Before lunch the next day Morgan surfaced and said he felt better. He looked it, too; more alert, his face not as drawn, younger. The thought crossed my mind for the first time that Morgan was reasonably attractive, his features actually not at all bad under the short scrubby beard and unkempt hair; his cool assessing eyes, a mouth both firm and sensuous, those hard muscles; if the clichéd tough guy type seen in a thousand movies was your bag, here was the real thing. He went to the windows and scanned the view, and asked me where we were. When I changed the bandage, the cut was less red and swollen, its edges closer together as if the fight was going out of it. I cleaned the area and taped it up again.
“I got these for you.” I dumped a selection of men’s sweaters, tee shirts and jeans from Peacocks in front of him on the counter. I’d chosen an assortment of sizes. Clothes are one of the easiest things to find, which is lucky as washing and drying anything bigger than underwear is a huge task. It’s simpler to throw them away.
He shuffled the pile warily, and looked up at me through his tangle of hair as if there was some catch. “I’ll pay you back before I move on.”
“I can always do with more firewood if you’re offering. As long as you don’t overdo it and open up the cut just as it’s healing. You need to take it a bit easy. There’s a group forage all day tomorrow if you want to come and help.”
“I’ll take a look.”
Ice Diaries ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 5
Solar tulips and a Tardis
A heavy weight of misery was waiting to pounce when I woke Saturday morning. The 5th May is David’s birthday. He would be twenty-six today. We celebrated his twenty-fifth together, just as people started getting sick; it seems a long, long time ago. There is a remote chance he is still alive, but I don’t think so. He’d have come looking for me if he was.
David. Tall, skinny, dark eyed, laughing, intellectual, words spilling out of him in an effort to keep pace with his mind, a doctor fascinated by his work, hopeless with anything mechanical, the last person to get involved in a fight; my sort of man. We had barely a year together. I found the man I loved, and I lost him. Thinking about him is so depressing, I do it as little as possible. I keep the photo of him on holiday in Kos – the solitary one I have left – in a wooden box in a drawer, and only take it out on his birthday, the anniversary of the day we met, Christmas, New Year’s Eve and my birthday. He looks so happy, sitting on the sand in the golden light of the sunset. It makes me smile, but I always end up in floods of tears.
Morgan had gone off somewhere, rather to my relief, so I ate breakfast alone, feeling glum. It was lucky I was meeting the others for the group forage mid-morning; it would take my mind off David. I’ve never told them about him, not even Claire. I couldn’t bear their sympathy.
When Morgan reappeared just before it was time to go he was stripped down to jeans and a tee shirt with dark patches of sweat on it. He’d found the gym in the basement and been working out with weights by candlelight. Ten minutes later after he’d changed we set off in a light snowfall, me wearing my old black ski suit and holding the rope of my roof box trailer, which slid along behind like a faithful hound. I told him about the excavation on the way. He listened, pacing beside me without saying much, scanning the area as watchful as a commando on patrol expecting trouble.
Nearly a year ago, we’d researched and discussed the best place to dig. Old Street west of the roundabout won, as it has a chemist, a clothes shop, Argos and a supermarket. Nowhere else nearby had as useful a mix close together. Even Nina agreed without arguing. Then we started digging. We kept at it for two days of gruelling slog before we came to our senses. Paul turned up on day three with a piece of paper covered in figures and diagrams. He’d worked out we would need a trench two metres wide and over twenty metres long to accommodate stairs reaching to ground level. Approximately 420 cubic metres of snow would need to be removed, meaning that if seven of us shifted two cubic metres each per day, it would take sixty days. But he doubted we could move that much; just getting the snow out of the excavation would get more and more laborious the deeper we went. We’d spend most of our time hauling buckets of snow up the stairs.
We stood around, crestfallen. Paul diffidently suggested a better idea would be to break into the block of flats above the shops, at the western edge of the building where a sort of tower sticks out of the surface, find a way down to the ground floor, and from there, work from shop to shop, making a short tunnel through the snow where necessary. There was a long thoughtful pause while each of us wondered why we hadn’t come up with this two days ago. When we investigated, we found a door leading to stairs which ran right the way down to another emergency door at pavement level, next to the Co-operative supermarket.
Still, once the plan had been put into action, we entered a new era of comparative luxury. Before, we relied on supplies from homes we broke into, which was a lot more hit and miss. Now, I explained to Morgan, we just do that independently, as an extra, and to give us stuff to trade.
“So who’s in charge? Who makes the decisions?”
“We all do. We decide things together.”
“And you reckon that works?”
“Mostly. Especially if Nina’s not there. Archie, that’s her husband, is fine on his own, but if she’s there he generally feels he has to support her.”
One of the few times he hadn’t supported her was when she got everyone to a meeting without Greg, and said he shouldn’t have a vote. None of us agreed to this. Archie said gently that he could understand her viewpoint, but felt one person, one vote was fair; we were all in this together. And honestly, Greg’s views are generally as sensible as anyone else’s.
We’d arrived at the entrance. Before we went down the stairs, I pointed out the flat roof of the block of flats above the shops we were about to visit, which sticks out less than a metre above snow level. We cleared this of snow, and painted a huge sign, white on the black surface, saying HELP PLEASE RESCUE US. This was one of the first things we did as a group. The idea is to attract the attention of any aircraft flying overhead, though it seems obvious to me things are in a mess down south, and rescuing UK survivors is not high on the agenda, if indeed it figures at all. Still, the others think it’s a possibility; one which helps to give our current life the illusion of transience. We have a rota and go in turns each morning to sweep the snow off, a job that takes twenty minutes and seems particularly futile when it’s actually snowing and the letters get covered up even as you clear them. Yellow paint, or red, might have been a better choice. But we all go on doing it faithfully. It’s a habit now.
Morgan raised his eyebrows. Now and then when the light catches his eyes you can see they are ice blue like a sled dog’s. “When was the last time you saw a plane or helicopter?”
“Nearly a year ago, when they were evacuating. Before we had the sign painted.”
“Bit of a waste of effort, then.”
“There’s a chance a plane will fly over. You never know.”
“There’s a chance Father Christmas and his reindeer will fly over too, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Morgan was right, of course. We’re wasting our time. Rescue won’t come.
I led the way into the tower, torch at the ready, though I didn’t need it yet. Whoever gets there first lights tea lights in glass holders positioned at intervals down the stairs with a communal Bic lighter. It’s there because none of us wanted to use up our own matches or lighters, though we all carry them. (Sometimes people forget to bring the lighter to the top again, and the first arrival the next time gets ratty and holds an inquisition to find out who was responsible. Most of us can be quite petty on occasion, I think because of the strain of our isolated circumstances.) Today they were lit, meaning someone was already there. We went down the eight flights of narrow staircase, each darker than the last, snow pressed against the windows. At the halfway mark we passed my favourite notice, written by a now defunct Nina-type, asking the per
son who had been spitting into the chute hopper to desist as it could spread TB, also the person who had been smoking on the stairs to stop this practice with immediate effect. At every other floor doors lead to a lobby with lifts, and long dingy corridors that access the flats. I’ve broken into all of them over time, looking for a go-cart or other useful items.
It’s strange when you get to street level as it’s so very different from how things used to be. The shops are dark, enclosed and claustrophobic. The lack of light makes it seem even colder than on the surface. I wear a small torch on a chain round my neck which is surprisingly effective, lighting my feet so I can see where I’m treading. We passed through an emergency door to a passage hollowed out of compacted snow, and stepped into the supermarket via a large hole smashed in the plate glass. Dim lights glimmered at the back, and we went towards them. Rats chirped and squeaked, skittering away from our torchlight. At the entrance to the stockroom Sam was stacking boxes ready to take out. A candle in a lantern enabled her to see what she was doing. She looked up and smiled at me.
“Hi Tori.”
“Hi, how’s it going?”
Morgan had wandered off, poking round the displays (he had his own torch) and now he joined us. His gaze went to Sam, and stayed there. For a moment I saw her through his eyes. Petite, curvy, blonde and immaculate in a white ski suit, she glowed against her surroundings like a Hollywood star on a post-apocalyptic film set. She’s the only one of us who bothers with her appearance on a daily basis. Me, I stick with basic hygiene and practical clothes except for our parties once a month when I make a bit of an effort. Sam is pretty, and makes the most of it. She streaks her hair with Charlie’s help, always wears makeup, and puts polish on her nails. At home she even wears skirts and high heels. You have to admire her attitude.
Morgan moved in like a leopard who’s spotted a gazelle. “Hi. I’m Morgan. Who are you?”
“Sam. Greg told us all about you. Including your tattoo. He was very taken with your tattoo.”
“Any time you want to check it out for yourself, you have only to ask …”
Sam batted her mascara-ed eyelashes. “I might just do that one day. We have to make our own entertainment round here.”
“I’m in favour of that.”
“Are you coming to the ceilidh tomorrow?”
“Is that an invitation?”
Charlie materialized in the doorway, dumped a couple of boxes on top of the pile and put a proprietorial arm around Sam’s shoulders. She gave Morgan a straight look. “You’re Morgan,” she told him. “I’m Charlie. I see you’ve met my other half.”
Charlie couldn’t be more of a contrast to Sam. She is thickset, with cropped hair, and noticeably lacks any form of personal vanity. She used to be a research assistant to a Labour MP whose name didn’t mean anything to me, but she said he was a rising star. She’s hardworking, bright, and devoted to Sam whom she spoils rotten. Watching Morgan’s reassessment of the situation made me grin irrepressibly. He shot me a glance and I tried to straighten my face.
“What are you collecting?” I asked. “I forgot to look at the list.”
The list is sellotaped to the wall at the bottom of the stairwell. Now and then it falls off because of the damp. We worked it out together ages ago, as soon as we’d accessed the shops. It’s designed to make us more methodical by focusing our group forages on basics we all need, and stop us being distracted by inessentials. We can go after those on our own.
“The list says dry goods,” Charlie said. “But the rats have got what’s left of them. It’s a real mess.”
Morgan raised his eyebrows. “Might have been a smart move to shift the stuff the rats could get at first.”
“Some of us wanted to.” Charlie sounded defensive. “Personally, I thought we should come every day till we’d cleared things like biscuits, spaghetti, rice, and flour. They’d be safe in our homes. None of us have rats.”
“Why didn’t you then?”
“Me and Sam and Tori were outvoted. The others thought we should take a mixture of things, just in case something happened to stop us getting down here.”
“You could have come on your own. For fuck’s sake, it’s the end of the world, and you’re counting votes like you’re a borough council.”
Charlie bridled. “We happen to think a democracy is fairer. We all work together. That’s got to be more efficient than each of us doing our own thing.”
Sam chimed in. “Anyway, why should we do it if the others won’t? It’s not much fun, lugging boxes about alone in the dark with the rats under twenty metres of snow.”
Morgan shrugged and walked away. Charlie turned her back on him and said to me, “We’re doing mainly tins and a few toiletries, as we haven’t done them for a while.”
Greg, Paul and Archie turned up together, and we stood around chatting before we started a relay to move boxes to the surface. Greg’s only qualification is a Level 2 NVQ in Warehousing and Storage, which sounds more useful in our current situation than it is. He’s told me so much about the units he took I can recite them; Maintaining Hygiene Standards in Handling and Storing Goods, Moving Goods in Logistics Facilities, Maintaining Health, Safety, and Security in Logistics Operations etcetera etcetera. If unimaginable circumstances called for me to take that exam I’d ace it.
Morgan had gone missing, and we weren’t sure if he was going to help or not. He reappeared lugging a car roof top box from Argos, and asked if there was any objection to him taking it. We said no. They were one of the first things we took, and we all had our own. I gave him a hand carrying the box up the stairs. It was a lot heavier than I expected. At the top I plonked my end down and said,
“Okay, what have you got in there?”
“Supplies. Stuff I need. I thought it would save time not to have it approved by the People’s Democratic Dictatorship.”
I hadn’t expected him to reference Mao Tse-Tung, but he had a point. If he’d said he wanted a lot of things, there’d have been a discussion; whatever conclusion it came to completely pointless, as there was nothing to stop him coming on his own and taking what he liked. It didn’t belong to any of us, after all.
Below ground again, we got organized. Greg, Paul and Sam brought boxes of tins to the foot of the stairs, Morgan took them up two flights to Charlie, she took them two flights up to me and so on. We’re all pretty fit because the life we lead is strenuous. Charlie prides herself on being as strong as any of the men, and this is probably true amongst our lot; but Morgan was in a different league. He could carry two cases to our one. Working next in the line to him and trying to keep up half killed her. I didn’t worry if the boxes stacked up on my landing, but for Charlie it was a matter of pride not to fall behind. Her face got redder and sweatier and her breath shorter till by the time we stopped for lunch she could hardly speak.
While we were eating perched on the Co-op’s steps, Morgan told me he’d got things to do that afternoon and wouldn’t be staying. Clearly, he’d failed to Develop Effective Working Relationships with Colleagues in Logistics Operations like the rest of us. Archie came over and sat down next to me to eat his tin of beans and pork sausages. With his hair badly cut by Nina he looks like a cheerful medieval saint from an illuminated manuscript. Archie has a particularly innocent smile that beams goodness. He held out his hand, and after a moment Morgan shook it.
“Welcome. It’s nice to see a new face among us. I expect Tori’s warned you I’m a God botherer by profession. I don’t suppose you’re a believer … ?”
Morgan shook his head.
“Tori will tell you you needn’t be worried I’m going to try to convert you or anything alarming, but if you ever want a private chat – any subject, doesn’t have to be God – and think I could be useful, I’m always available.”
“Right,” said Morgan. Archie smiled again and chatted for a while about other things. He’s a sensitive soul and never intrudes where he feels he’s not wanted. Morgan didn’t speak to anyone else during the
break except Greg who did most of the talking; Paul tried to strike up a conversation with him but Morgan’s responses were so brief and unforthcoming it petered out. After Morgan left Greg asked where he was and I said he’d gone. I could see the others thought it a bit off. An extra pair of hands had speeded things up. Charlie muttered, “Typical,” looking pleased. Later, when we were working side by side, she brought the subject up again.
“Where did he come from?”
“He hasn’t said.”
“Honestly, Tori, why haven’t you asked him? He could be anyone. He could be a serial killer escaped from prison.”
I realized I’d been put off by Morgan’s guarded manner; I’d respected his obvious desire not to talk about himself. This was absurd. Not that he’d tell me if he was a murderer. It’s the sort of thing you’d keep to yourself.
“I’ll ask him tonight.”
He strolled back again late afternoon and took his place in the line, everyone except Greg and Archie looking askance at him.
By seven o’clock we’d got everything to the top and decided to call it a day. The wind was getting up, blowing a light powdering of snow into the sheltered corner where we sort the stuff into shares. My gaze travelled over the motley assortment arranged in our six roof box trailers. As we couldn’t stick to the list we’d strayed from the straight and narrow, and all grabbed things we wanted. Apart from the tins of food which we’d split as usual, Paul had got loads of nappies for the baby and toys for Gemma, Sam had hair spray, perfume and what looked like the chemist’s entire stock of highlighting kits, and I’d gone overboard for solar lights; several sets of upright ones to line the edge of my balcony, strings of stars plus twelve in the shape of tulips. Greg had added to his Doctor Who collection with an Expanding Tardis Tent, and Archie was highly delighted with a pair of National Geographic Porro Prism Binoculars for star gazing. Charlie had half a dozen cushions and two throws chosen by Sam.
Ice Diaries Page 4
