Writings

404

I woke, as I usually do, a few seconds before the alarm. I looked blearily at the clock and noted the date, stupidly wondering if leap days counted as overtime, would that I was ever paid overtime. I registered that Kate's side of the bed was vacant, and I rolled out of bed, grabbed my dressing gown and made my way to the kitchen, groggily feeling my way in the grey half-light.

I waited in the kitchen for the sounds of plumbing from upstairs. But the house was strangely quiet; the only sounds were the boiler and the gas under the kettle. The water boiled and I made a pot of tea, poured and took the two mugs upstairs.

The bed was empty. I backed out on to the landing and looked over my shoulder - no lights in the bathroom. Odd. I put the tea down and looked in the girls' room. Seeing no signs of movement I listened, and in a sudden fright flipped the light switch.

The room was empty. Both beds had been slept in, but my children were not in them. I thudded back into the bedroom, and turned on the light. I shouted, and ran down the stairs to the hall, hitting every light switch I passed. I wrenched the front door, and struggled in vain for a moment before realizing that it was still chained from the inside. The backdoor, and the sidedoor to the garage were similarly bolted from the inside.

Fighting down the panic I went into the living room and picked up the 'phone, my thumb over the '9' as I checked the windows and the conservatory. Again, everything was locked from the inside. I blinked back the stinging in my eyes and dialled.

Three rings, four, five . . . I let the 'phone ring for a whole minute before hanging up. The local police number was on a Post-It on the fridge - I dialled that, and hung on until I heard their answering machine click in. Next, I rang Kate's mobile, and was startled as it buzzed and shivered across the tabletop.

I put the 'phone down and leaned against the sink, rubbing my eyes. Had I done something silly? Think! Today was Sunday, and I had to go into the lab. There had been talk of Kate taking the girls and driving up to see their grandparents - had we organized that for today? That made sense, she would have gone up last night, stayed over, and be back this afternoon. I wandered up the stairs, shaking my head at my stupidity. I would call my parents from work and make sure everything was all right.

In the bedroom, I cradled my mug of tea, then went over and pulled back the curtains. There had been a slight frost, and I made a mental note that I'd have to scrape the ice off the car. I turned from the window, and nearly dropped the tea as I ran out of the bedroom, down the stairs, fumbled with the chain and the lock, and ran out the front door.

There, still in the drive, was our car.

***

Ten minutes later I was dressed and wheeling my bike out of the garage. I checked I had my keys and 'phone, and set off. There was no traffic at the main road, and I turned right, to take the longer way in. The early cloud had melted with the night, and the day promised to be crisp and clear. The air was biting, but I soon warmed up and within minutes was shooting up the slight rise that Cambridge-bred denizens call a 'hill'. As I turned onto Babraham Road I was somewhat surprised that I had seen no traffic at all. Into the hospital grounds, and round the Hutch to the goods yard. A few bikes in the shed, which was not unusual for this time of a morning - one could often find computational biologists around the place, who usually only saw the dawn if they'd worked through the night.

But the building was preternaturally quiet, even for a Sunday. Then I realized that not only had there been no traffic, I had heard no noise of any kind; no birdsong, no dogs barking; nor the ever-pervasive hum from the M11. I ran down the empty, echoing corridors to the Reception desk, expecting to at least find a security guard.

Reception was empty, but I went in and sat down at the front desk. The security logbook was open, and I checked the last entry.

'02:50 - returned. PNAC OK'

Looking up the page I saw where the guard had checked out to patrol an area, where he had come back the previous time, and a note of a vehicle 'parked in a suspicious manner' around midnight. I smiled wryly, and stood up to look out of the window. All was still. I ducked inside the CCTV room, and looked around. Nothing on the cameras.

A machine about the size of an inkjet printer nestled in the corner and I took a closer look. Sheafs of paper had sprouted out of the top, and I realized it was the door access logger. The last entry read '07:32' and my name. The previous entry was an exit, at 02:15. Before that, three entrances at about one in the morning. I took a note of the names, looked up the numbers on the receptionists' iMac and dialled each one in turn.

No answers. But that might not be surprising. I opened a terminal and logged on, and fingered the three names. Sure enough, last logins around one, but then they each had been idle for four and a half hours.

I slumped in the chair and gazed at the ceiling, wondering just what the hell was going on. I typed who, and finger, and bit my lip. Of the dozen or so people still logged on, only one had not been 'idle' for at least four and a half hours - me.

Almost on autopilot, I made my way to the lab, and inoculated the flasks of media with individual colonies. I sat down at my own computer and checked my email, as well as the spamfilter log. No email had come into the building since the wee hours. Not even viruses could spread if the machines they infected had not been turned on. The only conclusion that made sense was that something had happened to everybody, except me, around three in the morning. And that made no sense.

I found a screwdriver and a hammer in the workshop, and hacked away at the door to Stores, cursing at the deafening siren. As I stumbled through the wrecked door I wondered if setting the fire alarm off had been a good idea. I quickly found what I was looking for, and made my way out to the car park. I had few qualms about taking a pool car in such circumstances; I could persuade myself this was company business, but did wonder how I would explain the fire alarm in the morning - if there was anyone to explain to.

I stopped at a petrol station in Trumpington, and stood there tapping the filler cap on the pump for a full minute before I realized there was no attendant. Fortunately the shop was open and I was able to flip the pump on myself, before running back and filling the tank. I did wonder how to pay, but contented myself with showing the fuelcard to a CCTV camera.

The paper rack was empty. I pulled out onto the road, and tentatively went through the red light. Two minutes later I was home.

***

While grilling a bagel and making some coffee I went through every 'phone number I could find on both my mobile and the landline. Everything, including numbers in the US and New Zealand, drew blanks. I raided the fridge for some provisions, got my tool kit out of the garage and selected a couple of CDs. Last, I took the road atlas from my own car and and set off for the M11.

Perhaps I should not have been surprised to find the M11 as empty as Cambridge itself. Even so, I kept my speed to below eighty until I got to Stansted, where a car was resting on the central reservation against a bridge pillar. I pulled over to the hard shoulder, turned the engine off and left the hazard lights flashing. I looked both ways, then again, listening intently, before attempting to cross the carriageway - and even then I ran.

The other vehicle was unlocked and unoccupied, with the front bumper wrecked and the bonnet slightly crumpled. I walked round it, and noted that there were no tyre marks on the road. The grass of the reservation was depressed where the car had travelled along it for twenty yards or so before hitting the bridge. There were scratch marks and flecks of paint along the barrier.

It looked, to my inexperienced eyes, as if the driver had fallen asleep and the car had drifted into the central reservation as it slowed, finally stopping against the pillar at a speed considerably less than the legal limit. I took out a handherchief and opened the driver's door.

I stared at the driver's seat, registering that something was wrong without seeing it. I blinked, shook my head and looked again. Nope. I checked the rest of the car. It seemed normal - as normal as an abandoned car on the M11 could be. The keys were still in the ignition, and as I bent to take them out I realized what was wrong.

The seatbelt was still fastened.

I reached the M25 interchange in record time; my uncomprehending daze subsiding enough to allow me to drop to 50 as I passed the Chigwell speed camera.

Navigating through a deserted capital with the road atlas open on the passenger seat, my first port of call was Regent's Park. I have no idea what made me think that Head Office would be open as usual - let alone on a Sunday morning when all good administrators (and perhaps especially the bad ones) should be confessing their manifold iniquities in a church of their choice - but as I forced the catch on a ground floor window and the intruder alarm sounded its blue cry for help I felt an unbearable tightness around my heart and I collapsed, sobbing helplessly, onto the pavement.

With an icy pain in my chest I drove down roads with names as familiar as childhood heroes - each as barren as the last. I left the car across a set of lights in Trafalgar Square, and walked from Nelson's Column past Great Scotland Yard, Whitehall Place, Horse Guards Avenue . . . Vainly I had hoped that at least the Ministry of Defence might still be staffed. I may have hammered on the door of Number Ten, before midday found me sitting with my head between my knees, tears splashing unheeded against the base of the Cenotaph.

I looked towards the southeast, where the timeless voice of Big Ben announced the hour. Hope flared briefly, and I actually broke into a run before I realized that Parliament's timekeeper needed no human intervention for days at a time. Despondent once more, I stood on Westminster Bridge, gazing at the Houses. I was mesmerized by the lapping of waves against the shore, and suddenly the grey River seemed incredibly inviting.

***

Half an hour later I was driving down the middle lane of the M20. My former, despair-induced madness had drained away, but my knuckles were white as I stared ahead, the needle far over to the right.

Except for one local station, which was obviously running yesterday's tape, I found nothing to listen to on the radio - having searched all the FM and medium wave frequency bands. So it was to a tune one hundred and eighty years old I arrived at Dover. I was ready to believe that the cranks across the Atlantic were right, that maybe aliens did abduct humans for strange experiments, and that if they could cross interstellar void with ease then maybe kidnapping an entire country might not be beyond them. But surely they would not, could not take any more? Freunde, nicht diese Töne. And that hypothesis still begged the question of why not me?

I drove around the docks, the great ferries bereft and pathetic, wallowing in the swell. I wondered idly whether I might find a 'Harbour Piloting for Dummies' in a local shop, but considered I had more chance driving to an airport and taking a light aircraft. I made my way slowly through town, until I found what I was looking for. I rifled the camera shop, and selected a powerful pair of binoculars and a reflecting telescope and tripod. I shouldered my booty and stepped through the broken full-height window, catching my forearm on a piece of jagged glass as I did so.

The cut was not long, but went deep and I caught a glimpse of white tissue before dark, red blood swelled up and began to run down my arm. I swore softly, put the equipment down and clamped my left hand over the wound, and ran back to the car. Blood was seeping between my fingers as I struggled one-handedly with the unfamiliar catch, finally getting the boot open. The first aid kit was well stocked, and I pulled out a bandage, wrapping it tightly to stem the flow.

When I had finished, I had to sit down and wait for the dots before my eyes to disappear. I was feeling weak; from emotion, and lack of sugar. I suddenly realized I was hungry, and found the sandwiches I had packed. There was a newsagent across the road, and I used the tripod to break the door, and carefully knocked out every piece of glass with a hammer. I took a couple of cans of Pepsi from the chiller cabinet, and drank them in the car. Funny, I thought, I don't feel guilty anymore.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, I took the road up to the castle, and looked around for what I judged to be the highest point. Resting the binoculars on a stone wall I set up the tripod and the telescope, and looked across to France, for any hint that my theory might be wrong.

***

I realized that I would not be able to get past the toll on the Dartford Crossing, so on my way back to Cambridge I went anti-clockwise round the M25 wondering how in an earlier age I could ever have chafed at the traffic at the Heathrow turning.

Heathrow.

My tyres left a smoking black trail as I slammed on the brakes and U-turned back to junction 15. France had seemed similarly deserted, but surely I'd be able to find a way to get something off the ground. And even if I couldn't land, or ran out of fuel over the Atlantic, or found that I was alone in the entire world . . . well, I had already considered that option once today, and it didn't seem any less attractive now.

But before I reached the Heathrow slip road the engine coughed, spluttered and stopped. I coasted for a few hundred yards out of gear, cursing the fuel light. The car came to a stop, and in the sudden quiet I heard Chuck Berry,

I want shortwave radio
I want TV and a phone
You know I gotta talk to my baby
When I'm ridin' alone

It wasn't funny, but I laughed out loud.

'Change the tape guys, it's getting old.'

The sound of my own voice was startling, but was nothing compared with the revelation I had. I knew what was wrong.

'Change the tape,' I whispered, 'You didn't change the tape.'

Suddenly I was terrified. I got out of the car, and climbed onto the roof, refusing to listen to the small, insistent voice inside. Through the binoculars, I could see a light aircraft on the tarmac. Right. I had convinced myself I could get it airborne, and jumped from the roof, landing awkwardly. I ran across the carriageway, leapt the barrier, and crossed to the embankment. I climbed to the top, and scaled the small fence, running down the other side. As I neared a footpath that looked as if it led to the airport I missed my footing, and fell headlong, closing my eyes as the kerb rose to meet my temple. . .

***

I woke, as I usually do, a few seconds before the alarm. I looked blearily at the clock and sat bolt upright in bed. I put my hand on my breast, scared that the knocking wouldn't stop - or worse, that it would stop completely.

'Mmmf? What's up?'

I breathed deeply, working on slowing my pulse.

'Nothing. Just a stupid dream.'

I double-checked the date on the clock, before putting on my dressing gown and feeling my way down the stairs in the gloom. I turned the kitchen light on, but it was only as I went to fill the kettle that I noticed the blood-stained bandage on my right forearm.

**********************************************************************