Stephen Booth - Already Dead

Cooper could see the rising flood water lapping at the walls of the homes in the lower part of Derwent Park. Some residents had already left, advised to evacuate by the police. Others had stayed, determined not to be forced out of their homes but to see it out, trusting that the flood would subside within a few hours. This was England, after all, not New Orleans or the Indian Ocean. Surely the weather would change soon, and things would be back to normal, except for a major clean-up operation.

A church stood on higher ground in the nearby village, but no one had gone there. Even in the middle of a natural disaster, they didn’t think of turning to God, but preferred to rely on a few sandbags. Those who had left were refugees now, with suitcases and carrier bags.

Outside, fence posts dragged out of the earth by the flood bobbed to the surface. A sheep tried to swim, its eyes wild with fear as it was carried along by the current. The river had burst its banks, spilling out over the lower-lying fields, spreading inexorably into the bumps and hollows of the abandoned lead mines, filling the shallow bowls between the old spoil heaps and pouring through holes in the crude concrete caps that covered the shafts.

Josh Lane’s home stood on its own shrinking island. Finally, Cooper saw his car, the silver grey Honda. Lane was trying to make a run for it. Had someone tipped him off? Who would do that? Cooper didn’t have time to worry about it.

It was obvious that Lane had left it too late. All the other residents of Derwent Park had been evacuated but Lane must have been concerned with packing his belongings into the Honda. By the time he came out and got into his car, the roadway was already submerged, and water was lapping at the base of his mobile home.

But like so many other motorists that week, Lane decided to risk it. He pointed the Honda towards the exit and drove into the water, hoping for the best. Cooper could see that he was driving too fast: his instinct was to put his foot down and get to the safety of the public road as quickly as possible. But it didn’t work that way when you were driving in a flood.

Within seconds, the car had stalled. But then it began to move slightly. Not under control, but bobbing in the water as its wheels left the road surface. Its bonnet slewed to the left, in the direction of the current. A moment later, it was floating freely, swept away by a powerful flow of water strong enough to lift a car clean off the road.

A hundred yards downstream was a low stone bridge, a single arch carrying the little back road from Cromford over the stream. Already, the level of the water was almost up to the top of the arch. As Lane’s Honda spun in the current, it gathered speed until it was heading rapidly towards the bridge. A few seconds later, a bang and a crash of metal against stone told Cooper that the car had impacted with the bridge.

He ran towards his Toyota and started the engine. Slowly he crept down the road, staying in first gear, trying not to send up too much of a bow wave, slipping the clutch and revving the engine to clear the exhaust and keep the engine running if any water splashed on to the electrics.

In a shallow dip, the Toyota began to aquaplane. He held the steering wheel lightly and lifted his foot off the accelerator until the tyres regained their grip. Like many four-wheel drive vehicles, this one had a high-level air intake, allowing him to drive through water a few feet deep, though he knew he could say goodbye to his carpet. And even a four-by-four could be swept away in flowing water.

Cooper felt his wheels start to lose grip again halfway through the flooded section. The car was trying to float. He opened the driver’s door and allowed some water into the car to weigh it down until the tyres gripped the road surface again. At the same time, he continued revving the engine and slipping the clutch.

Finally, he reached the bridge. He slid the Toyota to a halt and looked down at the trapped car. When he stepped out of the driver’s door, he was relieved to feel tarmac beneath an inch or two of water streaming down towards the flood below.

He leaned over the low parapet. Josh Lane’s Honda was firmly jammed against the side of the bridge, its roof touching the top of the arch. The immense pressure of the torrent rushing downstream was pinning it against the stone like an insect crushed by a giant hand. The driver’s side window was partly wound down, and Cooper saw a struggling figure, arms flailing against the white blanket of an airbag inflated by the impact.

As Cooper watched, Lane managed to get his head and part of his upper body through the window, then became stuck. The electrical wiring was dead, so the window wouldn’t wind down any further. And the pressure of the water was too strong for him to push against, even if there had been room to open the door against the stone arch. From here, he looked no more than a bundle of clothes, the material of his anorak billowing out in the water.

Looking down from his vantage point, Cooper realised this was his best opportunity. Josh Lane was at his mercy. It was the moment he’d been dreaming of for months, his chance to take revenge for the death of Liz. On this bridge, he’d been presented with the possibility of achieving justice, at least a kind of justice that would make sense in his own world. All his thoughts and nightmares had been concentrated on the arrival of this moment. What was it Matt had said? For God’s sake, do something about it, or move on .

He felt as though everything had led him to this point. The system had let him down all the way along the line. It had been made clear to him that Josh Lane would never face real justice. It was as clear as it could possibly be. And yet chance had presented him with this opportunity. If this wasn’t fate, he didn’t know what was. Destiny had put him on this bridge at this moment, and he knew what he had to do.

With slow deliberation, Cooper opened the boot of his Toyota. Thanks to Matt, he had exactly what he needed.

Diane Fry’s Audi ploughed into the water, sending up great tidal waves on either side. The surge hit the stone walls edging the road then was forced back towards her, water swamping her bonnet and lapping right up against the windscreen. Suddenly, the engine coughed and died.

Fry tried her key in the ignition, but could get no spark. She looked down, and saw water creeping under the door sills and trickling from the engine compartment below the dashboard. The carpet behind her accelerator and brake pedals was already glistening with damp. The floor squelched when she moved her foot.

‘Damn.’

Ben Cooper stood in the torrential rain. He was without his waxed coat now, had nothing to cover his head, but was apparently oblivious to the water soaking his clothes and plastering his hair to his skull. His shirt darkened, the rain ran down his arms and dripped from his fingers. He raised his hand slowly and looked at his wet palms, stared down at the widening pool at his feet, the stream gushing down the side of the road in front of him.

His face was wet, and he blinked his eyes to clear his vision. But all he could see was water. He was surrounded by a world of it, rain falling all around him and covering the earth. If he stood still long enough, he imagined, it would continue to rise steadily until it was over his head. And he’d be standing in ocean where once the Peak District had been.

He recalled being taught in school that three hundred million years ago Derbyshire had been covered by a series of shallow tropical lagoons, that the crags of Winnats Pass were formed from coral reefs: fossilised sea creatures could still be dug out of the limestone slopes. It had been impossible to imagine then.

But standing in the centre of the deluge, he knew that everything came full circle, that human existence was no more than a few hours in the history of the earth and the life of one human being over in a second.