The Shaking

Chapter Nine

10.14. London and southeastern England.

An unimaginably strong, elemental force had broken free from its subterranean prison. The bucking, writhing earth tore itself apart a fissure arrowing from the Kentish weald toward the heart of the capital one way and the coast in the other direction; the lengthening splits moving faster than a jet airliner flies. The quake's effects varied depending on the construction and underlying ground conditions of the structures it encountered; some were only lightly damaged, while others ridiculously close by were severely affected. Motorists were startled to find cracks and chasms appearing under their wheels even as they drove, with the tarmac ahead suddenly bursting up or falling away before their disbelieving eyes. Concrete road bridges which had never been designed to cope with this kind of stress collapsed, or if they remained intact were betrayed by the treacherous foundations beneath them.

A Javelin train hurtling along the High Speed 1 line through Kent suddenly found itself derailed as the welded tracks it ran upon buckled under the strain of being wrenched two metres to the left. When the severing of the rails was sensed by its computer the train's safety systems automatically applied the brakes, but there was nothing they or the panic-stricken driver could do in these circumstances: Barely slowed by skating over the compacted gravel rail bed the 265 tonne, six car multiple unit slammed into a concrete overpass support column at 190 kilometres per hour; the carriages' robust aluminium frames crumpling on being subjected to such an incredible impact.

Below the rippling surface of the streets gas pipes, sewers, water mains, and power cables were sheared, setting off mushrooming explosions along with fires where arcing electricity set light to the vapours; or creating deadly puddles when the current mixed with the water. Buildings were literally shaken to pieces, their timber frames splintering, gable ends falling away, brick walls collapsing, chunks of concrete splitting away from steel reinforcement, tiled roofs sliding off as chimney stacks crashed through interior rooms or toppled into gardens and suburban drives below. Giant clouds of multicoloured dust billowed into the air.

Amid the bass rumble of the earth rending itself asunder came other sounds of destruction and the anguished cries of people caught unaware by the shaking. Soon their screams would be of agony and grief, for the disaster had only just begun.

Sandbeach Caravan Park, near Rye, East Sussex.

The woman lay at his mercy, arms and legs tightly bound X fashion to each corner of the bed. Her eyes widened with astonishment when she saw what he held in his hand, but then her shocked expression changed to one of eager anticipation.

"Oh George!" she sighed. "Do it to me!"

"I'll do it to you alright, you dirty slut..." the man growled, pulling on the bow holding her vivid cerise, silken crotchless leopard print thong together and tugging it contemptuously aside.

George and Irene Fenning had been happily married for the last 41 years. In just a few more months George was due to retire from his job as a cabbie; once he had the couple would quit London's East End for good and move down to their coastal caravan park holiday home located near to the Kent/East Sussex border. Then - at last! - their long-suffering neighbours might finally get some peace and quiet.

When George wed Irene (or Renie to those who knew her) all those years ago he knew she was highly sexed; it was one of the things which attracted him to her. But he didn't fully understand just how insatiable or uninhibited she was until after their nuptials. Not that he was complaining, but many others did. The young couple's noisy bedroom athletics scandalised the areas they lived in, even back then in those relatively permissive times, so the Fennings moved or were moved on regularly from short-term let to fixed-term rental until they could put down a mortgage deposit and put two fingers up to the prurient nosey parkers.