Adrift

The rain had turned to glass or something like it. It shredded the woods, diced cars in car-parks, roared through slate-tiled roofs. As it gathered into the rivers they swelled, cut through their banks like bristling glaciers. But it passed in a wave; if you’d escaped it you couldn’t understand it. A farmer brought in a bullfrog he’d found encased in a vitreous slab the size of a labrador. When they cleared the roads it didn’t melt but clogged, growing sticky around the edges. A wave of it coming down through Reading carried off Piper’s Island, the footbridge flapping to one side like a broken wing. There were people inside but they didn’t seem to mind, there was beer at the bar and comfy chairs from which to enjoy the changing view as they swept into London. Coastguard helicopters fluttered overhead dangling rope-ladders as the tiny island dragged past the remains of the Thames Barrier east of the City. They blasted evacuation orders but the people weren’t listening, they were dancing the conga now. Past Gravesend it started to list a little and the Coastguard just had to give up; after all they had other issues to attend to.