fire, looking at me, stirring something in a pot.
‘Are you all
right?’ she says.
I’m far from
all right. My whole body is shaking, and not from the cold. The weight of the
blankets on top of me is suddenly unendurable. Grey morning light comes through
the window. The snow is higher than ever – up to about five feet, from what I
can see. At least the storm has ended. I can see hard blue sky above.
‘Where’s the
cat?’
Heathshade
answers. ‘Put it out in the snow.’
‘You threw her
out in the snow?’
‘You can’t have
dead animals stinking the place up, mate.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Outside the
back door. What’s up with you, man?’
I find the
carcass half-buried. Heathshade’s behind me.
‘For the best,
mate. Can’t spare the food. No way.’
‘Who’s we?’
I push past
him, back into the living room. A few scraps are waiting there to form my
breakfast. The snow is only a couple of feet away from blocking out the
daylight, but still t he sun
reaches low over blanketed rooftops, hushed after the destructive night,
spreads a mix of harsh wavelength across the walls.
The radio’s
turned down low to preserve battery power. A voice speaks in what sounds like
Spanish.
‘Turn it up,’
Heathshade says.
He listens,
head cocked sideways, a look of deep concentration. The signal fades finally,
replaced by screeching interference.
‘Well?’
‘What?’
‘Did you
understand any of it?’
‘No.’
He roars with
laughter and gives me a thud between the shoulder blades.
I need to get
away from this fool. Up the ice-coated stairs the bedroom provides respite, and
a better view of the street. It would be so good to just jump out, fall into
the deep snow, swim around in it. And, actually, there are skis in the
wardrobe, last used on the Continent during an inadequately recalled time when
a superflux of money was mine. Window won’t open. Straining against the jamming
ice lets away some adrenalin. When the window bursts free of its restraints a
splinter buries itself in the palm of my hand. Fresh, freezing-cold air pours
in. Both pleasant and unpleasant. I feel in control all of a sudden, decide I’m
going to go out and try to derive a little enjoyment from the day.
Heavy coat and
gloves should provide adequate insulation. I get out onto the window ledge and
carefully attach the skis to my feet. The drop to the snow is four or five
feet. Should be fine. I drop, and when I hit the snow I sink into it much
further than I had expected, falling backwards at the same time, so that I’m
almost completely buried to my waist.
There’s a knock
on the living room window. Helen’s exhibits disapproval.
Unwilling to go
back inside just yet I head towards the village and see if there is any sign of
activity. I would have thought the army or the police would be active by now,
directing some sort of recovery from the storm. I had not expected nothing, but
the street is silent. Everyone’s still indoors.
But there is
nothing happening in the village either. No matter. It’s good to move about
after so long confined. I pass through the Triangle and continue towards the
city centre.
On the bridge
spanning the frozen canal, there comes a low, droning sound. An aircraft. An
Aer Corps helicopter flying low over the rooftops. Its downdraught raises
glittering ice clouds. It veers around to fly towards me. Now it is close
enough for me to see the pilot within the shining glass cockpit. He wears a
deep green jumpsuit and a black helmet. He raises an arm, shows an open-handed
gesture, as though of apology. The chopper does not stop, or even slow. It
passes overhead, following the line of the canal towards the harbour. Another
helicopter shoots past after it. In a few seconds they are out of sight, but
the engine noise lingers.
It is not until long
after silence has returned that I remember my purpose and continue towards the
city centre.
I am not in the
kind of physical condition necessary to be able to
‘Are you all
right?’ she says.
I’m far from
all right. My whole body is shaking, and not from the cold. The weight of the
blankets on top of me is suddenly unendurable. Grey morning light comes through
the window. The snow is higher than ever – up to about five feet, from what I
can see. At least the storm has ended. I can see hard blue sky above.
‘Where’s the
cat?’
Heathshade
answers. ‘Put it out in the snow.’
‘You threw her
out in the snow?’
‘You can’t have
dead animals stinking the place up, mate.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Outside the
back door. What’s up with you, man?’
I find the
carcass half-buried. Heathshade’s behind me.
‘For the best,
mate. Can’t spare the food. No way.’
‘Who’s we?’
I push past
him, back into the living room. A few scraps are waiting there to form my
breakfast. The snow is only a couple of feet away from blocking out the
daylight, but still t he sun
reaches low over blanketed rooftops, hushed after the destructive night,
spreads a mix of harsh wavelength across the walls.
The radio’s
turned down low to preserve battery power. A voice speaks in what sounds like
Spanish.
‘Turn it up,’
Heathshade says.
He listens,
head cocked sideways, a look of deep concentration. The signal fades finally,
replaced by screeching interference.
‘Well?’
‘What?’
‘Did you
understand any of it?’
‘No.’
He roars with
laughter and gives me a thud between the shoulder blades.
I need to get
away from this fool. Up the ice-coated stairs the bedroom provides respite, and
a better view of the street. It would be so good to just jump out, fall into
the deep snow, swim around in it. And, actually, there are skis in the
wardrobe, last used on the Continent during an inadequately recalled time when
a superflux of money was mine. Window won’t open. Straining against the jamming
ice lets away some adrenalin. When the window bursts free of its restraints a
splinter buries itself in the palm of my hand. Fresh, freezing-cold air pours
in. Both pleasant and unpleasant. I feel in control all of a sudden, decide I’m
going to go out and try to derive a little enjoyment from the day.
Heavy coat and
gloves should provide adequate insulation. I get out onto the window ledge and
carefully attach the skis to my feet. The drop to the snow is four or five
feet. Should be fine. I drop, and when I hit the snow I sink into it much
further than I had expected, falling backwards at the same time, so that I’m
almost completely buried to my waist.
There’s a knock
on the living room window. Helen’s exhibits disapproval.
Unwilling to go
back inside just yet I head towards the village and see if there is any sign of
activity. I would have thought the army or the police would be active by now,
directing some sort of recovery from the storm. I had not expected nothing, but
the street is silent. Everyone’s still indoors.
But there is
nothing happening in the village either. No matter. It’s good to move about
after so long confined. I pass through the Triangle and continue towards the
city centre.
On the bridge
spanning the frozen canal, there comes a low, droning sound. An aircraft. An
Aer Corps helicopter flying low over the rooftops. Its downdraught raises
glittering ice clouds. It veers around to fly towards me. Now it is close
enough for me to see the pilot within the shining glass cockpit. He wears a
deep green jumpsuit and a black helmet. He raises an arm, shows an open-handed
gesture, as though of apology. The chopper does not stop, or even slow. It
passes overhead, following the line of the canal towards the harbour. Another
helicopter shoots past after it. In a few seconds they are out of sight, but
the engine noise lingers.
It is not until long
after silence has returned that I remember my purpose and continue towards the
city centre.
I am not in the
kind of physical condition necessary to be able to
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