by Emlyn Rees
‘And how would an Aussie know something like that?’ he asked. ‘Let me guess: you’re a Google-holic, a cybercondriac . . . Your idea of a good night in is trying to match any symptoms you have with a variety of potentially fatal diseases . . .’
‘For your information,’ she said, ‘I don’t even use the net outside the office, but do feel free to look up Australia and snow on Google, because then you’ll see that we do get snow there. So much, in fact, that I used to ski a lot as a kid; and as a teen as well, both there and in France. I even took a job as a chalet girl during my year out after school.’
‘Which is why you know what’s wrong with my hands . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly been busy,’ he said. ‘What with all that and the diving, as well . . . it sounds as if there are a lot of things you used to do . . .’
He hadn’t meant for the comment to be barbed – after all, it was none of his business – but he saw immediately, from the look on her face, that he’d somehow managed to offend her.
She let go of his hand. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said.
‘Thanks for the advice,’ he hurriedly told her. ‘I’ll be careful not to rub.’
Outside, the wind howled, suddenly picking up. The roof creaked, as if the hut might disintegrate at any second and shoot spiralling upwards, like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz.
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ she said.
‘No.’
He walked to the door and took it off the latch. The force of the wind nearly threw him back. Snow rushed in and he forced the door shut.
‘So what’s with the chocolate?’ she asked, tearing the tops off the wrappers with her teeth. ‘Let me guess: they’re so that if we freeze to death, then at least we’ll be found with smiles on our faces.’
‘It was for just in case,’ he said, finding himself staring at his hands once more. If he had frostnip already, he was thinking, then what next?’
‘For just in case of what?’
‘For just in case the storm got worse.’
‘Which it just has.’
‘Right.’
She stared at the chocolate bars. ‘Let me guess,’ she said, ‘these are magic chocolate bars, which are going to turn into a helicopter and lift us out?’
‘No.’
‘That was meant to be a joke,’ she said, handing him a bar and snapping another one in half, before taking a bite.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘but it’s kind of not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that I think we will need to get out of here.’
A snowflake drifted down through the makeshift chimney above their heads and spiralled to the ground.
‘But surely the snow’s going to stop soon?’ she said.
‘The forecast said that once it started, it was going to keep going . . .’
‘Yeah, well, they got their timing wrong on that already,’ she reminded him. ‘So maybe they got the length of the storm wrong, too.’
He could tell just from looking at her that she didn’t realise the seriousness of their circumstances. And why would she? He was only just waking up to it himself. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that she was busy playing tourist, snapping photos of seals, off a group of islands famous for their unusually temperate climate.
But when he’d said Apocalypse earlier, he’d meant it, because he’d never witnessed weather like this before. Now it had got even worse, and weather like this didn’t just blow over. This was a storm and they were stuck in its heart.
‘If the forecast is right,’ he said, ‘and we decide to stick it out here in this hut and the snow doesn’t stop . . . well, we’re already out of firewood, so we’re only going to get colder . . . and then it’ll get dark. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy our chances if we get stuck here overnight.’
The back wall of the hut flexed like a sail as another gust of wind hit it hard. He couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to bring her out to Brayner, even if the snow hadn’t been due until later on, and he’d been mad to bring her to see the seals. This side of the island was uninhabited, what with all of the decent building land above the bay having been used up for the old mine. Even if Ben’s parents had become concerned and raised the alarm, they’d never think of looking here. Not until it was too late.
‘So what are you saying?’ she asked.
He touched his pocket absentmindedly, searching for the cigarette packet that wasn’t there. He could have done with a smoke to ease his nerves, to give him pause for thought before doing what he knew he had to do.
‘We’re going to have to walk out of here,’ he said, making the decision he’d hoped to avoid, ‘And the sooner, the better. That’s what the chocolate’s for, to give us the energy to make it up the cliffs and then across to the other side of the island.’
She stared at his hands. For the first time, he saw a flash of fear in her face. ‘To Green Bay harbour?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. That’s where the nearest houses are.’
She fell silent for a moment, then asked, ‘Is that where the people you brought here this morning live?’
Had he mentioned the earlier trip to her? He couldn’t remember.
‘No, they’re nearly a mile from the village. Why?’ he asked, as a possibility suddenly occurred to him. ‘Do you know them?’
‘No. I . . .’ she seemed to falter. ‘I was just thinking that, if they didn’t live in the village, their house might be nearer.’
‘It is,’ Ben said, ‘but it’s on its own and this storm’s working up to a whiteout. Green Bay harbour’s a much bigger target. I think we should head there.’
‘Then I agree.’
She seemed suddenly relieved, probably, he guessed, that a decision had been made. He was glad she was being positive. The more they worked together, the easier this would be.
‘I suppose we’d better not waste any more time, then,’ she said, standing up and pulling the baseball cap down tightly on her head. She pulled up her hood.
He bit into the chocolate bar, which was already so cold that he could hardly taste it at all. He forced himself to eat, biting down on the waxy chunks.
‘How long will it take us to get there?’ she asked.
‘In normal conditions? Half an hour tops. But in what’s out there . . . who knows? There’s a pathway at the back of the shed which leads up to the cliffs. From there, we head round Solace Hill. Or over it, depending on how the weather breaks. It’s rough ground, so we’ll need to take care, but we should be able to manage it.’
‘Only should?’
‘Will,’ he told her. He could and he would get them through this. He forced what he hoped was a breezy smile on to his face, but it felt all wrong and lopsided and fake. ‘I can go on my own, if you like,’ he said, ‘and get help and come back.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘That would just put more people in danger. I’m coming with you. You’re right. There’s no point in staying put and waiting to freeze. Here,’ she said, just as he was about to open the door. ‘Let me. I’m worried about your hands.’
Before he could stop her, she’d unwound her scarf, snagged it on a nail on the wall, and started tearing it into strips.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘I’ll manage OK.’
Again, he found himself wondering what a woman like this could be doing alone here at Christmas. His thoughts wandered to that country cottage which had never been, the one he’d imagined when he’d stepped back into the hut just now. In spite of their circumstances, in spite of the fact that he knew Kellie would probably rather be anywhere else, he was glad she was here with him now.
‘You’re being very brave about this,’ he said.
She tied some strips round his hands and then set about wrapping her own hands with what was left of her scarf. ‘It’s not like I’ve got much choice. Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
In spite of the th
reat of danger, a childish part of Ben thrilled to the challenge as he reached to open the door, but immediately it became clear that they might not be able to make it to the village at all.
The wind slammed into them, throwing the door wide open as he took it off the latch, cracking it hard against the inside wall of the hut. Kellie cried out in surprise and Ben felt fear rise up inside him.
This wasn’t a game. They were stepping into a storm. Bent almost double, he forced his way outside and pulled Kellie after him.
‘Jesus Christ, Ben!’ she shouted.
He pulled her close to him. ‘Are you sure you want to come?’ he yelled.
She looked terrified, but still she called back, ‘Yes.’
Ben looked to the beach, but the visibility was even worse than when he’d been out here trying to fix the engine. The snow was now falling so thickly and so fast that he could no longer see the sea. He shielded his eyes, but when he looked up, he couldn’t see the top of the cliff which enclosed the bay, even though it couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet above. Snow danced dizzyingly before his eyes.
He dipped his head against the wind. He’d been here before as a child. The path was a good one, a solid one, and he knew the way. He would get them out.
The path zigzagged steeply upwards from the back of the hut, cutting through the gorse and the rock. After five yards, however, it petered out in a swirl of snow.
Kellie grabbed on to Ben and shouted into his ear, ‘Are you serious?’
He pulled her into a huddle.
‘Go first,’ he told her. ‘I’ll catch you if you slip.’
‘What if you slip?’ she shouted back at him. Her eyes were wide with terror, her nose brushed across his.
‘I won’t. Make sure you stay as low as you can. Keep below the wind.’
They broke apart and Kellie set off. Ben followed. With every yard of altitude they gained, the wind grew more fierce. Soon it was pounding at them like fists, threatening to knock them sideways, or tear them backwards, and send them tumbling, spinning back down on to the rocks below.
Ben made the mistake of glancing behind him only once. Even though the snow blurred the extent of the drop, the view back down made his stomach lurch. He imagined them both falling, and pictured blood on rocks. No one would find them for days.
He fixed his eyes on Kellie, who was swaying as she stumbled onwards, step by arduous step, over wet stone and sliding mud and snow. He half-expected her to fall with each step, or that her expensive boots would give out, but they didn’t. She kept on moving. They were approaching the top of the cliff now. Another two minutes and they’d be clear.
That’s when she slipped. Her jacket billowed and swelled like a sail in a gale as a yowling gust of wind rushed upwards, raising her like driftwood on a wave. She cried out as she fell back on to Ben and, for an instant, he thought she was gone.
He heard her scream.
Somehow he managed to get hold of her jacket and keep hold. He rocked backwards as if he might keel over himself. Then, momentarily, the wind dropped, and in that tiny pocket of calm, Ben managed to pull Kellie in tight. She clung on to him as if he was a tree, as if he was rooted to this mountainside and couldn’t possibly fall. And suddenly that was how he felt. He wouldn’t fall, not with her in his arms. He tried to remember the last time he’d held on to someone else this tightly, but it was like chasing a drunken memory. Slowly, they sank to their knees and crouched there together, steady once more.
She pressed her face to his. He stared into her eyes. ‘Are you OK?’ she shouted.
‘We need to keep going,’ he said.
She nodded and let go. They stood again and they trudged on, upwards, into the wind.
It was only when they reached the top of the path and the land began to flatten out that Ben noticed his racing heartbeat. He became aware of his breath, too, coming fast and short, fast and short, like a piston on a steam train, racing down the track. Kellie stumbled on, away from the edge of the cliff, inland, towards a thick group of firs. He put his arm around her and they knelt again.
‘Thanks,’ she yelled into his ear, once she’d got her breath back. ‘For saving my life.’ Her face was red like a burn.
‘You wouldn’t be in danger in the first place,’ he told her, ‘if it wasn’t for me.’
She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘I’m so cold – but we did it!’ Inside her hood he could see her eyes shining with elation, and with pride.
He shouted, ‘Let’s go.’
Instinctively linking their arms together, they stood, and began the walk inland.
Five minutes went past, then ten, then fifteen, and more – and still the snow swirled all around. The visibility had become so poor now that bushes and trees lurched out at them from the snowstorm without warning. The world was a churning mass of white and grey.
Ben couldn’t tell where the ground ended and the sky began. His eyes were sore and streaming, but whenever he went to wipe at them with the back of his bound hands, he remembered Kellie’s warning about frostnip and made himself hold back. His forehead ached from the cold, like he’d been punched. His skin felt stretched and his limbs had hardened like marble. His knuckles had locked.
The ground was rugged and treacherous. He hoped Kellie felt better than he did. Her strength had amazed him. She’d said nothing since they’d set off again, but she hadn’t slowed down once. She’d fallen twice in the last few minutes and he’d fallen once himself, but they’d picked themselves up without protest each time.
Ben’s legs ached and his breathing was shallow. He thought of all the cigarettes he’d smoked, and wished he’d quit before today. He remembered his dream about being in a burrow, about watching that TV, and he remembered his interpretation of it, that he was wasting his life, and his resolution to remedy the situation, by getting more involved. Well, he was involved now, wasn’t he? Right up to his neck.
It was like somebody was playing a great big joke on him. It seemed ludicrous to him that they were battling through the countryside, huddled against the wind, like a scene from an old Christmas card. But where was Bing Crosby? Where was the welcoming Disney stranger, opening the cottage doorway and inviting them in to sit by the fire?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in the modern world. Never in the UK. Kellie had been right: it was like The Day After Tomorrow out here. It did look like the global climate system had gone into meltdown. Fucking global warming, Ben thought. Fucking shitty governments and multinationals. Right about now, he was meant to be sitting in the pub with Mick, sinking a pint and flicking up dry roast peanuts and catching them in his mouth. If he came out of this alive, he was going to sign up to the Green Party for life.
What made matters even worse was that he’d lost his bearings. By his reckoning, they should have reached Green Bay harbour by now, but they hadn’t. The snow had devoured the landscape. There was a little boy in Ben that wanted to cry out and break down, but he couldn’t. What would Kellie think? How would he be able to look at himself in the mirror again? Or ever look at her?
She stumbled and fell for a third time.
‘Come on,’ he shouted, helping her up.
‘I’m tired,’ she called out. ‘How much further?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But –’
He pulled her up against an upturned oak tree which loomed out at them from the whiteout. The depression in the earth made by its exposed, snow-covered roots formed a natural windbreak and they crouched together inside.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ she demanded.
He pulled her in close. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this . . .’
‘What?’
‘We’re lost.’
The wind hissed so loud, they might as well have been in a snake pit.
‘Lost? You’re joking, right?’
‘No.’ He felt sick, ashamed. He’d done the one thing he’d not wanted to: he’d let Kellie down.
‘B
ut we can’t be,’ she said. ‘You come here all the time.’
‘No. I haven’t been, not for years.’
‘For years? But – but it’s your job.’
‘No,’ he told her, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. I don’t even live on the islands. Not any more.’
She stared at him, horrified. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I live in London. In Kentish Town.’
‘Kentish Town!’
She pulled back from him. ‘You told me you were the ferryman.’
‘And I am – but only this week. My father’s got a bad back. He’s the real ferryman. I’ve just been helping him out. I work in Soho. In the media.’
‘You’re a fucking liar!’ she shouted.
And he was. He was a fraud and now he’d been caught out. He’d never meant it to come to this. When he’d taken her out on the boat and she’d assumed that running a boat taxi was what he did full time, he’d let her go on believing it, because it had been fun. She’d seen what she’d wanted to. A man of the sea. A master of the elements. And it had only been a white lie, after all. His father did run the boat taxi, and it was a trade Ben had grown up around. He’d been going to set her straight about who he really was, about what he really did. He just hadn’t got round to it yet.
But this joke wasn’t funny any more.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘For everything.’
‘It’s too fucking late!’ she screamed and, for a second, he thought she was going to lash out.
Then she seemed to deflate right there in front of him.
He gripped her shoulders. He couldn’t handle seeing her like this. He had to make this right.
‘I will get us out of here,’ he promised her.
He stared into the tunnel of her hood. Her eyes were slits. She looked nothing like the woman he’d seen walking along the Old Quay only hours before.
‘Then do it,’ she told him.
Five more minutes. That’s what he gave them. Then they’d have to stop, and find somewhere – anywhere, a cave or another fallen tree – to dig in and try and sit this out. He forced himself not to panic. He prayed that it wouldn’t come to that.
They set off once more across the white landscape. Keep straight, he told himself. If you keep straight, then you might just find a landmark.
