to piece together the last few moments. He remembered hurrying back to the study, to retrieve the Heathrow dossier. Then he’d turned to leave when–
What, exactly? He recalled a flash of light beneath the door, an ear-splitting bang, an earthquake that shook the ground beneath his feet. He’d felt the floor drop away only to rush back up and meet him. Then the world turned black.
He had to get out of here. He pulled at his left leg again, but it was well and truly jammed beneath a pile of thick timbers sporting rusted, twisted nails. As his hearing returned to something like normality he became aware of the sound of breaking glass and distant sirens. He thought he could still smell gas. That must have been the cause of the explosion. He had to get outside.
He called for help, the words rasping between toothless gums, his throat still thick with dust. He doubted anyone more than six feet away could hear him. He spat again, more blood, more dust. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, an inch at a time, mindful of the broken ribs and their proximity to his lungs. He lifted his chin, peering over the piles of rubble across the floor of his study – and his eyes widened in horror, his jaw sagging painfully in shock.
Number Ten was devastated. The explosion had ripped a gaping fissure from the front of the building and every window had been blasted away. The floor to his study was still intact, along with a section of the landing outside, but beyond that the building was ruined. He searched for his secretary, saw her desk overturned, debris piled against the rear wall as if swept there by a giant’s broom. He thought he saw something pale amongst the carnage, a limb perhaps. He called again, the sound whistling through the gaps in his teeth, but no-one answered. Panting for breath, he turned away, looking across the street where the exterior wall of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had been peeled away by the blast, revealing blackened rooms and broken furniture. It reminded Bryce of a macabre doll’s house. On one of the floors a large table hung by two of its legs from the shattered floor above. As he watched, the floor timbers groaned and gave way, sending the table crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust and rubble.
Closer, the staircase inside Number Ten marched up towards the roof as it had always done, the stairwell walls cracked and exposed but still standing, the balustrades dangling like broken teeth all the way to the top floor, where most of the roof was missing. Bryce was stunned, his head moving back and forth as he struggled to make sense of the scale of the damage. He vaguely recalled being told that Number Ten could withstand this sort of thing, that the famous front door alone took at least eight men to carry it, such was the strength of its construction. Bryce couldn’t even see the thing, as the front of the building had gone, the gap wide enough to drive several trucks through.
His arms felt weak and he eased himself back to the floor. He fought the shock, forcing himself to relax. Nearly everyone had been downstairs: Ella, the Cabinet, the press, Downing Street staff. Why couldn’t he hear their shouts, their cries for help, for God’s sake? Am I the only one left? He heard more sirens but they still seemed distant. Where were the emergency services? Minutes had passed, maybe more. It was getting darker, he was alone, trapped, with no way of–
He fumbled painfully inside his jacket, his fingers feeling for the cell phone buried in his pocket. He fished it out, checked its smooth silver body for damage. The screen sported a small crack but amazingly the device had survived, the coloured icons glowing in the gloom and the swirling dust. He thumbed the contacts button, scrolling through the list until the saw the name of the only senior minister he knew for sure hadn’t been in the building. He tapped the screen, lifted the device to his ear. A click, a hiss, then the wonderful sound of
What, exactly? He recalled a flash of light beneath the door, an ear-splitting bang, an earthquake that shook the ground beneath his feet. He’d felt the floor drop away only to rush back up and meet him. Then the world turned black.
He had to get out of here. He pulled at his left leg again, but it was well and truly jammed beneath a pile of thick timbers sporting rusted, twisted nails. As his hearing returned to something like normality he became aware of the sound of breaking glass and distant sirens. He thought he could still smell gas. That must have been the cause of the explosion. He had to get outside.
He called for help, the words rasping between toothless gums, his throat still thick with dust. He doubted anyone more than six feet away could hear him. He spat again, more blood, more dust. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, an inch at a time, mindful of the broken ribs and their proximity to his lungs. He lifted his chin, peering over the piles of rubble across the floor of his study – and his eyes widened in horror, his jaw sagging painfully in shock.
Number Ten was devastated. The explosion had ripped a gaping fissure from the front of the building and every window had been blasted away. The floor to his study was still intact, along with a section of the landing outside, but beyond that the building was ruined. He searched for his secretary, saw her desk overturned, debris piled against the rear wall as if swept there by a giant’s broom. He thought he saw something pale amongst the carnage, a limb perhaps. He called again, the sound whistling through the gaps in his teeth, but no-one answered. Panting for breath, he turned away, looking across the street where the exterior wall of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had been peeled away by the blast, revealing blackened rooms and broken furniture. It reminded Bryce of a macabre doll’s house. On one of the floors a large table hung by two of its legs from the shattered floor above. As he watched, the floor timbers groaned and gave way, sending the table crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust and rubble.
Closer, the staircase inside Number Ten marched up towards the roof as it had always done, the stairwell walls cracked and exposed but still standing, the balustrades dangling like broken teeth all the way to the top floor, where most of the roof was missing. Bryce was stunned, his head moving back and forth as he struggled to make sense of the scale of the damage. He vaguely recalled being told that Number Ten could withstand this sort of thing, that the famous front door alone took at least eight men to carry it, such was the strength of its construction. Bryce couldn’t even see the thing, as the front of the building had gone, the gap wide enough to drive several trucks through.
His arms felt weak and he eased himself back to the floor. He fought the shock, forcing himself to relax. Nearly everyone had been downstairs: Ella, the Cabinet, the press, Downing Street staff. Why couldn’t he hear their shouts, their cries for help, for God’s sake? Am I the only one left? He heard more sirens but they still seemed distant. Where were the emergency services? Minutes had passed, maybe more. It was getting darker, he was alone, trapped, with no way of–
He fumbled painfully inside his jacket, his fingers feeling for the cell phone buried in his pocket. He fished it out, checked its smooth silver body for damage. The screen sported a small crack but amazingly the device had survived, the coloured icons glowing in the gloom and the swirling dust. He thumbed the contacts button, scrolling through the list until the saw the name of the only senior minister he knew for sure hadn’t been in the building. He tapped the screen, lifted the device to his ear. A click, a hiss, then the wonderful sound of
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