Ice Diaries (6 page)

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.

Nina turned up just as we had nearly
finished and gazed in disbelief at our haul.

“What happened to the list,
people?”

Charlie explained.

“But … you could have just
gone to the next item! Tinned food, if I remember rightly.”

“We did get some.”

“This was more fun, though,”
I said.

“Fun? You’re not here to
have fun! We need to divide goods systematically like we decided,
else it’s not fair.”

“We’re all happy with what
we’ve got, Nina,” said Paul, reasonably. Morgan leant
back against the wall, not getting involved, watching, arms crossed
and expression sardonic.

Nina took a closer look at the nearest
box and tutted. “Greg’s got a child’s tent!”

“It’s a Tardis,” Greg
said. “I know it’s not the real one.”

“What good is it? You can’t
use it for anything. If you were going to go off the list you should
have stocked up with clothes, then maybe you could change them more
often.”

I hate it when Nina gets bossy with
Greg. She makes him lose confidence. He stared at his feet, visibly
deflated. I said, “Lighten up, Nina. We don’t have to be
deadly serious the whole time. If you like, I’ll nip down and
get you some solar tulips like mine.”

Nina turned on me. “Solar tulips?
That’s typical of you, if you don’t mind me saying, Tori.
You never take anything seriously, everything’s just a laugh to
you. Maybe one day you’ll grow up a bit and realize life isn’t
just a long series of jokes.”

I was tired, I wanted to get home, I
could do without Nina snapping at my ankles like a demented
Chihuahua. “Whatever. I’m off. You coming, Greg?”
Greg nodded and picked up his trailer rope. Morgan slouched over to
us. “Bye, everyone.” I grabbed my rope and the three of
us headed east together. At the roundabout Greg said goodbye and
peeled off towards his home.

When we reached the flat I turned. The
sun was setting, burnishing the skyscraper windows; the snow glowed
gold and blue, breathtakingly lovely. I opened the door – the
beastly stove had gone out. While Morgan lifted the boxes over the
balcony railing I riddled the ashes, tore pages out of a Mills &
Boon and scrunched them, added firewood and got it going again. (Two
and a half million Mills & Boon paperbacks were mixed with the
M6’s tarmac to absorb sound, so they are resigned to abuse.)
The stove takes a while to heat; supper would have to wait. It was
too cold to take off my jacket or even lower its hood. My breath
steamed in the icy air. God, I HATE the cold. I tidied away my solar
lights, except for the tulips. I ripped off the packaging and stuck
them in a jar on the windowsill where they would get plenty of light.
Without being told, Morgan turned the trailer upside down so it
wouldn’t fill with snow and started to bring the boxes inside.
I let him get on with it. I fetched two glasses and a bottle of
Bollinger – one of the few advantages to the end of
civilization is the survivors get to drink classier wine –
removed the cork and curled up on the sofa.

I raised my glass and whispered, “Happy
birthday, David.”

Without warning my eyes swam with
tears.

Ice Diaries ~ Lexi Revellian

Morgan finished stacking boxes inside,
shut the door and came to see what I was doing. I offered him a glass
of champagne, and he joined me on the sofa. He kept his jacket on,
but put his hood down. Snow crystals sparkled in his beard.

“Celebrating? Cheers.” He
had a swig, took a closer look at my face and frowned. “Are you
all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said,
my eyes filling again. I sniffed. “I think I’m getting a
cold.”

“No you’re not. No one gets
colds any more.” There was a silence while I mopped my eyes and
he stared at the flames in the stove’s window and drank. He
hesitated then said, “You can tell me about it if you like, but
I should warn you I’m pretty useless at this sort of thing.
I’ll probably say something insensitive and you’ll get
furious with me, but that might be good because it would take your
mind off whatever’s upset you. So go ahead. If you want to,
that is.”

That made me smile in spite of my
dejection. “Oh, it’s nothing really. I know I’m
lucky. So many people have died and I’m alive. It’s just,
sometimes it gets to me, being stuck here and snow day after day, and
it’s always freezing, and no trees or birds or animals apart
from rats, and no eggs or bacon or bread or proper milk in tea or
fresh fruit or hot baths, and having to work hard just to survive,
and no prospect of anything getting better ever.”

Morgan picked up the bottle and
refilled my glass. I was tempted to tell him about David, and paused
to decide whether I’d regret it. Sometimes it’s easier to
talk to a stranger about personal matters. Morgan was passing
through, he didn’t know me, plus he didn’t strike me as
the type to really appreciate how awful it was, which if he did,
would make it worse. And I might feel better if I told someone.

“The other thing is, today is my
boyfriend’s birthday, and I think he’s dead but I’ll
never find out. David, he was called.” Tears slopped out of my
eyes and down my face and I wiped them away. “
And
the
bloody stove went out.”

There was an awkward pause. “At
least you’ve got the stove going again,” he offered.
“Told you I was crap at this.”

I laughed wryly through my tears. “You
did. You were right. Let’s have some food.”

I was too hungry to wait to eat, so I
fetched the camping gas cooker which I save for emergencies so as not
to use up all the gas canisters, opened two tins of curry and a tin
of sweet corn and got out rice. While the curry heated up over the
rice, I opened a tin of peaches and doled the contents into two
dishes for dessert. I put the tubs of vitamins out. Say what you like
about our monotonous diet, it’s certainly quick to prepare; but
I do miss fresh meat and vegetables. It was better when we had frozen
food, but frozen food doesn’t stay good forever, and in a world
without hospitals, food poisoning is best avoided.

I laid the counter with cutlery,
glasses and paper napkins, and lit a candle. It looked quite festive.
On the window ledge my solar tulips were already glowing faintly. I
still had a lump in my chest, but felt better, less desolate. That
would be the alcohol. Morgan brought the champagne over and filled
our glasses while I dished up.

We were both ravenous, and hardly spoke
until we’d finished. I made coffee and poured brandy, and moved
to the sofa. The stove was roaring away and the room was finally a
little warmer; not warm enough to take off my jacket, though. I put
my feet up, pleasantly mellow. Morgan stared out of the window, let
the curtain fall and came and joined me. He seemed more approachable
tonight, less forbidding. I felt suddenly curious about him, quite
apart from my intention to take Charlie’s advice and ask him
whether he was a serial killer. He was so different from everyone
else I know; tougher and meaner, as if he came from a harsher world
where people were not to be trusted. Of course the world we live in
is harsh for everybody these days, but my little group retained on
the whole the manners you’d find at an Islington dinner party
in the old days. I tried a dinner party-type opener.

“You never said what you were
doing when I found you.”

“Trying to find shelter.”

“Yes, well, I kind of assumed
that. I didn’t imagine you were on your way to post a letter.
Where did you come from, where are you heading?”

He gave me one of his long looks, and I
thought he was going to tell me to mind my own business. But in the
end he said, “I was with a group north of here. Not a people’s
republic like yours. Run by a man called Mike. Eight of us. We … we
had a disagreement, and parted company. The journey was harder than I
expected. I’d just about had it when you found me.”

This raised more questions than it
answered. “What were you and the group doing?”

“Looting, basically. When the
government decided to evacuate the country, Mike came up with this
idea: we’d stay behind a bit, then make our own way south, but
stop on the way and collect valuable stuff, from jewellers and
museums. When we got somewhere civilized we’d be rich, because
gold only gets more valuable in a crisis. He reckoned what was left
of the world would go back on the gold standard.”