Christopher Nicole - Her Name Will Be Faith

At the bottom the street doors were closed, but he leaned on the bar and stepped out, blinking in the sudden bright daylight, looking up at the blue sky above him, and then gasping at the destruction to either side. It was some hours since the breaking of the office window, and he had not looked out since. Now he gazed at automobiles tumbled one on top of the other, trees down in every direction; broken glass crackled beneath his shoes, water flowed everywhere — if the area was above any possible flooding from the sea, it had certainly been flooded by the fantastically heavy rainfall which had been unable to run off through the waterlogged sewers.

He hurried along the avenue, meaning to turn to the right when he got to 48th Street, picking his way through the debris, listening to sounds of returning life, windows being thrown open, people calling to each other… he hoped they knew that this respite was only going to be of the most temporary kind. But he could no longer help anyone, nor did he want to help anyone, save Jo. His mind was clouded with fear — 48th Street was only just on the 50-foot mark, and although he was certain that no sea could really have reached it, he could not stop his imagination doing its worst.

He was still several blocks short when the daylight faded, and he looked up in time to be blinded by a vivid flash of lightning, accompanied simultaneously by an ear-splitting clap of thunder. The blue sky had disappeared, and instead the black clouds were back, and with them, sudden teeming rain and the enormous roaring of the hurricane wind.

Richard knew he had to reach the nearest street, where he reckoned he would obtain a lee. But crossing the intersection was going to be no easy task as the wind picked him up and sent him sprawling. He made no attempt to rise, clung to the sidewalk and began to inch his way to a pile-up of automobiles on the corner, only to be caught by another gust and sent rolling, splashing through the water running out of the gutters. He came to rest against an uprooted tree, held on to it, and worked his way once again towards the hopeful shelter of the automobiles. These were shuddering and threatening to break loose from each other with every gust, but for the most part were so tightly crushed together they acted as a windbreak, although even as he inched his way along beside them one was picked up and hurled over his head, to land some fifty feet farther down the avenue, and the whole pile threatened to disintegrate on top of him.

He got up and made a dash for the street, and was thrown down again, battered and bruised, against a bent railing which had once surrounded a trashcan. He lay there, watching water bubbling out of a sewer hole only inches from his face. It would be damned silly to lie there and drown on Fifth Avenue, he thought, pushed himself up, and once again fought his way forward.

“What’s in that box, Mom?” Owen Michael asked, indicating the heap dumped in the shower stall, topped by an old cardboard box.

“Photos, waiting to be fixed in those albums.”

“Can we see well enough in this light to do them?” The power had been gone some while and they were trying to economize, using only one candle.

“Let’s try.” It would help occupy their minds, an alternative to racking her brain to invent children’s stories: no drama could compete with the current destruction of their city.

Together they knelt on the bathroom rug and set the photos out in neat piles.

“That’s an awful one of you skiing, Mom.” Tamsin held up a shot of Jo slithering down a slope, a flurry of skis and snow in the air.

“What about this one of you and Owen Michael under water, last year?”

Owen Michael grabbed it. “Heck, I don’t recall that. What camera were you using?”

Every few moments they held their breaths, listening, mentally and physically shaken, even shut away in their inner sanctum.

The sudden silence took them completely by surprise. “Holy shit!” Owen Michael exclaimed. “What’s happening?”

“It’s the eye,” Tamsin said, trying to control the quivering of her lower lip. “We had it in Eleuthera.”

“You mean it’s done? It’s over?” Owen Michael shouted, scrambling to his feet.

“No, it’s not done,” Jo told him. “Don’t open the door.”

“It’ll start again,” Tamsin said, her voice containing a sob as she remembered that terrible night. “Worse than before.”

“But…” Owen Michael looked from her to his mother. “It must mean something good.”

“Sure it does. It means we’re halfway through,” Jo told him. “That has to be good. Now sit down and relax.”

Reluctantly Owen Michael sat down again. “Do you reckon Marcia and Benny will have been flooded out?” he asked. “Greenwich Village isn’t 50 feet above sea level, is it?”

“No. They may have been flooded. But they’ll have left town. I think they must have gone away yesterday.” Jo didn’t want to think about Marcia and Benny. They had to be safe. Surely.

“What about the cottage?” Tamsin’s face was screwed up with worry, looking for all the world like a little old lady.

Jo put an arm round her. “That’ll be all right. It’s completely shuttered up and, anyway, Bognor is twenty miles from the sea. And on a hill. No problem there.”

“But they’ll have a lot of wind,” Owen Michael went on, pessimistically. “What if a tree falls and smashes through the roof?”

Jo gave him a warning frown over Tamsin’s head; the poor child was quite upset enough. “I’m sure…” she began, then checked, listening.

“That was a knock on the door,” he said. “I know it was.”

“There it is again,” Tamsin said. “There’s someone there, wanting to come in.”

Jo leapt to her feet. Richard! He’d come during the eye. Thank God he was safe. But she hadn’t told the children he might be joining them, so she said, “I’ll see who it is.”

“Are you sure it’s safe, Mom?” Owen Michael cautioned.

“I’ll be careful. But listen, you bolt the door behind me, just in case the wind gets up before I’m back.”

“Mom…” he said uneasily, but she had already opened the bathroom door and stepped into the corridor.

Everything was amazingly quiet. “Bolt it now,” she called through the door as she closed it behind her. As soon as she heard the bolt slip into place she hurried eagerly across the lounge. It was such a relief to know Richard was here; she couldn’t wait to hold him in her arms.

And he was only just in time. The lounge had seemed startlingly bright compared with the enclosed bathroom, but before she could reach the main door the room was darkening and there was a flash of lightning which made her gasp, while immediately huge drops of rain began slashing at the window again.

“Richard!” she shouted, running into the lobby to release the bolts, pull the chain free and swing open the heavy, security door… to gasp in horror. It wasn’t Richard. It was Stuart Alloan. And another man.

“Hi, there,” Alloan said with a sneer. “My lucky day. I was afraid you might’ve gotten away.”

The wind had returned, whistling up the stairwell and into the apartment. Breathless with shock, Jo staggered back against the lobby wall, held there, momentarily, by the force of the sudden gust. If only she’d had time to slam the door in their faces… but they had been blown into the lobby with her.

“Let’s get this goddamned door closed,” the second man shouted, and it took the strength of both men to swing it back on to the latch.

It gave Jo a few moments in which to recover her breath… and her senses. She could see at a glance that this new man, small and dark with a vicious curl to his lip, would probably prove to be as evil as Alloan. Her legs felt weak, but she had to keep her head. “What do you want?” she asked, trying to sound calm, praying that the children would remain locked in the bathroom, no matter what happened out here.