The Shaking

Chapter Forty One

Near New Romney, Kent. 08.09.

Neil Simpson's RSE colleagues joked about his motocross bike being a sign of a mid-life crisis, but even if it was, he was the one who was laughing now. The presenter twisted the throttle slightly and the white 175 cc trailster he'd brought second hand surged forward; the machine's long-travel suspension taking the broken road surface in its stride as easily as it cut through the traffic in more normal times.

Since leaving the studios Neil had ridden cautiously, being unsure of what the 'quake cracked roads might have in store around the next bend and concerned about unexpectedly encountering those people who had abandoned their vehicles and continued on foot. He was only too aware his MX was now a highly desirable commodity. Keeping both feet down he'd often had to make offroad diversions as he passed stranded cars and trucks parked by the side of the road or in laybays, their drivers still sleeping inside. At one point he'd had to risk crossing the M20 on the intact part of a partially collapsed overpass; the usually busy motorway below was all but empty of stopped traffic. The road's post-apocalyptic stillness unsettled him.

Simpson's journey was a slow groping in the general direction he wanted to go in as the 'quake had fragmented the road network; often blocking his way with deep chasms or impassable changes in ground level. Elsewhere he spotted those travellers who had not been so fortunate; the jack-knifed lorries which occasionally blocked the route or the motorists who had been literally shaken off the carriageway and out of control when the tremors struck. Worst of all were the places the emergency services had yet to reach, where the sound of his engine - even though he kept the revs down and the bike's headlight switched off to avoid making his presence too conspicuous - disturbed murders of crows. Neil imagined what they were clustered around and pecking at; the thought of it turned his stomach.

Eventually Simpson found himself in the open fields under the wide open skies of the Romney Marshes. The Dungeness spit was close by. Approaching the outskirts of New Romney he spotted a road block ahead, and in a small pull-in located a few hundred metres away from it on the unpoliced side a single vehicle was stationed. A sixth sense made Neil slow down and draw in there as the only person who would park a small silver car here at this of all times had to be Annie Bromhaar. As he drew up Simpson noticed a familiar solitary figure standing some distance beyond it, intently scrutinising through a pair of compact binoculars the far distant hedgerow which screened the view of the reactor complex. Switching off the bike's motor, Neil dismounted and kicked down the propstand. The woman, carrying a small video camera on a lanyard around her neck became aware of his arrival; she turned to look at him. Simpson's hunch was proven correct.

As a teenager Annie Bromhaar had hitch-hiked her way to England in the early 1980s to join a peace camp. When the cruise missiles were eventually withdrawn she stayed; falling in love with Gerrit - a Dutch horticulturist working in the UK who she met at a protest - marrying him and having two children. Bromhaar's husband had since died as the result of a stroke, and her grown up children moved away from Brexit Britain, returning to the Netherlands.

Annie kept herself occupied with her environmental and anti-nuclear causes. She was a well known face at public hearings and debates, as well as being a vigorous contributor to radio discussions; that was how Neil had come to know her.

Bromhaar had aged greatly in the couple of years since they'd last met. Her hair had turned grey-white and was cut much shorter now, though it still blew in the light breeze. The creases etched into her weatherbeaten face were more pronounced. But the intelligent sparkle in her eyes remained, as did her quick smile when Simpson removed his helmet and walked towards her.

"Ah Neil! You came! No one else has!" Having lived much of her life in the UK, Annie's brittilly slurred Dutch lilt had softened greatly. "This was as close as I could get." she explained, gesturing at the barricade. "So you got fed up of spouting the bullshit!" It was more a statement than a question.