might tear Felton apart, and Priya swatted him away while also
nodding that she hadn’t forgotten his concern. The gold was at stake,
never mind Valentin’s daughter.
Priya fumbled with the selector switch, perhaps trying to set it to
single fire, so she could wound him, bring him down with a leg shot
but keep him alive.
Madness. Joe saw that, and so did Liam, for both men began their
dive for cover in what must have been the first millisecond of the
explosion. Long before they heard it. Long before they felt anything
but the greedy suck of air as every window on the northern side of
the house blew out.

Joe hit the floor and rolled, seeking the relative protection of the
squash court’s side wall. He was facing upwards for just long enough
to witness the first devastating impact of the pressure wave: Valentin
and Priya, snatched off their feet and hurled across the games room.
Then a searing flash of light had him throwing his arms up over his
face and pressing his head into the space where the wall met the floor.
He felt the whole house shift, and heard a boom louder than thunder
as the sound of the blast caught up. It was accompanied by a deep,
rending noise that scared him more profoundly than anything he’d
ever heard in his life: it was the sound of stone and timber and brick
and glass being torn apart; a sound like the end of the world.
to destroy Dreamscape. Valentin hadn’t been too worried whether any
of the other homes were damaged in the explosion: just as long as
Felton’s extravagant design was obliterated.
So in that sense Liam should have had a good idea of what to
expect. But the reality was far worse than anything he’d imagined.
Too much gas, he thought as the world turned to hell around him.
They should have kept the canisters on the ground floor so the house
would absorb more of the blast.
Got it wrong.
And now they were all going to die.

Priya was still conscious when the shock wave picked her up. Her
head snapped back and her arms and legs splayed out and the submachine
gun went flying off in another direction. She tried to keep
control of her limbs, tried to reach for Valentin as he too was caught
in the blast, and for an instant she thought her hand might have
grasped his – she was sure she felt the soft, comforting touch of human
flesh for a single fleeting moment – and along with her belated understanding
of Oliver’s betrayal came the knowledge that this was the
very last touch, the very last moment.

Liam was better placed than most to comprehend what was happening.
He’d been responsible for acquiring the propane. He was the one who’d
researched its effects and made a rough estimate of the quantity needed

Sixty

There weren’t any guards patrolling the island, and there was no roadblock
on the bridge, but Liam’s man nearly got them killed just the
same.
Terry charged into his house, opened the garage doors and rolled
out at the wheel of his huge black Hummer. Angela had always
regarded it as a ludicrous vehicle: a hideous, planet-killing beast.
'Very small penis,’ had been Donald’s inevitable wisecrack whenever
Terry Fox thundered past in it. Now Angela made a silent vow never
to criticise the Hummer again, if only it transported them to safety.
They piled in, Angela still fretting that they’d left Oliver Felton
behind, then Terry gunned the engine and she was thrown back in
her seat as he accelerated away. She assumed he’d maintain the same
furious velocity until they were well clear of the island, but after less
than a hundred yards he slammed on the brakes.
By the time she’d recovered her equilibrium Terry had jumped out
and was crouched over a dark shape by the side of the road. He turned
and motioned at her to join him, and when she did she found that
the shape was human, unconscious, and bleeding heavily from wounds
to the head and chest.
It was one of the original gang. Pendry, she thought his name was.
He was barely alive, and must have fallen foul of Felton’s men, or
possibly Yuri.
The new, battle-hardened Angela could almost have told Terry to
leave him there. Get back in the Hummer and just go. Thankfully,
the day’s experiences hadn’t quite brutalised her to that extent.
Even with the four of them working together, lifting the injured
man into the Hummer ate up precious seconds. It was hard, hot,
messy work. All the time she had to ignore an insistent voice in her
head, reeling out horror after horror: that moving him would kill
him, or they’d get him to a hospital and he’d die anyway, or he was
exaggerating his wounds and might spring up and attack them. Worst
of all, that Priya would come after them . . .
But none of these things happened, and they set off again, moving
cautiously once the bridge came into sight. There was a Range Rover
parked at the side of the road, and Terry watched it closely, holding
the gun in his right hand while steering with his left. Thankfully it
was unoccupied.
On the bridge itself there was a Citroen van, also empty, and beyond
that a line of interlocking plastic barriers. Terry eased past the van
and then blasted right through the barriers, muttering something about
his paintwork, and then they hit the mainland and at last the island
was behind them and they could dare to relax.
Angela let out a long breath, thinking she understood how astronauts
must feel when the space shuttle touched down on the runway
at the Kennedy Space Center. Now they were only minutes away from
civilisation, working phones, normality.
Then Terry glanced at his rear-view mirror and said, 'What the
hell …?’
As Angela turned to him, she caught a flash of light in the corner
of her eye. The Hummer rocked on its suspension and the rear window
shattered. Both Angela and Maria screamed, and all four of them
ducked in their seats, assuming they were under attack. The noise of
a tremendous explosion drowned out all other sound, and only when
it passed could they hear the rattle of debris raining down on the roof.
Terry brought the Hummer to a stop in the middle of the road,
applied the handbrake and twisted round to get a proper look. In the
passenger seat, Angela did the same, their shoulders pressed together
as they stared at the island behind them.
A huge fireball was climbing into the sky above Terror’s Reach. It
had the shape of an atomic explosion, boiling and swelling like something
alive and malevolent, forming an enormous mushroom cloud
that blotted out the night sky.
On the back seat, Maria shifted upright and then leaned over to
make sure Pendry was still breathing.
'Is he all right?’ said Angela.
'I think.’ Maria’s eyes were red from weeping, and her face twitched
as she glanced back at the island. 'What was that?’
'Someone blew the whole place,’ Terry said.
'Oliver,’ said Angela.
Terry grunted. 'Christ knows how. I mean, there are the
LPG
tanks,
but I don’t see how they’d produce an explosion like that.’
'Maybe Liam’s gang brought a bomb with them?’

'Or maybe Felton did.’ Terry shifted in his seat, facing forwards
again. 'We need to get Pendry to a hospital.’
Angela reached for his hand and squeezed it. She couldn’t quite
control her voice as she said, 'Do you think they’re dead?’
Terry sucked air between his teeth. 'Depends if they got any warning,
I suppose. But it doesn’t look good, does it?’
'No.’ Angela turned away and shut her eyes. 'No, it doesn’t.’

Sixty-One

Joe wasn’t certain whether he blacked out, or if it was simply that the
turmoil following the explosion scrambled his senses. But after what
might have been seconds or minutes he moved his head slightly and
realised he was alive.
After that, his first thought was: Felton. And then: Cassie.
He was lying under a pile of rubble, his face caked in dust. He
tried opening his eyes and felt grit scraping against his eyeballs. Next
he flexed his arms and legs and got the desired response. Not
paralysed, then. But he might still be trapped.
He felt for obstructions around him before easing first one and
then the other arm free of the wood and plaster that lay on top of
him. He wiped his eyes and blinked until his tears washed them
clean.
With his vision restored, Joe was able to see how lucky he’d been.
A large slab of masonry had fallen and ended up propped against the
wall about a foot above his head, shielding him from the worst of the
debris. If it had landed any differently he would have been crushed
or buried alive.
After making sure he wouldn’t dislodge it when he moved, he was
able to wriggle out from under it and look over the rest of the room.
It wasn’t a pleasant sight.
The gymnasium was hardly recognisable: two of the squash court’s
walls destroyed, the floor punctured and pitted and strewn with rubble.
And there was a lot of blood.
The first body Joe noticed was Valentin’s. The blast must have thrown
him off the gallery, which had itself partially collapsed, with loose sections
of balustrade dangling just inches above the floor of the squash court.
Valentin was sprawled on a pile of bricks and splintered wood, his
right leg twisted at an obscene angle. Looking more closely, Joe saw
that the limb had been almost torn from his body. His right arm was
also severed, and the back of his skull had been caved in.
Joe stared at the body for a moment but found it hard to summon
any real regret. Too many innocent people had paid the price of
Valentin’s stupidity and greed. What sympathy Joe felt was directed
towards Cassie and Sofia.
And that sympathy won’t be worth a damn if I can’t find them, he
reminded himself. It looked as if those on the upper floor had borne
the brunt of the explosion, and the severity of Valentin’s injuries didn’t
bode well for Priya or Felton.
Now standing, Joe checked himself over. He had a few minor lacerations
and a lot of bruises, but no broken bones, no serious cuts or dents.
The fight with Yuri had done more damage to him than the blast.
The boiler suit he’d taken from Manderson was tattered and filthy.
He tore it off, and was gratified to find the jeans and T-shirt beneath
still looked presentable.
He took a couple of steps and then a violent coughing fit had him
doubled over. He hacked until his lungs burned, but afterwards he
could breathe more easily.
As his convulsions subsided, he heard what appeared to be an echo;
then he realised it was the sound of someone else trying to clear their
lungs. Joe felt a stab of relief. There was one other survivor, at least.

It was Liam. He was lying about fifteen feet away, close to the mangled
ruin of an expensive-looking treadmill.

He was buried more deeply than Joe had been: only his head and
shoulders visible in the rubble, his hair grey with dust. There was a
plank of splintered wood lying across his back, one end poking towards
his neck. As Joe approached, he started to writhe.

'Don’t move!’
Liam ignored him: he was either scared of what Joe might do or
perhaps deafened by the blast. But he must have felt the wood jabbing
his neck, for he suddenly froze.
'Joe?’
'Keep still. You’re going to skewer yourself if you’re not careful.’
Joe knelt down and carefully lifted the timber, in the process
dislodging some of the bricks and plaster that were covering Liam’s
lower body. The Irishman shrieked.
Ah fuck, that hurts!’
'Pain’s a good sign. It means you’ve got feeling in your legs.’
'I don’t know . . .’ Liam must have flexed something, then he gasped.
'My right leg won’t move, and the left one hurts like hell.’
Joe examined him as best he could, removing some of the bricks.
'You’ve got some nasty cuts, but they’re not bleeding too heavily. There’s
no sign of any bones protruding—’
Liam made a retching sound, spat, and said, 'Thanks.’
'_so it’s looking positive,’ Joe finished, electing not to mention the
possibility of internal bleeding. 'I don’t have time to dig you out now,
and frankly I want you staying put till I can get help.’

Liam groaned. And the paramedics’ll have fucking cops at their
elbows.’
'They will, yeah.’
Joe stood, peered at the field of debris around him, then nudged
a lump of concrete aside with his foot and scooped up what he’d
spotted: Liam’s gun.
As he turned away, Liam twisted his head and shouted, Ah, show
some mercy. Don’t leave me here.’
'Be thankful you’re still alive.’
'But I’m in agony.’
'Tough.’