So Jane swung north at Tranent, and hit the coast at Port Seton. The power station here, chimneys and boxes of corrugated iron and glass, was still working.

Then she followed the coast road to Longniddry, and then through Aberlady across the bay to the A-road that led to North Berwick.

The traffic was moving on the coast roads, but it was almost solid. One bad accident, a single burst radiator, would clog up the whole damn thing. Her son’s critical path to safety was littered with the dodgy cars and lousy driving of thousands of panicky strangers. Terrific.

Every radio channel was given over to news and evacuation instructions, and she turned it off. There was one music tape in the car which she played over and over, as the car limped on.

She knew the coast well from her own childhood. It was a peaceful place, beaches and caravan parks and golf courses, a place where families came to spend time together. Day trips, sausage sandwiches and tea and cake in little cafes.

Here was Jack’s childhood: grimy, underfed, in mild shock, huddled into a car seat, clutching a battered sycamore-shape spaceship to his chest, eyes as wide as saucers. It worried her that he’d barely said a word for days. But she would have to think about that later, when she had secured his survival.

It wasn’t so far. Fifteen or twenty miles to Dunbar. She had plenty of petrol. If she could do it she would run as far as Berwick-upon-Tweed, the first big coastal town to the south, inside England. Surely they would be safe enough there.

But they had to get there first.

She tried not to look back, at the orange glow and palls of smoke and lightning that played to the west. She tried not to think of her father, or Mike, or Henry. There was nothing she could do for any of them now, or they for her. Time enough for them later.

For now, Jack was her whole world.

The ground shook, every few minutes; she could feel it through the car’s suspension.

The car edged forward.

Going through Berwick, she got a good view of North Berwick Law, a tight volcanic cone, six hundred feet high. It seemed to be smoking.

Past Berwick, the traffic stalled completely.

A man — forty-ish, thin, in a grimy business suit — clambered onto the road from rough ground beyond. He glanced up and down the row of cars, evidently selected Jane’s, and walked up to it.

Before she could react, he had yanked open the driver’s side door. “Out of the car,” he said, and to make his point he grabbed her sweater at the shoulder and pulled her sideways. She wasn’t wearing her seat belt, and she spilled sideways onto the road, grazing her knees; the pain was startling.

She got to her feet stiffly.

In the middle of the road, traffic all around, the man confronted her. “I’m taking your car,” he said bluntly.

But he was hesitating.

Here was a man who was not used to this, to highway robbery. She tried to think, to size up the situation.

In the scrub on the far side of the road, beyond the crawling traffic, was a fat woman with a couple of suitcases, and a kid, a sulky-looking teenage girl. Jane tried to figure what minor disaster had befallen this family. Maybe their car had broken down, or simply run out of petrol. Maybe they had been robbed themselves.

She could offer to give them a ride.

But now the man, with tongue protruding, grabbed her arm; he pushed his free hand inside her sweater, searching for her breast. He was doing this thing in front of his family, and hers. Just because he thought the rules were all gone; just because he thought he couldn’t be stopped.

Jane stepped back, breaking his grip easily, and threw a punch at his nose. She put all her weight behind it. Blood spurted, bright crimson, and he fell backwards.

“Fuck off,” she said.

She got back in the car and locked the doors from the inside. The car edged forward — given the traffic she could hardly get away — but she didn’t trouble to look back.

Jack was clapping her slowly, a grin on his lips.

Jane waved her hand in the air. “It bloody hurt. And don’t let me hear you use language like that.”

The traffic crept forward.

The air was strange. The sky was tinged orange. She could smell ozone and ash.

By evening, they’d come no more than ten miles, and they had to sleep in the car.

16

It was now 3.00 a.m. in Chuzenji, an hour or more since one of the monks had woken him with the news of the Pacific volcano. Declan Hague sat in his cubicle, pondering events.

Waves.

In Declan’s mind, the future was simple: it was a question of waves, and wavelengths and speeds, the simple physics he remembered from school.

On his small, hand-held TV there were the images of destruction, brought to him in a fraction of a second, bounced around the world by the satellites: the boiling ocean, the glowing, cracked sea floor, the new island-mountains thrusting into the air from the depths of the Pacific. It was the Moonseed, the scientists said. It hadn’t taken long to chew through the five-mile-thick crust under the oceans, to open up new vents to release the swarming fire of Earth’s interior. Some of the scientists seemed pleased with themselves. Right on schedule, they said.

These electronic images came to him on the first wave, at the speed of light.

Next would come the sound, the great shouts of the quakes and eruptions, carried through the perturbed and increasingly murky air of Earth at some six hundred miles an hour, directly to his ears. The second wave. He would need no technology for that, and that was pleasing.

…And at last, one more wave, of more uncertain velocity, that would come rearing out of the perturbed ocean. And that, he thought with relief, would finish it all.

There was a tsunami watch which sought to monitor and predict the great waves, like seismic weather stations, scattered across the Pacific, run by many countries. So the coming event was not unanticipated. On his TV the experts pronounced solemn warnings to prepare, exhortations to stay calm.

Japan had been struck by at least fifteen great waves in the last three centuries. In 1896, a tsunami was reported to have killed twenty-seven thousand people. More than a thousand died in 1933. And so on.

Tsunami.

It was a word which meant “tidal wave’, but the waves were nothing to do with the tides, the pull of the Moon.

Right now, in the open ocean, the wave caused by the ocean floor crack would not be so spectacular to look at. Perhaps three hundred miles long, but no more than a few feet high, with a hundred miles or more between crests, travelling at somewhere between three and six hundred miles per hour. Unimpressive — except in terms of the energy stored by such a vast formation, crossing the world ocean at such giant speeds.

As it entered the shallower waters along the edge of a continent, the wave would reduce in speed and gather in height, to perhaps two hundred feet, three. And then when it reached the land, friction with the shallow bottom would reduce the speed to less than a hundred miles an hour — but the wave height would be magnified tremendously.

No structure could withstand its force. As it uprooted trees and smashed buildings, it would become laden with debris, and its ability to scour the land bare would be magnified. Sizable ships might be carried miles inland.

Then would come a rapid retreat back to the ocean, and then, every ten to twenty minutes, a fresh surge, until the energy was dissipated.

Sometimes the first surge would deposit fish, swept inland and left to suffocate. Fools would hurry forward to take the fish. But the wily Japanese knew that more surges would come, and ignored the apparent bounty. That was the folk wisdom, the common experience. The Japanese were, after all, used to tsunamis.