Endworlds - Nicholas Read [19]
At least there wasn’t much traffic on Upper Thames Street. He glanced down at the car’s clock. He was good and late, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Where was he? Had he gone past Southwark Bridge, or somehow detoured off onto the Blackfriars underpass? If so, he was going to have a devil of a time finding the access to New Bridge Street and working his way back to the Tate after crossing the river. Not so much of a problem during the day and in good weather, especially on a weekend. But in this kind of slosh, tired as he was from the day’s frustration and fighting, he found himself increasingly disoriented without any red taillights to follow.
Sensible drivers had stayed home, or parked to wait out the unseasonal cloudburst. Already delayed, he did not have that option.
Winding through a concrete canyon of one-way streets and restrictive median strips, he was sure London’s great river was somewhere off to his left: even in the increasingly difficult downpour he knew that much.
Masked by what were now sheets of rain, a sign loomed just ahead. It had to mark the onramp for Southwark, or at least lead in the bridge’s general direction. There was no other reason for a left turn access to be here.
Unless one was going to park just beside the small quay where boat tours plied the river.
In the downpour and the dark he missed the signs. He also missed seeing two boats berthed for the evening immediately in the path of his silver hood ornament as the Jag mounted the curb. Fighting to brake and wrestle the car to a stop he suddenly felt a burning sensation in his pants. Startled, he spun the wheel with one hand and dug into his pocket with the other.
From then on everything happened in slow motion.
Given the speed at which he hit the end of the quay it was doubtful the car could have stopped in time on the slick concrete even had he realized the peril sooner.
Hydroplaning, it skewed slightly sideways as he frantically spun the wheel. Then he was upside down, crashing through the top of one boat as wood and steel sprayed across the river.
With the almighty thud that followed, the dash illumination flickered and went out, leaving him in total darkness.
But not silence.
Water gulped into the passenger compartment. It entered from multiple entry points: the underdash air vents, the engine compartment, the floor in front of the rear seat. All the while the car continued to move—downward.
He was sinking into the River Thames.
Fumbling in the darkness he popped his belt restraint and tried the door handle. It moved, but with the pressure of water against it the door wouldn’t open. There was probably an emergency tool somewhere but since he rarely drove himself he had no idea where it was stowed.
As water began to rise around him, flooding the interior, he found and opened the glove compartment. It was full of papers, small unidentifiable objects, a flashlight . . .
The casing was not large, but it was solid. Using both hands and putting his weight behind it he began slamming the butt end of the torch into the passenger side window. The water was up to his waist now and it was hard to get any leverage. So intent was he on trying to break out the glass that he had no time to wonder why Paige’s necklace, which he had kept on his person since her fateful flight, continued to burn in his pocket even though it was now as wet as the rest of him.
He heard the glass crack.
Dropping the light he raised his legs, slid back to brace himself, and kicked sharply at the window with both feet. Though no longer young, he was in excellent condition.
A second crack sounded.
The cold water was up to his neck. Maddeningly, the safety glass refused to give. Taking a deep breath preparatory to kicking out again, he inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of river. Choking, coughing, water now blurring his vision, he fought to gather his strength for still another leg thrust.
The passenger window exploded. As he turned his head away and inhaled a last desperate lungful of air, the Thames crashed inward. He threw up his