Ice Diaries

by Lexi Revellian

  Then it started to snow in the north.

  The weather had been weird for some time – we kept having the driest month since records began, the wettest, the windiest, the hottest, the coldest – and experts reassured us that these unseasonable variations were all within normal parameters. But in May 2017 temperatures dropped and snow fell and didn’t stop.

  At this point everything broke down. Metres of snow covered Scotland, and spread inexorably down the country. There was talk of a new ice age, that Arctic seas had warmed and turned off the Gulf Stream. People who could headed south. Electricity was more off than on, there was no gas, phones worked intermittently, television went off the air and only the World Service remained on the radio. Some sites on the internet worked and others went down as servers crashed. Roads were blocked, so transport couldn’t bring food to the shops, but as the snow levels rose, people couldn’t get to the shops anyway. Homes were being buried under snow. The cold began to kill those who had so far survived the pandemic. The hastily formed coalition government, consisting of only about a dozen MPs, decided to get everyone out of the country, a mass exodus to warmer parts of the world using every helicopter, plane and boat available. Southern European countries volunteered to fly mercy missions to the UK. It was assumed our people would be welcomed by countries that had lost ninety per cent of their population.

  David and I agreed we’d each go to make sure our parents were okay. Before the phones stopped working, I rang my mother. They were evacuating her part of London. I told her I was on my way, and not to worry about me if they arrived first; to go with them, but leave a note telling me where she’d gone. I’d follow.

  It took me two days to reach Mum’s flat in Hampstead. I hadn’t realized how difficult the journey would be. Blown by a high wind, soft snow had drifted and eddied into hills and dips around the buildings. I broke into a house when it got dark to sleep. When I reached the right street, the whole area appeared deserted; I didn’t see another soul. The helicopters had come and gone. I climbed through a fourth floor window and went up the stairs and let myself in.

  The flat seemed icier than outside. She was in bed, blankets, towels, clothes and even a rug from the floor piled over her. I saw at once she was dead. Beside her a note, the writing straggling down the page.

  Dearest Tot,

  I don’t think I am going to last till they come, I’m sorry.

  Don’t be sad. That is the last thing I want for you. I had a good life and am hugely proud of my beautiful clever daughter. I hate the thought of you being sad over me. Take the greatest care of yourself for my sake. I’ll be really cross, wherever I am, if you don’t.

  All my love, always,

  Mum

  XXX

  After a bit, I went back home. Except that when I got there, my building had disappeared beneath the snow, and everyone had gone. David never returned from going to find his parents. Eventually I ran into Paul and Claire, and stayed with them for a while. There were dogs roaming in packs back then, and now I wish I’d kept one, but at the time I was barely able to keep myself.

  In the face of disaster, you can either give up or get on with life. I decided to live.

  Ice Diaries ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 4

  No other business

  Wednesday and Thursday were much the same as always, apart from the presence of Morgan, either hunched fast asleep under the duvets on the sofa, only the top of his head visible, or bolting quantities of food at the counter, monosyllabic. A bit like having a teenager living with me; but not talking suited me fine. Somehow I doubted we’d have much in common to chat about. I wasn’t keen on sharing my space, but there wasn’t anywhere else for him to go, and I assumed he’d be off as soon as possible. He must have been going somewhere when I found him. I did my best to behave as if he was not there, and get on with the things I had to do. Survival is arduous.

  I was out of the flat a lot. I dream of getting away from London and going south to where the snow stops. Everyone shares this dream, even if we seldom talk about it. A means to get south is like Rick’s letters of transit in Casablanca, universally desirable. And I’ve worked out a possible way to do it: a powerkite. I had a friend from uni who was into them, and I’ve got his four-line kite and control bar. Back in the early days, before the snow was as deep as it is now, I went to Tom’s home, painstakingly working out the street with an A-Z – you could do that then, enough buildings’ roofs showed – and dug down to his flat. It was strange, seeing the place so different from how I remembered it; cold, dark and silent like an excavated tomb. I was afraid his body would be there, but the flat was empty. I hope he got away.

  Tom used the kite on water with a special surf board, which is no good for snow, so I’d have to make some sort of sledge. Ideally with a steering mechanism, because otherwise I’d spend too much time waiting for a north wind, whereas with steering, most winds would do. If I found a go-cart or something similar I might be able to fit skis instead of wheels – if I could find skis – but I don’t have the engineering skills or tools to make one from scratch. It needs to be light and able to hold provisions as well as me, and has to be reliable to take me all the way. It’s a matter of getting lucky while scavenging. Meanwhile I take the kite out regularly and practise controlling the lines. I’m determined to master the darned thing. The others have seen me with the kite, but don’t know what it’s for. Nina takes it as evidence of my frivolity.

  Sometimes I think it’s evidence of my futility, because the task is beyond me. Which may be all to the good, because going south and leaving Greg and Claire and the rest to a fate I’d evaded might give me survivor’s guilt for the rest of my life.

  I worry about the future. Surely the others must too, but they hardly ever mention it. A month ago we ran out of tinned raspberries. No big deal, you may say, we’ve still got pineapple, pears and peaches. But what happens when we run out of other things? What happens when we run out of everything?

  Our monthly meeting is always held at Nina and Archie’s flat in Cromwell Tower, the next building along from Claire and Paul, at ten o’clock on the last Wednesday in the month – that is the last Thursday, if like me you’ve kept correct track of time. (I’ve got to stop thinking this, as we all operate on Nina Time these days; henceforth I’ll use her, wrong, dates. Except for important ones, like David’s birthday.)

  On impulse I popped in to see Claire on my way there. Paul had already left for the meeting. Toby was asleep, and Gemma was practising the recorder in a corner. Claire looked bright-eyed and pretty and I told her so.

  “It’s the relief – I’m just so happy it’s over and Toby’s fine, I feel like dancing round the room. I hated being pregnant, quite apart from knowing the birth was coming up. I never got that bloom you’re supposed to. I feel much better now.”

  “Well, you look terrific.”

  “I put a bit of makeup on this morning, and that helps. I look washed out without it. I’m not like you, Tori. It’s so unfair.” Her eyes ran over me. “Even when you’ve got straight out of bed and your hair needs washing and your clothes are all baggy, you still look like a model. It’s those cheekbones.”

  “I don’t, I look a mess.” I twisted a neglected lock round my finger. “It’s such a business washing my hair. I should do it more often, but I’m lazy.”

  I stayed to chat longer than I meant. Claire wanted to hear all about Morgan, not that there was much to tell, then Gemma wanted to play me her latest tune. So I was the last to arrive – I could see the others through the windows as I climbed on to the terrace, a big space which must have been lovely for eating outside in summer. The roof juts out so they aren’t always having to sweep the snow from the tiles as I am at my place. I took off my jacket in the warmth of the living room – Nina is home more than me, so can keep their stove fed – and said hello to everyone.

  The flat has a similar layout and dimensions to Claire and Paul’s; a generously sized three bedroom apartment with
dining room and study, but tidier, with no indication of the daily struggle to survive in hostile circumstances. Nina is house-proud. The big round carpet is spotless, every surface free of fingerprints and dust – though there is very little dust these days. My theory is a lot of it used to come from car tyres wearing away. Once inside, the place gives the illusion that civilization is still going strong, and if you went and looked over the terrace wall, far below you would see traffic and people hurrying by on the pavements. They don’t have children, something which is I think a regret to Archie, but just as well for the children. (I’m being unkind, but I wouldn’t want Nina for a mother, she’s far too bossy.)

  They sleep in one of the bedrooms, and the firewood is stacked in another room, even though this arrangement means a lot of fetching and carrying for Archie. He never complains. Archie is probably the nicest person I’ve ever met, always looking for the best in people, and finding it. He’s a Church of England vicar, although this is not necessarily the secret of his niceness. I don’t know what he’s doing married to Nina. There’s a big carved crucifix on the wall Archie salvaged from his church before it disappeared beneath the snow. On Sundays he celebrates Holy Communion there. I’m afraid most of us don’t attend, being unbelievers.

  Though I don’t share his beliefs, I find his faith oddly comforting. I once asked him why God had let billions of people die miserably. His brow furrowed. “I don’t know. God moves in mysterious ways. We are like moths living in a carpet, unable to see the pattern. One day we will.” He smiled. “That includes you, Tori, when to your surprise you come to glory.”

  Archie called me over and I joined him and Paul. “Paul was telling me he doesn’t know what he’d have done without you while little Toby was being born.”

  “He’s being kind. Claire did all the work. I mostly watched and tried not to panic.”

  Paul said, “You stopped both of us panicking.”

  Archie nodded. Nina insists he shaves, so he is the only beardless man here; with no running hot water or electricity it’s a daily chore the other men see no point in. He smiled at me, shifting his head a little to get a clear view. The left lens of his spectacles is cracked across, and of course he will never be able to get it replaced. “And I hear she rescued a stranger lost in the snow on her way home.”

  “Hey, I can’t help being awesome. It’s just the way I am.”

  Nina had put sheets of paper at the head of the polished wooden dining table ready for the meeting, glasses and a carafe of water. She is chairman – she’d be interrupting all the time if anyone else did it, so we’ve taken the line of least resistance and her tenure of the post is permanent. She tapped a glass with her pen.

  “Can I have your attention? We’ll start now Tori’s arrived, if you’ll all sit down.”

  We took our seats round the dining table. Silence fell, and Nina picked up her agenda. She read the minutes of the last meeting, which we approved by a show of hands. Every time, this clinging to ancient formalities amid the wreckage of civilization strikes me as slightly bizarre.

  “First on the list, congratulations to Claire and Paul on the new addition to our little community.” Murmurs of good wishes ran round the table, and Paul thanked us and said mother and baby were doing well. “Next, Morgan. You all know we have a stranger in our midst as of last Sunday, staying with Tori. Tori, perhaps you can tell us a little about him and his plans?”

  “There’s not much to tell. He’s slept most of the time he’s been here, just waking to wolf down food and going back to sleep. He was exhausted and had lost some blood from a cut on his side when he arrived.”

  “Do you know if he’s staying or passing through?”

  “I think he’s on his way somewhere, but he hasn’t said much. I really know very little about him.”

  Nina gazed at me over the tops of her spectacles, waiting for more. Greg helped out. “He’s got a big black tattoo on his back. Tori said it’s called a tribal tattoo.”

  “Thank you, Greg, but that’s not really the sort of information I was after,” Nina said repressively. “I was actually wondering when he’d start to contribute to joint projects. Which brings me to, if that’s really all Tori has to offer, the subject of firewood. How are everyone’s stocks lasting? Should we schedule a Firewood Day?”

  We agreed we’d have one next Wednesday, and talked a bit about where to scavenge the wood from, and whether there was any prospect of laying our hands on another axe. The discussion wandered off-topic, and Nina glanced at her watch and brought us back to order.

  “Let’s move on. Rats in the shops. Charlie says their numbers are building up. Any ideas for how we can deal with this?”

  Greg opened his mouth, and I think was about to volunteer to lessen their numbers by taking one home, but in the end he kept quiet. Nina suggested Sam and Charlie’s cat might help out, but they shook their heads in unison. She wasn’t used to hunting and might get bitten. Charlie fetched Nina’s Argos catalogue to look for traps, but they only had plug-in Rodent Repellers, no good without power. None of us were enthusiastic about looking for nests and hitting rats over the head, a solution tentatively proposed by Paul. Dissatisfied, Nina switched topics.

  “While we’re on the subject of the shops, may I remind everyone that we agreed we’d only use them as a group? There are plenty of other places you can go to do personal foraging, or you can wait for our set days. I expect everyone to behave responsibly about this, else it’s not fair on the rest of us.”

  Expressions round the table were carefully bland and innocent; only Greg looked shifty and hung his head. Nina has a bee in her bonnet on this subject, and it’s easier to humour her. The fact is, we all go on our own if there is something we need – I even saw Archie in Argos on one occasion. Nina suspects we don’t keep to the rule, and it irks her that she has no way of enforcing it.

  “Now, contacting other groups of survivors.”

  Every so often, we talk about travelling to check out Londoners like us who are living in scattered enclaves. Greg is keen on this; he fancies having more people to trade with, and Archie feels it his duty to reach out if at all possible, because there might be people needing a priest. Charlie dreams of moving into a larger community where there would be a bigger audience for literary events and it would be possible to start a writing group – maybe even set up a micro-publishing business. The problem is, travelling on foot is arduous and although the smoke from their fires seems deceptively near, it would take the best part of a day to get to them. And we don’t know what our reception would be like, or whether they’d put us up overnight which we’d need if we weren’t to walk solidly for a day and a night. Tantalizingly, below ground is the tube network, reaching out like a spider’s web throughout London. Once in the tunnels, you could walk anywhere without getting lost. The difficulty is access; most underground stations are in low rise buildings. You’d have to dig down to them, and dig up when you reached your destination. Our nearest, Old Street, is beneath twenty metres of snow. So for practical purposes, those other settlements might as well be on distant planets. As ever, we decided to postpone a decision.

  “Moving on. The book club. Tori, what have you got for us?”

  We take turns to choose a book to read and discuss; it has to be one the chooser can find several copies of. The last novel we read was Charlie’s choice, Madame Bovary. Charlie said it was a seminal work and a masterpiece, and is no doubt right, but I found it depressing. Nina objected to the dislikeable and immoral heroine, and Claire said the ending when poor little Berthe went to work at the cotton mill made her cry. I don’t think it was Archie’s cup of tea either, but he said you had to admire it as a fascinating study of nineteenth century French provincial life. (We’ve yet to read a book he didn’t find something nice to say about.)

  I dug in my bag. “Can You Keep a Secret, Sophie Kinsella. I’ve got four copies.” I handed them round to a certain amount of eye rolling and lip pursing from Nina. She prefers more litera
ry works, though she has a weakness for family sagas. “It was that or Bleak House – I found six copies – but I thought we could do with something frothy and feel-good next.”

  There was no other business; Nina reminded us there was a group forage on Friday, and a ceilidh on Saturday, and we all went home. A typical meeting.

  That evening Greg came over for his postponed wash. He could do it at his place, but I suspect he’d be tempted not to bother, and anyway, he’s in the habit of coming here. Greg is my nearest neighbour. His flat is in a council block not far from me, just off Old Street. It’s not particularly nice; the rooms are small and the ceilings are low – though admittedly this makes it easier to heat – and the windows are UPVC with those ugly thick glazing bars. Nina told him he should move into the Barbican, Bézier or the office block where Charlie and Sam live above Liverpool Street Station. Not so he’d have a nicer home, but because she thinks he needs keeping an eye on. But he chose this flat himself, and likes it, which is all that matters. Like the rest of us he lives in one room, and uses the two bedrooms to house his collections, arranged on shelves he has found and installed all round the walls. He keeps his stores in the flat next door. Greg is the only one of us – possibly the only person on the planet – who prefers life after the collapse of civilization. He used to live in sheltered accommodation, with rules and restrictions, being told what to do all the time. Even choosing his clothes was done under supervision. Now he is his own boss, and has friends and things to do that keep him busy every day. He has blossomed. He’s actually happy.

  Baths and showers are a thing of the past, but as Florence Nightingale said, with two pints of water and privacy any woman may be clean. Morgan’s presence forced me to take my hot water and soap and strip off in the icy bathroom, but Greg didn’t have this problem. I heated the water then disappeared into my bed corner and read a book to give him privacy. When he’d finished I trimmed his hair for him. He told me he wouldn’t mind getting a tattoo like Morgan’s because it was cool. I got a black felt pen and inked him a small tribal tattoo on the inside of his wrist. It looked rather convincing. He was enchanted, and made me promise to renew it when the ink wore away.