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God knows why, but Hannah wanted to make sure the flags were safe before she ordered a general evacuation. They uprooted them, tied the collection in little bundles, and secured them beneath a hawthorn where the lip of the incline provided a natural wind-break. Then she and Soraya went round the camp like a couple of town criers, leaving Mordred to find the people he’d come with.
He found Tariq and Annabel on the beach at Plemont. He’d only seen them infrequently since his arrival, but they seemed to be enjoying their honeymoon now, and, oddly, the hurricane news affected them much as it had Soraya. Annabel laughed and hooray-ed. She and Tariq got up and followed him, as if she thought he must have a plan.
He couldn’t find Edna at first. He and she had spent a lot of time together holding hands, or with their arms round each other. He had no idea what she really thought about him, but he got the feeling she found this particular job oppressive and him objectionable. For her sake, he tried to avoid her when there was no necessity for them to be seen canoodling, and luckily, she’d made a few friends so she was never at a loose end.
Nevertheless, when news of the hurricane came, she was the first person he thought of. Even though it was obvious she could take care of herself – better than he could in many respects – he felt an inexplicable over-concern for her safety. He found her sitting in a field playing cards with three of her girlfriends.
“Your boyfriend looks a lot older than you,” one of them – a small woman with pigtails and a Nirvana T-shirt - whispered in French.
“I’ve just lived a rough life,” he replied in the same language. “I’m only nineteen really,” he added.
“It’s the heart that counts,” Edna said. “What’s up, John?”
“Apparently, there’s going to be a hurricane,” he said.
The blood drained from her face. She stood up, clutching her cards. “Oh my God.” She looked towards the camp. “Does everyone know?”
“I believe so.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much urgency. How far away is it?” She looked to all horizons and spotted it. “About an hour. Ninety minutes at the most. Come on, we’d better get to shelter.”
“Where?”
“I know places. I’ve been using my time here wisely. I thought we might need to hide if Pownall attacked again. But we need to get packed and get moving now. Right away.”
“You’re in charge,” he said. “I need to get Hannah and Soraya and tell them.”
Edna took over. Over the course of here-quarters of an hour, she found shelter for about a hundred people, heading east towards Grève de Lecq, but ultimately, the magnitude of the task defeated her. Altogether, the camp was still nearly five thousand strong. When the locals heard five thousand souls were on the move and headed their way, they switched off the lights in their homes, set their dogs barking, bolted their doors, padlocked their gates.
But not everyone was that scared. Priests and helpers from St Martin arrived on foot outside the barracks at Grève and led a hundred people to shelter in the Roman Catholic Church forty-five minutes away on La Grande Rue. The vicars of Saint John’s and Saint Mary’s took another two hundred between them.
Which still hardly dented the problem: four thousand seven hundred still to accommodate. At least, in theory: Mordred reckoned a large number had left to fend for themselves, heading west, or south, or for Saint Helier. If you were at the back, you would. If you had any sense, you wouldn’t hang around waiting for your ‘turn’. This was Anarchism. Do as you feel. As they kept telling him, no one’s in charge.
“If you can get to the capital, there are at least five churches willing to put you up there,” the vicar of Saint John’s said. They stood in a car park overlooking the beach at Grève. Waves battered the coast and fired spume into the dark sky like fireworks. The wind was already force eight or nine.
Saint Helier was about two and a half hours away on foot.
“I’ve run out of options,” Edna said.
Hannah ran up, clutching her backpack. “We’ve had an offer!”
“How many people do we still have to accommodate?” Mordred asked.
“Clive and Gareth are at the back! About a thousand!”
“What on earth happened to the other four thousand?”
“I don’t know! They’re adults! We can’t run their lives for them! If they want to leave, that’s their business!”
“What if they walk into the sea?”
“For God’s sake, John!”
Edna put her hand on his arm and turned to face him. “Let’s get the remaining people to safety, John. If you want to go and look for the others afterwards, I’m happy to come with you, but I wouldn’t recommend it. What have we got to do?” she asked Hannah.
Hannah produced an old man in a wax jacket, apparently from out of nowhere. “It’s an hour’s walk!” she shouted. “This man knows the way! All we have to do is follow him!”
Mordred smelt a rat. Pownall’s work? “Where the hell on this island could there possibly be safe shelter for over a thousand people?” he asked her.
“The old war tunnels,” the man said, before she could reply. “About four and a half miles southeast of here. Under Jersey law, they belong to the person whose land lies over them. I’m just his tenant. He specifically asked me to come and get you.”
“I don’t suppose he’s got a name, this ‘landlord’ of yours?”
“Of course he has, sir. Can’t see that it’s relevant, though. You probably won’t recognise it anyway. Don’t you want to get these people to safety?”
“What is it? His name?”
“It’s Peter Decristoforo. Some kind of rich scientist, lives abroad, hasn’t been seen here for years. I swear to you, he told me to make myself known. That’s all I’m doing. You can take it or leave it. My wife says I shouldn’t be out at all.”
Mordred stepped back a pace. “Yes, yes, of course. Sorry. You go ahead.”
Edna took his hand, slung her haversack back over her shoulder and smiled. “Nice that you care, John. Now come on.”
They arrived at the tunnels three-quarters of an hour later, battered, wet and slightly dazed, just as the wind hit force ten. This wasn’t the tourist entrance, rather it was further inland, and outwardly much less well preserved. A double door, about the width of two people, opening onto a long metal ladder. They climbed down into a wide, high horizontal cylinder with a floor extending about thirty metres in both directions to where it turned beyond view. The whitewashed walls and the strip lights gave the whole thing a blinding effect. One-time operating theatres and medical centres led off on alternate sides at forty foot intervals. A smell of cooking. At the far end of the tunnel’s northern extension, food was being laid on, or so the farmer had told them. Two sheep and a cow, slaughtered that afternoon, plus home-made bread and boiled potatoes. After an hour, it was served. Mordred made himself a potato sandwich. Most people then fell asleep as the storm raged impotently above and outside.
