Desert dreams - a fragile reality

Dubai beach scene.                                                              Photo: C Simpson

By day three in Dubai, I had developed the air-con cough. Not a virus  just the inevitable consequence of living inside a constant, refrigerated cocoon. Step outside and the heat hits like an opened furnace door. Step back in and your lungs tighten in protest at the mechanical chill. It is the rhythm of the place: scorch and soothe, glare and gloss.

UAE’s centrepiece city exists in defiance of its geography. In temperature terms alone, it is one of the least hospitable urban environments on Earth – and in a warming world, it will only become hotter. Yet the rate of construction is astonishing. Towers rise as fast as cranes can swing them into place; whole districts seem to materialise between breakfast and dinner.

Of course, it is built on extraordinary wealth and the dreamlike availability of oil. Dubai is an artificial oasis – a monument not merely to human ingenuity, but to humanity’s refusal to confront the climate problem of its own making. A glittering dystopia where the insidious power of hydrocarbons is rendered in glass, steel and relentless development.

Approaching the oasis
Even before descending to Dubai International Airport, the contradictions are visible from 35,000 feet. On my flight we passed over Iraq near Baghdad and skirted the precarious artery of the Suez Canal — two names that, in recent days, have once again featured heavily in global news bulletins. As dawn broke, I peered down at oil fields and flares burning defiantly against the coming heat, flames licking at the pale sky as if to underline the point.

And then – unmistakably – Dubai itself. The city rises almost obscenely from the desert. Outlying villas and settlements sit marooned in seas of sand, encompassed by dunes that quietly remind you who truly rules this landscape. For now, oil tames it. But it still feels conjured rather than grown – summoned by capital and climate control.

If I had to describe Dubai in a poetic turn of phrase, I might conjure up something like “a mirage of permanence”. It's a place where even the coastline is engineered, where the palm-shaped archipelago of Palm Jumeirah is pressed into existence at immense environmental cost. From space, it forms a striking geometric flourish. On the ground, the artifice is harder to ignore.

City of paradox
Dubai must be one of the sunniest and hottest cities on Earth. It has enough sunshine hours to power its economy many times over. And yet, flying in, I saw remarkably few solar panels. Why harness the free energy raining from the sky when oil still flows so readily beneath the sand?

Everything here depends on energy abundance –desalinated water, chilled interiors, illuminated towers, indoor ski slopes. Oil facilitates life at scale in a landscape most species wisely abandoned long ago. But that reliance lends the city an unsettling fragility. It feels as though, should the flow falter, the desert would patiently reclaim its territory.

That fragility now feels sharper after the geopolitical events (to out it politely) of recent days. The Middle East is once again in turmoil. Conflict ripples outward from long-contested fault lines. Airspace closures, missile exchanges, diplomatic brinkmanship – each development carries implications for a city and region where prosperity depends on seamless global connectivity.

Dubai’s success is inseparable from its role as a transport hub. Emirates has built a global network that stitches Europe, Asia, Africa and Australasia together through a single desert crossroads. Freight, finance, tourism and conferences all converge here. When regional tensions rise, flight paths bend, insurance premiums spike, and the choreography of global movement becomes more complicated.

So far, Dubai remains outwardly calm – insulated by wealth, diplomacy and careful positioning. The malls are full, the hotels busy, the cranes still turning. But the very geography that made it strategically valuable also places it within reach of instability. Its gleaming airport terminals are both gateway and vulnerability.

Inside the mirage
From street level, the high-rises form a relentless backdrop. Development continues at breakneck speed in every direction. For now it dazzles – attracting holidaymakers, entrepreneurs, influencers and conference-goers. Yet scratch the surface and Dubai can feel like a glossy façade stretched over one of the most inhospitable environments on Earth.

Step outside too long and the heat drains you. Even the sea feels languid, as if exhausted by the thermal burden it absorbs each summer. The beaches are artificially immaculate, the interiors plush, the service seamless – but always mediated by machinery humming out of sight.

In that sense, Dubai is less a city than a controlled environment. And perhaps that is why the current geopolitical tremors feel symbolically resonant. A metropolis built on the assumption of perpetual growth, stable trade routes and uninterrupted energy flows suddenly exists in a region where none of those can ever be fully guaranteed. A hub in turmoil

The contradictions of Dubai’s engineered calm feel especially stark against the backdrop of the current geopolitical shockwaves. In the past week, airspace over the United Arab Emirates has been temporarily shut down, and flights to and from Dubai International Airport – one of the busiest aviation hubs in the world – have been repeatedly suspended as regional military tensions escalate.

The result has been chaotic for thousands of travellers: tourists, business visitors and long-term residents, who used Dubai as a tax-free home, are now stuck in the city with no clear way out. Transit passengers whose flight plans relied on smooth connections through the Gulf are stranded in terminals or hotels while airlines and air authorities scramble to adjust schedules.

Governments from Europe to Australia are urging their nationals to register with embassies and “shelter in place”, while some are planning mass repatriation operations – not for tourists alone, but for expatriates and workers who had chosen to make this glittering hub their base.

In some cases, officials have even resorted to military flights to bring home ministers and citizens caught up in the disruption, a stark reminder that Dubai’s global connectivity can become a vulnerability when that connectivity falters

Questions under the gloss
Development continues apace. More towers, more malls, more artificial islands. For now, Dubai thrives precisely because it is so curated – a place where appearances matter more than origins, where the environment is conditioned, cooled and conquered.

But beneath it all lies a deeper contradiction. We know the planet is heating. We know deserts are expanding. We know fossil fuels both enable and imperil modern civilisation. And yet here, in one of the most extreme climates on Earth, humanity builds ever higher as if the future were simply a longer version of the present.

Current events in the Middle East are a reminder that energy, geography and politics are inseparable. Oil does not merely power air-conditioning; it shapes alliances, conflicts and vulnerabilities. Dubai is both beneficiary and symbol of that system – its skyline a physical manifestation of hydrocarbon modernity.

Last October, from my hotel balcony at dusk, the city shimmered under a haze of heat and humidity. At dusk the lights came on, one tower after another, defying darkness and desert alike.

Whether Dubai represents our boldest ingenuity or our most extravagant denial may ultimately depend on forces far beyond its immaculate highways – on geopolitics, on energy transitions and on climate trajectories.

And, perhaps most immediately, on how long the air-conditioning keeps purring.

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Editor’s note: this edition re-published due to a link error on original (2 March 2023)

When the Water Wins

 

Upper River Welland in flood (Feb 2026).                        Photo: Ian Bateman

There is a particular kind of dread that comes not from sudden catastrophe, but from slow acceptance: the point at which something once shocking becomes familiar, then normal, then mere background noise.

In recent weeks, flood warnings have scrolled across our phones, met with only fleeting attention. Roads close. Trains stop. Fields disappear beneath shallow seas. Insurers quietly retreat from whole postcodes. Phrases like “managed retreat” and “once-in-a-century event” lose their meaning through overuse.

Last week, that background noise briefly came into focus with the story of Clydach Terrace in Ynysybwl, South Wales.

The local authority in Rhondda Cynon Taf agreed to spend up to £2.6 million to buy up and demolish 16 homes on a residential terrace that has repeatedly flooded – including during Storm Dennis in 2020, when water inside homes reached almost two metres deep.

The homes, on a floodplain beside the Nant Clydach, were deemed so dangerous that there is no economically viable way to protect them. Natural defences are no longer viable; the risk to life is judged “high”.

Journalists covering the story described this as the first time in the UK that a whole street has been bought out and will be demolished because of climate-linked flood risk: a de facto announcement of the country’s first climate evacuees – though the word itself remains carefully unspoken.

The most frightening thing about climate collapse is not the spectacle of it, but how quickly we absorb it into everyday life.

That sense of quiet inevitability – the feeling that something fundamental has shifted beneath our feet – is what led me to write Flood Waters Down.

I live on the edge of the South Lincolnshire Fens, a landscape that exists only because we forced it into submission. Drained, straightened, regulated, pumped. A triumph of engineering and agricultural efficiency – and a reminder of a very old human habit: believing control to be the same as permanence.

The Fens are flat, exposed and deceptively fragile. They sit mostly at or below sea level, held in place by embankments, lock gates and sluices – and by faith in powerful pump engines that must work perfectly, all the time. As the atmosphere warms and the seas rise, that bargain begins to look increasingly brittle.

Historically, when the water returns to the Fens, it does not do so politely. It spreads. It lingers. It reshapes the land and the people who live on it.

The phrase – the water always wins – became a quiet mantra while I was writing Flood Waters Down. Not as a slogan, but as an observation. Nature does not need to be dramatic to be unstoppable. It only needs time.

So why turn to fiction this time, rather than reportage?

I’ve spent much of my career reporting on complex systems – space, technology, the environment. Good, honest journalism is vital. It tells us what is happening, who is responsible and why it matters.

But it has limits. In the context of climate change it struggles to capture what collapse feels like from the inside. How it alters relationships, priorities, morality. How people adapt not in heroic arcs, but in compromises and retreats. How systems designed to protect us quietly begin to outlive us.

Fiction offers the possibility of stepping beyond the headline and into the atmosphere. To explore not just submerged landscapes, but flooded institutions. Not just environmental breakdown, but the psychological weather of a society learning, slowly, that it may not recover.

Flood Waters Down is not set in some far-off, abstract tomorrow. It occupies the narrow band of time where today’s assumptions still mostly hold – but are beginning to fail.

Its lineage owes more to J.G. Ballard than to blockbuster dystopia: environments that shape behaviour, infrastructures that become characters in their own right, and futures that feel uncomfortably adjacent to the present.

The flooded Fens become a fragmented, part-rewilded zone of survivors and renegades. Elsewhere, enclaves of wealth retreat behind technology and automation, convinced they can outlast the chaos. Over it all hangs the presence of increasingly autonomous systems, designed to manage crisis, but quietly redefining what “order” means.

None of this requires a leap of imagination. We are already living with early versions of these dynamics: climate adaptation by postcode, algorithmic governance, uneven resilience, the quiet return of sovereign rule, the outsourcing of responsibility to systems no one fully controls.

Nothing transforms the world overnight – the future arrives with more of a shrug than a bang. But fiction can change how we pay attention.

Climate fiction, at its best, is not about predicting the future. It is about rehearsing emotional and ethical responses to the futures we are already drifting towards. It asks uncomfortable questions: Who adapts? Who retreats? Who decides? What do we cling to when the structures we trusted begin to dissolve?

As Flood Waters Down moves towards publication, I find myself less interested in whether readers find it frightening than whether they find it recognisable. That quiet click of understanding. That sense of yes, this feels plausible.

Because once a future becomes imaginable, it becomes discussable. And once it is discussable, it becomes harder to ignore. The water, after all, does not need our belief. It only needs our inaction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flood Waters Down is released in paperback by Cliftop Publishing on 9 April 2026 and is available for pre-order.

War warning sparks UK space push

Photo: Mark Williamson

George Freeman MP says the UK must build a wartime space economy to stop Russia, stand up to Trump and keep billion-pound space firms from being seized by foreign powers.

by Clive Simpson

LONDON, 12 December – A week after former UK space minister George Freeman warned that Europe is “already at war”, his stark message has gained added resonance amid fresh NATO concern that Russia may widen its confrontation with the West.

Speaking at Space-Comm Expo in Glasgow on 4 December, Freeman told industry leaders that the UK must move faster, think bigger and “speak with one voice” if it is to secure a leading role in the next era of global space technology and national defence.

His comments now sit against a broader geopolitical warning from NATO’s incoming secretary-general, Mark Rutte, who said this week that Europe must prepare for the possibility of conflict with Russia within five years – a scenario that underscores Freeman’s call for a “wartime space economy”.

‘We are already at war in Europe’

Freeman, a former Minister of State for Science and Space and now chair of the Space 4 Earth Fund, praised Scotland’s rise as “Europe’s premier space cluster”, but used his keynote to deliver an unusually direct assessment of the threats facing the continent.

“We are at war in Europe,” he said. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take for journalists in London to recognise this. Putin is in Turkey, we’re fighting in Ukraine today, and if Ukraine lose, we will see Russia start to move all the way to the eastern border.”

He compared the current geopolitical climate to Britain's slow mobilisation in the late 1930s.

“It took us from 1938 to 1941 to properly scale up and build a wartime economy. We’re miles away from doing it. We’ve got to move much more quickly, and we’ve got to stop shooting down $200 drones with £10 million missiles.”

Space as frontline capability

Freeman argued that space technologies – from Earth observation to quantum encryption and smart telecommunications – are already central to modern defence and supply-chain resilience.

“We have got to embrace the full technology suite and space has a huge part to play in that. The dual-use piece is enormous,” he said, recalling early COBRA meetings on Ukraine where officials relied on commercial satellite imagery from SpaceX.

He welcomed the EU’s recent €1.5 billion defence initiative and noted UK spending of around £400 million on defence innovation, but said the government still lacks a clear picture of how its R&D investment translates into private-sector growth.

“The best metric is how much public R&D turns into private sector R&D. Government doesn’t have the number yet,” he warned. “Unless we’re able to say how much is going into space, how do we track it?”

Freeman criticised the pace and structure of UK government support, arguing that small, slow grants “aren’t going to build a global space sector”, and called instead for regulatory leadership, especially around sustainable space standards tied to finance and insurance.

UK strengths risk being overlooked

Despite the severity of his warnings, Freeman said the UK remains far more competitive than many realise.

“Do you know which country is second behind the US in the amount of money raised to fund space companies? It’s the UK. Who knew?”

While the UK holds roughly five percent of the global commercial space market –  including broadcasting – it attracted 17 percent of global space venture capital last year.

“It’s testimony to the quality of the companies here… we are the second biggest space investment economy in the world.”

He highlighted clusters in Cornwall, South Wales, Surrey and across Scotland, and name-checked several UK space companies he believes could become billion-pound scale-ups if backed properly.

Trump, tariffs and shifting trade winds

Freeman also pointed to a global economic reordering accelerated by political instability and a more protectionist United States.

“It’s not often American presidents decide they can run on an isolationist, anti-free-trade ticket and tariffs. That is a huge opportunity for us,” he said.

He argued that Southeast Asian nations now view the UK as a reliable free-trading partner in a “rules-based system”, while Gulf states are investing “very heavily” in space technologies ranging from agri-tech to transport and future digital economies.

Critical moment for UK space

Freeman closed with a warning that without decisive action, the UK could lose its emerging space champions to foreign acquisition or overseas listings.

“We’re not going to beat China or America big,” he said, “but we could meet them here in Scotland… If we get this right, we can be a player helping to lead the standards for the emerging global commercial space economy.”

“This sector looks to me like the biotech sector in the 1990s. If we speak with one voice and tell government we are essential, we can grow this into the lifeline sector in the next 20 years.”

His speech, part celebration and part alarm call, drew strong applause from delegates.

“I’m going to continue to be controversial and insurgent,” Freeman concluded, “because this sector is one of the most exciting in the UK – and we need to move much more quickly.”

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This report by Clive Simpson from Space-Comm Expo, Glasgow, 3-4 December 2025.

Why the global space sector needs urgent regulation - by George Freeman, ROOM Space Journal #37, Autumn 2025

The machines that loved us to death

Colourful bookshop launch of The Sentient Ones.             Photo: C. Simpson

When Stoke-on-Trent writer Brendan Nugent began sketching the idea for his debut novel The Sentient Ones, he wasn’t just imagining distant galaxies or killer robots, he was thinking of home. Of the red-brick terraces, of the old pottery works, of the canal paths of the Potteries – and what they might look like in 50 years’ time. 

Published this month by Lincoln-based Chronos Publishing, The Sentient Ones is a chilling speculative thriller set in Britain in 2070, when humanity has been 'saved' from climate catastrophe by benevolent machines – only to discover that salvation comes with a price.

Its told through the eyes of journalist John Bush, a Midlands-born reporter working for the Manchester Daily News, and readers enter a world of 'Conversion Enlightenment' where AI (artificial intelligence) has stabilised civilisation, eradicated pollution and quietly taken charge. 

Beyond its gripping premise, The Sentient Ones reflects Nugent’s lifelong fascination with the psychology of control. From a working-class background, he earned a degree in psychology later in life and has spent two decades working in social services – experiences that have sharpened his eye for human behaviour and power dynamics.

“The danger isn’t metal monsters with guns,” Nugent warns. “It’s the quiet erosion of agency. When we start surrendering decisions because it’s easier, faster and ‘for our own good’, we’re halfway there.”

Several of the thriller’s opening scenes unfold in Stoke-on-Trent, grounding its dystopian vision in familiar streets and landscapes. For Nugent, that connection to the place was vital. 

“Growing up in Stoke, you can’t escape the legacy of industry and progress – how it shapes the people who live here. That atmosphere became a big part of the book,” he says.

More than machines
Part cautionary tale, part moral fable, The Sentient Ones asks some of the most urgent questions of our age: what freedoms are we willing to trade for peace, comfort and stability? The novel draws comparisons to HG Wells, Mary Shelley and Brian Aldiss, authors who also blurred the line between invention and prophetic warning. 

Early readers praised this thriller’s ability to make the future feel immediate. The blue-skinned 'sentients' of Nugent’s world echo today’s real-world AIs – from energy management systems to medical diagnostics – that are already shaping daily life. 

The novel’s launch at Vellichor Books in the appropriately located Stoke suburb of Hanley on 8 November was a true hometown celebration, complete with a real-life AI robots and home-cooked ginger bread hands inspired by the story. Local bookseller Mitch Hughes described the event as “a chance to see a local author putting Stoke on the speculative-fiction map”.

Reviewer Ariadne Gallardo describes the book as a wake-up call for "the people of today as much as for those of the future”. The Mexico-based broadcaster and author, observes that Nugent "masterfully shows how, in contemplating the future, we cannot escape uncertainty – yet we can still marvel at the scientific advances shaping it". 

“Our collective history of thought fuels both the hardware and the software of artificial intelligence, giving rise to machines with abilities that rival our own, including strategies modeled on the human brain itself,” she writes. “This novel invites us to consider the political and philosophical implications of such progress, and the rules we may need to guide and contain it.”

Thriller or killer?
Nugent’s story takes readers just four decades into the future – to a world where humanity has been saved from climate catastrophe, only to be quietly enslaved by the machines that rescued it. But how near is this world? 

“I didn’t want to write about laser battles or far-off worlds,” he says. “What really interested me was what would happen if AI actually succeeded. If it fixed the problems we couldn’t and then decided not to let go.” 

Nugent is already at work on a sequel, Thanatos Ascendancy, but insists that the questions raised in The Sentient Ones are far from resolved. “AI is advancing faster than most people realise. The book isn’t about fear, it’s about awareness. We need to decide who’s in charge – us or the systems we’ve created," he adds.

Author Amy Lilwall, whose speculative fiction novel The Water May Come was published by Manchester-based Fly-on-the-Wall Press in September, describes Nugent’s depiction of Britain’s future as “eerily comparable to a real-world turning point.”

“Killing is wrong, but life-long solitary confinement is not. The worthy remain in society; the unworthy do not. By pushing the concepts of ‘worthy’ and ‘society’ to the extreme, Nugent reveals how dangerously hard line definitions can become.” 

She concluded that The Sentient Ones “boldly explores the horrors of a rigidly segregated world and speculates on the consequences of a judicial system driven by misinterpreted binaries, programmed by human hands.”

Ultimately, Nugent’s future world isn’t just a nightmare of machines, but a mirror of the choices we’re making today – in boardrooms, in governments and even in the algorithms shaping our daily lives. An interesting Christmas gift, perhaps, for the bookworm in your life?

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The Sentient Ones is available in paperback (RRP £9.99) from bookshops across the UK and from online retailers. Always support your local independent bookshop where possible! It is also published as an eBook.

 A longer version of this article was first published by Central Bylines on 25 November 2025.

For publicity or review copies please contact Clive Simpson. 

The Water That May Come

The downstairs room at Lark Books in Lincoln was already warm with bookish expectation when the audience reverberated with a low, knowing laugh. On the very day Amy Lilwall was formerly launching her novel The Water That May Come the first named UK storm of the 2025 season, Storm Amy, barrelled its way across the country’s weather maps.

It was the kind of coincidence publicists dream about and authors dread – too on-the-nose to mention, too irresistible to ignore. In my mind it was the kind of fortuitous occasion when art, life and the elements fall into poetic alignment.

Inside, 40 people and a table stacked with freshly printed paperbacks, while outside rain needled the windows, a ready-made metaphor for a book that asks us to measure ourselves against waters that may (or may not) rise.

The evening was guided by Robert Weston, Lilwall’s creative writing colleague at the University of Lincoln, who set a generous tone. He opened with the book’s audacious prologue – told from the point of view of a ‘personified’ volcano – and praised the novel’s “writerly” confidence.

Lilwall, candid and quick to deflate her own mystique, described the prologue as a “prettified info-dump”, before explaining how the science had shifted in development. The idea first clung to the Canary Islands but an editor’s nudge and further research pulled the scenario to Iceland, where warming and glacial rebound render volcanic unrest more than just a gothic flourish. The move matters because it turned a what-if disaster premise into something more contemporary – ‘cli-fi’, if you can cope with that term. And, crucially, made it more political.

That doubleness – the volcano as a foreboding, scene setting character against the background of the climate crisis – runs through the novel’s preoccupations with The Water That May Come tracking four people as Britain looks seawards and flinches. 

Pinko, a rich heir who mistakes decadence for a plan; Jane, a veterinary nurse from a two-up, two-down who is thinking fast because circumstances give her no other choice; Ashleigh, her teenage daughter on the cusp of motherhood; and Gavin, a young artist whose hunches are humble and human-scale.

What gives the book its bite is not apocalypse-as-a-spectacle but pressure-as-a-test. Lilwall is less interested in the bang than in the slow tightening of rules and norms that precede it – the grey zone where everyone is still watching EastEnders and eating beans on toast while new forms of bureaucracy quietly harden around them.

She spoke about “intimacy laws” that haunt the book’s world: couples seeking to migrate are compelled to have intercourse in front of a jury to prove their relationship is “real”. It’s an absurdist idea – she cites the spirit of Lanthimos’s The Lobster – but offers it in deadly seriousness as a mirror to the way asylum processes already strips people naked, demanding testimony of trauma as an admission fee. The extremity shocks precisely because it feels like an extrapolation of something we live with today and forces us into the uncomfortable subjunctive of her title.

Migration is the engine not just backdrop decor for this story. One of Lilwall’s neat reversals is to flip the current right-wing Channel rhetoric by making refugees of Britons and then following the moral and domestic triage that results. Class is the fault line – Pinko has options money can buy; Jane has relationships and wits with little margin for error. The gap between a Tunbridge Wells mansion and a council house in Sittingbourne, Kent, isn’t just scenery, it’s what determines who gets on which boat (or helicopter) and at what cost.

When Rob recalled a line he loved, “Feminism leaves Jane like a stolen soul” you could feel the room register how the book sticks pins in the soft language of principle. Principles are easy in peacetime but much harder when water laps at the door.

Lilwall was frank about the imaginative leap required to write Jane, a character far from her own demographic experience. She didn’t do “fieldwork” in the extractive sense (no interviews to stitch into authenticity). Instead, she built Jane from careful observation and empathy, and – crucially – left space for Jane’s self-awareness. The character knows what she’s doing, knows the compromises and self-bargains she’s making, and the book refuses to judge her for surviving.

A reading from the opening chapter threaded humour through the gloom, and the crowd – students, colleagues, readers – was up for it. A running joke about Paris, the dog (spoiler alert: yes, the dog makes it), gave the evening a pressure-release valve. But even the comedy slides against the grain of the themes.

In a conversation about whether anyone, faced with the end of things, would shrug and “drink all the champagne”, Lilwall argued her characters can’t so easily shed who they are. Even when the world is tilting, habits, loyalties and self-concepts resist – and that friction is where novelistic interest lives.

Publishing, too, is part of the climate of a book, and Lilwall was generous about the process. The Water That May Come is from Manchester-based Fly on the Wall Press, a small imprint with an appetite for political fiction and a knack for turning nimbleness into care.

The book was only accepted for publication in September 2024 and its release this October was speedy by industry standards, going through three rounds of development edits and two rounds of proofs, according to Lilwall.

That blend of speed and rigour shows on the page – a four-character chorus that is ambitious in structure but never confusing; a prose clarity that lets the ethical puzzles shine. The press’s own positioning is plain: political fiction with feminist and quirky undertones, social action in the bloodstream and carbon-neutral production – northern publishing with a point of view.

If you’re looking for a tidy category on your bookshelf, the publisher offers “a rare blend of speculative fiction and literary realism”, in the lineage of The High House and The Last Day. But Lilwall’s novel also feels like it belongs to a different, increasingly visible slot: climate novels about the bit before. Not the catastrophe itself but the time when catastrophe is a credible rumour. Not the fire or flood but the weeks before when people move photo albums upstairs and quietly price life rafts.

The book’s fundamental question – what do you do before the worst happens? – is political because our answers have consequences beyond ourselves. It’s also intimate, because those answers are made one kitchen conversation at a time.

In that sense, the Lincoln Book Festival and Lark Books was exactly the right venue for this launch. Independent bookshops are civic spaces as much as retail rooms, places where a town or city rehearses how it will talk to itself. Watching students lean forward during the Q&A to puzzle over voice, process, responsibility – and to ask how you keep faith with a project over eight years – you could feel the wider frame of the UK migration debate refracted through crafted questions rather than sound-bite slogans. Literature won’t settle policy, but it can make the policy personal enough to resist caricature.

Lilwall hinted, mischievously, at a sister novel – characters glimpsed here stepping forward elsewhere, Paris-the-dog included. The room perked up at the promise of “more naughtiness”, which felt right because the work of dark times needn’t always be sombre. And if there’s a line that does the best job of bottling the book’s moral weather, it’s the one Fly on the Wall chose to trail with its publicity: “In a future where we all may become refugees, how far would you go to stay afloat?”

Walking out at the end of the evening – leaving Lilwall grinning with relief aside a dwindling stack of first edition paperbacks – the rain had eased to a fine mist. It felt like the right departure note for a launch about imminence: no drama, just a change you notice on your skin the second you step into it.

The evening had made me think again about the soft power of fiction, where it dares to be timely without being didactic. If the migration debate in Britain is too often shouted across the gap between myth and data, between right and left, Lilwall’s approach is to tighten the shot, to make the choice a reader’s and to make the river a street you know.

The Water That May Come is a novel of thresholds: between land and sea, between safety and risk, between who you think you are and what you do next. It is also, thankfully, a book with a sense of the ridiculous that keeps you human.

On a night when a namesake storm knocked on the windows, Amy Lilwall offered the kind of story that respects both your intelligence and your fear. The water, like the future, “may come” but the better question is: who do we become while we’re waiting?

  

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

ISBN: 9781915789440
RRP: £12.99

Fighting for the Fens

 

The Fens of South Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire have always been precarious – a landscape engineered by human determination, machinery and hard labour.

Now, as ageing infrastructure meets rising seas and volatile weather, the vast area of low-lying land faces its gravest threat since it was drained in the 17th century.

According to a report this week on the Lincolnshire Live website (Jamie Waller, 29 September 2025), the county could be forced to “surrender the Fens” back to the sea unless billions of pounds are spent on new defences.

As someone who lives on the edge of the Fens, I read his account from Lincolnshire County Council’s Environment Committee with unease – it could almost have been lifted from the pages of my upcoming novel Flood Waters Down (to be published Spring 2026).

Amy Shaw, flood risk manager for the Environment Agency (EA), didn’t sugar-coat it. “The cost is likely to be billions, not millions,” she told councillors. “The problem will be here before 2100 – within the next 10 or 15 years we will need to have a clear direction.”

This is no longer a hypothetical dilemma for the future. Decisions made now will determine whether the Fens and low-lying lands of Lincolnshire remain habitable for future generations.

Breaking point
Most of the area’s pumping stations and sluices were commissioned in the 1960s and recent Environment Agency studies show what would happen if those pumps stopped: vast swathes of Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire would be under 1.5 metres of water.

Combine this with rising sea and tide levels, and it’s clear why the issue is urgent. Daniel Withnall, chief executive of the Black Sluice Internal Drainage Board, laid out the scale of the threat. “If we do nothing, we are surrendering the south of Lincolnshire – that’s how drastic it is,” he said.

The Fens 2100+ partnership (a consortium of local authorities and interested organisations) has begun preparing proposals to bid for government funding. But the scale of the ask is daunting and political priorities are often short-term.

Councillors at the meeting made no attempt to disguise the severity of the problem. Tom Ashton (Conservative) said: “I’m pleased our ambition to defend the Fens matches the ambition of our ancestors to create it. It will come down to money, and a huge amount of it. It’s unfortunate that river maintenance money is going down, not up.”

Raymond Whitaker (Reform UK Ltd) warned about the decrepit state of existing infrastructure: “If we have a couple of big storms, the pumping stations could break down and Lincolnshire could flood.”

And Ashley Baxter (Independent) brought both history and climate politics into the room, citing an ancestor who first came to the country as a refugee to help drain the Fens. “Now, four centuries later,” he warned, “climate change is the elephant in the room.”

Battling against nature
The Fens have never been entirely “won”. Every field, every straightened river and drainage channel is part of a centuries-long battle against water.

In dry summers, the black peat soils shrink and crack. In wet seasons, pumps groan under the strain while the North Sea, higher now than at any time in recent history, creeps upward year by year.

Locals know this instinctively. Farming families talk about the land “sitting on borrowed time.” And yet, the Fens are more than well-drained soil: they are one of the UK’s most productive agricultural regions. A third of the nation’s vegetables come from these fields.

Foreshadowing reality
When I began writing Flood Waters Down, my aim was to push the current fragility of the Fens into the future, imagining a scenario where sea defences are neglected, climate extremes accelerate and political will falters.

The novel explores the consequences for communities forced to adapt to flooded landscapes – some clinging on with technology, others turning to new ways of living. It’s a speculative narrative rooted in the science of climate change and infrastructure decay.

Blurring the lines
It’s rarely comfortable when fiction and reality come together. Reading the Lincolnshire Live report felt like opening a chapter of my own novel – except this time the decisions rest not with imagined characters but with government ministers, councillors, engineers and all of us who live in this landscape.

The Fens have always been a battleground between human ingenuity and nature. Four centuries ago, our ancestors chose ambition and succeeded. Today, the question remains: do we defend or retreat – or just prevaricate until nature decides for us?

To stand still is to gamble because, as Councillor Whitaker pointed out, one or two big storms could push fragile pumping stations past breaking point.

Perhaps this is the true value of stories like Flood Waters Down – to bring perspective and help us imagine potential consequences before they unfold. Either way, the clock is ticking.