I walked to Westminster Bridge, where the Houses of Parliament stretched high, imprinted on the evening sky. The moon pushed through faded pink and cream, the sun low on the crimson horizon before the curtain fell on the day’s play. The evening alarm sounded, sharp and shrill. Time. Time to go home for most of the city dwellers. Faceless men in black boiler suits stooped over hidden mechanisms, pushing, pulling, pressing against levers that activated the iron-walled bridge barriers that stopped the rising river flooding the streets. They reminded me of beavers fortifying their dam. Despite this, the waters rose rapidly, creeping across the bridge arch. I hurried my pace. The city was deserted now. I reached the footpath that edged its way across the bridge, hunched over churning water, lapping and licking at my Wellington boots. A lone wind breathed a chill into my bones.
Darkness fell quickly in these times, on the soul and the day. The nights were long, despite it being summer. I passed the only person left on the street: the newspaper seller packing his pale parchments emblazoned with today’s news, a stalwart of Westminster, a city satyr, all-seeing, serving all. His tired eyes stared at me as I quickened my pace.
When I made it inside the tall ornate gates of the government buildings, I headed into the hidden chamber. I was on night duty that week. I entered the temperature-controlled room. Suspended in the middle was a large bullet-proof glass box. A breeze flowed from vents at the sides of the box, forcing the young tree to undulate like a dancing girl at an eastern bazaar. The last oak sapling, grown from a seed salvaged from decimated trees, shivered and sighed.
