The Shaking

Chapter Twenty Seven

Approaching Bromley. 16.38.

Ryan Buckland felt a dazed detachment from the world he plodded slowly but determinedly through. Overwhelmed by a phantasmagoria of horrors his emotions had shut down in self-defence to an unfeeling numbness; and maybe that was for the best, blocking out the things he had seen on his way.

It was too much for anyone to cope with, watching their safe suburban world being smashed in front of their eyes, having images previously confined to wartime history programmes or news reports of faraway conflict torn nations made close enough to touch; the ruined buildings, the mess, the stench, the death...

Buckland really wanted to heave his guts up when he saw the trail of destruction the out-of-control bus had blazed along a pavement as the 'quake had struck. Eventually it had embedded itself into a bathroom suite showroom, but not before leaving bloodied tyre tracks in its wake along with human sized humps now covered by bed sheets, large black plastic bin liners, or lengths of bubble wrap. And there, knocked aside, were the mangled remains of a push chair. Quickly he looked away, not wanting to see or know any more. The single decker's emergency exit had been flung open: Up front the lifeless driver remained trapped in a stove-in cocoon of bent red painted steel and frosted glass, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. Although Ryan tried to puke out his nausea, neither vomit or tears would come; his feelings had been suspended for the time being.

Further along his journey Buckland saw where the frontage of a large corner building had been detached and slumped onto the unfortunate pedestrians below. A pair of unmoving trousered male legs protruded from the pile of rubble. Yet only a few hundred metres on from there in a relatively undamaged area life appeared to be going on, not normally, but continuing nonetheless. Ryan looked on indifferently as he passed by a neighbourhood supermarket's manager and staff supervising the removal of the shop's stock; volunteers were carrying it away by the basket and trolley load to somewhere else, or giving away items to anyone who asked for them. He overheard snatches of conversation about a church doing something; certainly there appeared to be some kind of community relief organisation in place but Buckland wasn't in the slightest bit interested. To stop was to risk his knee stiffening, and delaying for even a few further moments the anticipated reunion with Michelle and Grace. Ignoring the friendly calls directed toward him, Ryan limped on.

Several times he was forced to detour around roads flooded by burst water mains still fountaining, or mounds of collapsed brickwork. Elsewhere some buildings were ablaze. With no sign of the fire service people attempted to tackle the flames with weakly dribbling garden hoses or bucket chains. One desperate group, short of water, resorted to dragging their buckets through a spreading brown pool of sewage leaking from a broken pipe.

Ryan noticed a branch of the £oanz4U pawnbroking chain had been given a good turning over, and how other independent shopkeepers were either pulling their steel window shutters down or warily standing guard in their doorways armed with pickaxe handles or similar tools. With the power out it was cash only, if at all; electronic payment cards had been rendered useless by the loss of electricity and telecoms.

Onward he walked, past the body of a girl sprawled on the pavement, her head split open by a fallen brick chimney stack corner; exposed pale, wrinkled brains dashed out into the daylight. Glass and grit crunched under his shoes; he could feel the dust tickling at the back of his throat, up his sinuses, and irritating his eyes. Ruefully he remembered it was too late now to use the forgotten face mask in his rucksack. Pausing every now and then only long enough to give his knee another blast of reviving spray Ryan continued his trek; a traumatised human automaton. Occasionally people approached him; asking questions, offering assistance, or begging for help; but they were the minority. Buckland exuded the aura of a man who had been through and seen too much this day to be trifled with, his cold thousand yard stare another warning sign that along with many others - including the motorcycle cop in Sidcup - his sanity balanced precariously on a tightrope.