Portent by James Herbert Read Free Book Online Page A

destination. Rivers pulled over into a farm track by the side of a quiet lane, this time to consult the guide Poggs had given him-'Easy to get lost in our neck of the woods,' he'd told the climatologist over the phone. As Rivers picked up the piece of paper with the directions from the passenger seat, he realized that the daylight had dimmed considerably. Glancing out the side window towards the sun, he saw dark clouds filling half the sky, a tremendous, dramatic mass that, had they not looked so ominous, might have made him smile with relief at the thought of the rain they carried.
        Instead he frowned, wondering where the hell they had arrived from. No storm weather had been forecast as far as he knew.
        Rivers reached for the earphone and pressed a digit. He watched the lumbering clouds in the distance while waiting for the number to dial then ring.
        'G23,' he said when it was answered. 'Jonesy? It's Jim.'
        'Don't you know it's Sunday? You get to rest, remember? No, we don't know how it got here, if it's that bloody great cloud bank you rang about. I've been on to Central and Observations, even gave Short-range a shot. None of them had a clue it was on the way until it showed up on the satellite a little while ago.'
        'It had to start some place, and it had to have had time to build like that. It's hard to believe we're in a drought and nobody noticed this looming up. No wonder the public's lost all faith.'
        'Yeah, yeah, I know, but that's not our department, is it? All they can tell us is that turbulence off the south coast is the cause.'
        'God knows we need some rain, but this doesn't look friendly.'
        'Stay inside is my advice. When it breaks-and it's got to soon-an umbrella won't do you much good.'
        'I'm already out.'
        'Then good luck. At least the gardeners will be happy, not to mention the fanners. I suppose we all should.'
        'Depends on the damage it does. Like I said, it looks mean.'
        There was a short silence.
        'Let's be optimistic,' Jonesy said.
        'Right. Listen, a full report tomorrow. I want to know where it started and the precise volume of rainfall when it's over. Also a record of the PPI and RHI changes as it travels.'
        'I thought you were on leave this week.'
        'Get it to my address.'
        'Done. Now get under cover and enjoy the rest of your day. At least the conference is finished and the Met Office won't be fielding awkward questions from our overseas friends. A mother of a storm on its way after one of the longest droughts in the UK's history, and nobody forecast it. It's almost as embarrassing as the '87 hurricane.'
        When Rivers replaced the receiver he looked back at the approaching storm clouds. Now he could see the movement in them, the swirling vapour, the leaden darkness massing at their base. He stepped outside the car to feel the atmosphere. It was unpleasantly muggy, the kind of heavy heat that needed a shower to dispel it. Well, more than a shower was on its way, perhaps a deluge that would bludgeon the very earth. Rivers was only too aware of what was happening to the rest of the world.
        He got back into the Renault, checked the directions once more, and went on his way.
        

3
        
        It hit like a force from hell.
        One moment the skies were sullen with threat, the next they had spewed their wrath. The rain came with such violence that his car's windows were instantly flooded. Rivers stabbed the brake, too hard, too fast, and the car slewed across the lane in a screeching skid. He felt the front wing jolt, but barely heard the crunch over the downpour. His upper body lurched forward when the car dipped and came to an abrupt halt, the seat-belt biting into his stomach and chest, but mercifully locking him there, keeping him from the glass in front. Pain shot up his injured leg and he gasped and clutched his kneecap. He had stamped