‘Options?’ Brady asked quietly.
‘Well, these people are definitely not friendly, mun. Why the hell did they shoot first and ask questions later? It all depends on how many they are; what weaponry they have and how tough they are? I don’t think we are going to talk our way out of this. They'll want our guns at the very least, and I wouldn't give you tuppence for our chances after that! We need a way out.’
Suddenly, a strident voice caught their immediate attention.
‘Throw your weapons out, and then you follow, one by one with your arms raised.’
Brady and Ross exchanged glances.
‘Guess you got it right, Ross. What next?’
‘Well, I not giving anyone my fookin’ gun. No gun – no chance! So, I'm going out of the door over there to find a better firing position, whilst you stall them with talk. I'm going now!’ The SAS man wasn’t one for pontification.
Ross scrambled across the floor, leaving his pack, skis and poles on the floor. He opened the door, slid outside into the corridor and stood up. He heard Brady’s voice as he ran towards the stairs to the next floor up.
‘What do you want?’ shouted Brady.
‘Just come out and we won't harm you,’ came the impatient reply.
‘Who are you? What do you want with us?’
‘I won't tell you again, come out NOW, or it will go very bad for you!’
Brady paused for effect and delay.
‘We are police officers. You are making a big mistake messing with us. This is a Martial Law situation you know?’ he bluffed.
‘I’ve already told you, don’t argue with me. Just come out! I have got Tear Gas out here and if you do not throw out your weapons within sixty seconds, I will give the order to fire it into the building.’
‘Hell,’ thought Brady, ‘where are you, Ross?’
The seconds ticked by and the threats continued.
‘You’ve got ten seconds to make a move, chum. This is no idle threat.’
‘Come on, Ross, come on, for God’s sake hurry up.’ Brady was starting to panic.
‘OK, you asked for it,’ shouted the assailant in the snow.
At which, a series of shots rang out.
Brady rolled into the corner bracing himself for the choking gas to come sailing through the window. He lay there for thirty seconds and yet there was still no gas attacking his eyes and lungs – only a series of muffled shouts from outside.
‘Get back, get back! Stevo’s been shot. And Yardie! Quick, get back to the shop. Leave them – that bloke up there is a fucking nutter – he’ll shoot us all.’
Brady slithered to the window and looked out with great caution.
It was a sight for sore eyes. Two men lay face down in the snow, blood spattered around them. Six others were fleeing in complete disorder towards the Waitrose store. A familiar voice floated down from a window above.
‘You alright, Andy?’
‘Thank God,’ Brady sighed, and leaned out of the window, looking up to find Ross perched two floors up, pointing his rifle at the fleeing intruders.
‘I'm coming down now, Andy. Cover me until I get there. Time we got out of here.’
Two minutes later Ross appeared in the doorframe with a huge grin stretching from ear to ear.
‘Did you kill them?’ Brady enquired with alarm and concern.
‘Nope, only winged them, like. But a gunshot wound is a serious issue and without proper medical assistance they are up ‘Shit Street’; but they started it Andy – we can't afford to piss about out here.’
Brady eyed him closely and was forced to concur.
‘I suppose you're right, Ross. It's just that I'm sort of new to this kind of thing.’
‘Well, with all due respect, you’d better get used to it pretty bloody fast. You might have to save our arses next time and you can't afford to hesitate, mun. It's them or us.’
Brady felt justifiably admonished as they quickly gathered up their kit and decided not to exit the building the same way they came in. Hence, they scuttled back out into the corridor and started to work their way towards the rear of the block – which in reality was the front. Eventually, after trying several doors, they discovered a room with a window through which they could make their escape.
‘I’ll lead for a while,’ suggested Ross, as he reset his GPS and took further control of the situation. He understood that Brady was in mild shock.
‘Just keep your eyes peeled as we move away from here. I don’t think they’ll follow – I scared the shit out of them – bloody amateurs. However, we need to reach the target before it gets dark – which should be easy as it's not even midday yet. We’ll clear the area, set up a safe house for the night-stop, complete a full recce and get to the specific job in hand tomorrow morning at first light.’
Brady nodded acknowledgement and silently thanked his lucky stars that Ross was on his team.
Without him, he’d probably be lying dead in that room by now.
And Chloe’s fate would be sealed.
Day 24
Tuesday 7th January
Walthamstow – East London
When the Townsends finally moved into the ‘bunker’, as they all now affectionately referred to the cellar at No.50 - it was on Friday, the twentieth of December, and the snowstorm had continued unabated since the previous Sunday evening.
The family had lived above ground in the main house for as long as possible, using gas and electricity until the supply was cut off. They used logs and coal for the open fire in the lounge until access to the supply in the open-ended lean-to became too difficult. They spent their last days in the house transferring clothing and supplies to the ‘bunker’ and trying to make it as comfortable as possible. The last two nights spent in the upper floor bedrooms were reasonable enough but they all appreciated that the time up there was limited. The rest of the time was used cooking some of the frozen food and transferring it to the cool boxes in the cellar. Les had planned to install a generator but had not got round to it – it was one of the more expensive conversions which had been delayed until a future, unspecified date.
They tried tuning-in the two way radio, powered by battery, with an external aerial which ran up inside the air vent piping and onto the roof. They picked up no UK radio broadcasts, so scanned the dials for European stations, which were full of news about the weather. They soon came to understand that the storm had cut off the country and that the infrastructure of British society was all but gone after the first week of snowfall. In fact, Les considered it to be so depressing that he limited listening to broadcasts to twice a day – which, as a spin off, also helped sustain battery life.
By the Friday afternoon, they were ready to move down to the ‘bunker’ full time and looked forward excitedly to their first night in bunk-beds. Of course, they weren’t prohibited from moving back upstairs – and indeed did so for several days – to use the WC, cook on the camping gas stoves, let Bracken run around and just take a few minutes of personal time away from the others. Living in such cramped conditions was limiting and after a week or so, irritabilities began to fray a few tempers, so a few minutes upstairs looking out of the windows at the snow soon cooled these minor frustrations.
Sue soon became sole arbiter, judge and dispenser of justice amongst the group, settling minor disputes and knocking heads together, metaphorically, when necessary.
However, all in all, the first ten days passed without major incident, so by Christmas Day and the New Year the family had become somewhat resigned to their fate. They were upset and discouraged by news from Europe filtering in through the radio, but all truly believed every morning that the snow would stop ‘today’. Of course, it didn’t stop until Day 22 – the fifth of January and it was Chloe, on an early morning foray to the second floor that saw the first rays of sunshine filtering down from the attic rooms.
The roof had collapsed in two places on New Year’s Eve, but no-one heard it as a fair amount of alcohol had been consumed in t
he ‘bunker’. When Les learned of the breach, he and the boys made a detailed reconnaissance and decided that there was nothing to be done. Naturally, issues concerning water ingress to the lower floors would arise when the thaw set in, but at present it didn’t change anything. He had looked across the road at neighbouring properties and discovered that most had suffered similar fates.
He secretly wondered about the destinies of his neighbours, but since he was powerless to help them, he put these concerns to the back of his mind and concentrated on keeping his own clan safe.
The men were all now sporting beards and the girls were complaining about their hair not being washed. Sue commented that she had read that if one didn’t shampoo hair for an extended period, then the natural oils produced by the body would keep their locks shiny and grease free. The three younger women were not convinced and every now and then, one would brave the cold upstairs and rinse their hair in tepid soapy snow melt which they had created in the warmth of the cellar.
In fact, water was not a real issue. Les’s prime duty was to source snow and transfer it – ball by ball – into the main tank, where it slowly melted into the supply. He did the same with the toilet cassette header tank, so restrictions were not necessary. The house WC was defunct by Day 10, so Les vetoed its use as he didn’t want disease to break out.
Usually they all slept until 9am and spent the day completing chores detailed by Les and Sue, which they published every evening for the next day. Many of the jobs were petty and had been invented to occupy hands and minds as a distraction from their woes. It worked fairly well – as Les also allocated time for family games, reading, completing personal diaries, (which he insisted upon for everyone) visits upstairs and ‘conjugal’ time if necessary. As you would expect, the youngsters were mildly embarrassed at first, and chants of ‘we know where you’re going’ didn’t help. However, they all settled down after a while into a natural rhythm.
The atmosphere in the cellar was good, due mainly to the excellent ventilation system installed by Les. They didn’t need the heating on all the time as seven bodies created their own heat, and the bunker seemed to maintain a steady temperature of around eighteen degrees centigrade, which was comfortable but not stifling. Supplies of consumables were ample but Les was starting to become mildly concerned by early January about gas supplies. However, when Chloe came running down the stairs on the fifth of January – Day 22 - he relaxed somewhat, expecting imminent rescue.
Of course, like most survivors buried in their domestic tombs some thirty feet beneath the surface, he had completely misread the real state of affairs. Immediate rescue was not an option and he should have recognised the impact of thaw, flood and the inevitable delay. Nevertheless, he had made one significant pro-active attempt at contact with the outside world. Every day, for fifteen minutes at noon, he used his transmitter to broadcast on random frequencies – VHF, UHF and HF. He was relying on somebody on mainland Europe picking up a transmission and recording their position and status. However, day after day he received no reply and by the fifth of January had restricted his transmissions to the two emergency frequencies – UHF 243.0 MHz and VHF 121.5 MHz. And it was on the UHF frequency that a helicopter on a photo-recce sortie picked up his brief broadcast at ten minutes past midday on the fifth. The pilot noted the short and fading message, passed the information on at his debrief in France, and from there it went to the British HQ in Brussels where it passed across Ann Fletcher’s desk later that afternoon.
It was at that point she recognised the significance of the information and when she saw Brady in the audience at RNeth AF Volkel the following day, she hatched the plan to rescue her daughter.
Day 24
Tuesday 7th January
Tesco Superstore – Brighton
The initial elation stirred by the successful overthrow of the ‘committee’ soon wore off as the ‘inmates’ began to fully comprehend their plight. The dramatic revelation by Patric that he and Joanie were leaving had left them leaderless and plagued with inertia. Nobody seemed to want to grasp the nettle and start to organise a new regime. Of course, many of the group were weak with hunger and cold and could barely look after their own individual needs, let alone take on responsibility for others. In the end, Patric had to give them a hefty push in the right direction.
The first job was to expel those ‘guards’ who would not allow themselves be absorbed into the new collective. They were given warm clothing, food and Camping Gaz kits and one last chance to compromise. Not one of the four thugs changed his mind and they all departed the shop cursing and gesticulating obscenely and wildly.
‘Perhaps it's best they left,’ observed Patric wryly.
The two ex-committee members were a different matter. The woman was a hysterical wreck who had clearly suffered a mental and physical breakdown and could not possibly be released to fend for herself. She was given medical attention and sedated by one of the nurses within the group, and was now resting quietly.
The male was unrepentant. Although Patric imagined that he might like to stay, his pride and fear of retribution from ‘inmates’ overcame his dread of what might lay beyond the shop doors. He was kitted out as the others, and made a sorrowful sight as he trudged out into the sunshine. He didn’t look back, but Patric felt a shiver run up his spine as he felt sure that their paths would cross again.
Patric then turned to the assembled gathering and made some remarks and suggestions.
‘Joanie and I are still leaving tomorrow morning and nothing will change that.’
‘Can we come with you, Patric,’ pled a voice at the front of the crowd.
Patric was polite but firm in response.
‘Absolutely not! Joanie and I will not be responsible anymore for anyone but ourselves. We don’t know what's waiting out there, and we may have to face serious and dangerous situations. I'm sorry, but we go alone!’
The ‘inmates’ grew silent, so Patric continued.
‘You need to get organised and quickly! You must elect leaders from amongst you and carry out certain tasks with some urgency. For example, you need to complete a thorough stock check to find out exactly how much food remains and therefore how long you can last out. Please don’t expect help to come knocking on the door today, tomorrow or even next week. For a start, nobody even knows that you are here!’
This statement brought gasps and a general hubbub as people slowly cottoned on.
‘It is more likely that the five people you expelled will return mob handed and attempt to re-take the store. Just think about that option for a moment!’
A new type of silence permeated the space – one laced with fear and trepidation.
‘Tell us what to do, Patric. We need your help.’
‘That's what I'm trying to do.’ Patric was losing patience, but continued as calmly as he could. ‘Now, some of you may baulk at my next suggestion, but you could do worse than allow the two ‘ex-committee’ members to help out in a major way. I believe that they can now be trusted - and I owe my life to their prompt action.’
Several individuals voiced their objections, whilst others nodded and agreed with Patric.
‘Remember, they know the real condition of the food stocks and are clearly the fittest pair amongst you. By all means, supervise their movements, but they can help you – I'm sure of it.’
Patric looked down at his hands and noted with some alarm that he was shaking uncontrollably – probably with delayed shock – and decided that he needed some immediate time out.
‘Look,’ he announced with increasing frustration in his tone, ‘if you are going to survive then you must shake off this bloody lethargy and get on with the job in hand. Elect some leaders, check the stocks and prepare to defend yourselves. Now, if you don’t mind, Joanie and I need some time to recover from this morning’s ordeal.’
At this he stood up and Joanie grabbed his arm, guiding him to an area near the back of the shop, which had a pair of comfy armchairs that the guards had mon
opolised. He slumped down as Joanie pulled the other one across the floor to be next to her husband. She entered into a one way conversation, prattling passionately:
‘Patric, are you going to be alright? How can we leave if you are suffering from shock like this? You didn’t even discuss this with me! If we go out into the cold, it can only get worse. We certainly can't leave tomorrow. Why don’t we leave in two or three days – you know; build up our strength and make a plan? You could also help these people get started. Please at least think about it?’
Patric didn’t hear a word she’d said – he’d fallen into a deep, shock induced slumber. Joanie looked at him closely, and after checking his breathing rhythm, covered him with a blanket, put a cushion behind his head and then settled back in her own chair to contemplate what the next week or two might bring. However, within two minutes she was also fast asleep.
Their ordeal had several more exciting chapters to run.
Day 24
Tuesday 7th January
Sandringham House – Norfolk
Ann Fletcher, Sir Ian James and his PPS, Phillip Singh, plus the stenographer, had retired to the PM’s private office at 4pm, after a wide-ranging and somewhat gruelling briefing. The Royal Family seemed content with the update and had repaired to their private apartments to pass on the salient points to the remainder of the Royals at Sandringham.
‘Thank you Ann, that was a job well done, but I'm afraid we've still got a tremendous amount of work to do before we even scratch a chip off this iceberg, let alone melt the bugger.’
‘What are your priorities, Prime Minister?’ asked Ann with tiredness seeping into her tone.’
‘Firstly, no need for formality whilst we are alone, Ann, we've known each other far too long for that. In addition, I might as well ask you now, anyway. Will you act as my formal Deputy for the duration? I need someone competent, trustworthy, determined and able to make tough impartial decisions.’
Ann was mildly embarrassed by these remarks when she recalled her scheme to rescue Chloe, but gave no sign as she consented.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 58
