Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  ‘Delighted and honoured, Ian.’

  Sir Ian smiled briefly as he continued.

  ‘That's settled, then. As for priorities – firstly we need to let Brussels know that we intend to move to a new location as soon as practicable and set up a new governing body. Has any of that work been done yet, Ann?’

  ‘Yes, a fair bit. I’ve located a building in Brussels which we can annex and use as an office block and mini-Parliament. It should be big enough and I’ve got my staff working on bringing it up to speed for future occupation. We have identified fifty-one currently elected MPs – from all parties and including Stormont, Cardiff and Holyrood – and are transporting them and their families to housing in and around Brussels. They were all out of the UK on holiday when the snow started and have all returned to Europe – although quite a few were here already – skiing mainly. There were seventy-eight pre-snow MEPs sitting in Brussels, but unfortunately – or perhaps not depending on one’s point of view – sixty five had already returned home to the UK for Christmas. So, in total, currently, that makes sixty four additional ‘professional’ politicians who will want to be part of this new body. What are we going to call it, by the way?’

  Sir Ian had already given this some serious thought.

  ‘It's got to be bi-partisan. I’ve no time for petty political back biting. This will be a United Kingdom coalition with all four countries fairly and equally represented. So I thought perhaps – The Coalition for National Recovery perhaps?’

  Ann made a suggestion.

  ‘I'm a little reticent to use the word ‘coalition’ – it smacks of World War II and we are not fighting anybody. To the contrary, the whole planet is with us. Perhaps the National Recovery Alliance might be better?

  Sir Ian gave it a few seconds thought and concurred.

  ‘Okay then, let's go with the United Kingdom Recovery Alliance – UKRA. I’ll inform Her Majesty later today. Can we make sure, Phillip, that all documentation going forward carries this acronym? We’ll get someone to design a snappy and upbeat logo in due course.’

  The PPS nodded and continued taking the minutes of the meeting. Sir Ian wanted everything documented for posterity.

  ‘What about the Republic of Ireland? We’ve got three of their parliamentarians from the Dail in a hotel in Amsterdam. I don’t think that they have the resources as a country to help themselves. They have also suffered terribly, so it would make sense if we included them in our plans.’

  ‘Agreed,’ cautioned Sir Ian, ‘but we want no political or religious nonsense at this stage in the proceedings. There will be a time for that later.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll arrange for them to be moved to Brussels as well. You may have to meet with them as a courtesy, and you should invite one into your cabinet.’

  ‘I’ve no problem with that – however they must accept me as leader of the recovery effort or it's not going to work. Which reminds me – have we sourced enough civil servants to help run the governing body?

  Ann was more upbeat about this.

  ‘Absolutely! We have tried to speak to as many of the refugees in Western Europe as possible, and are drawing up lists of parliamentary and party civil servants, secretaries, administrators and other trades and professions who could help run the organisation. These individuals and their families will be moved to the Brussels area and housed in hotels and other accommodation being freed up by the EU. However, you will be aware that this will only account for a few thousand of the one million – approximately – expatriates, of many differing backgrounds who are currently languishing in camps across Germany and in private homes throughout the continent. It's a huge problem and one we should address with some urgency. Now that the snow has stopped, many are demanding to know why they cannot return immediately to the UK and be reunited with their families.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Sir Ian gravely, ‘it's an issue of which I am acutely aware. Many of these people will never return to the UK – ever – and we've got to find a way to tell them this – and then offer them a workable and acceptable alternative. Even ahead of actual rescue operations for survivors back home, this problem will occupy our waking hours for many years to come.’

  Ann Fletcher had a sudden brainwave.

  ‘Ian, I’ve had a thought. I met a British newspaperman last week in Antwerp – he was a sub-editor on the Telegraph. Why don’t we get him to start a newspaper? There must be journalists amongst the refugees. We should be able to persuade the EU to allow us share publishing and printing facilities of a small town newspaper, and then disseminate the information – directly from us – straight to our people.’

  ‘Good idea, Ann, this is a prime example of why I wanted you on my team. Get right onto it. Now, it's nearly 10pm and I need to speak to the American President – it's time to bring him up to date. Did you know his wife’s sister and family were at Claridges when this all started, and that we have no idea what's happened to them? The President is extremely concerned and in some ways it's not a bad thing. It will concentrate his mind on the issues on this side of the Atlantic and I'm sure it will help to gain his undivided attention throughout these testing times.’

  Day 22

  Sunday 5th January

  West Willoughby – Lincolnshire

  George Brayne sat disconsolately in front of his sputtering log fire. He had survived the storm sure enough, but that was scant consolation. George was consumed with shame and guilt for his part in the disappearance and probable death of young Chris Davies – the boy left in his charge by Brady and Jane almost two weeks ago.

  Although the sun shone brightly through his attic dormer window, it did nothing to improve his mood. George had been lucky that the newly installed thatched roof had not collapsed under the weight of snow and his home was still dry and secure. His food and water supplies were still plentiful, as was his stockpile of logs in the cellar which is where he also stored the provisions. His oxygen supply wafted down the chimney and through the upper dormer window, so the fact that his cottage was engulfed with snow – probably beyond the ridge – was not a pressing concern. He had worked hard to prevent the snow from blocking the dormer and there was a small tunnel of light and air seeping through and into the attic.

  He had mulled over the circumstances of Chris’s departure a thousand times, and could only assume that somehow the lad had worked out that George was faking his leg injury, in an attempt to forestall an almost certainly doomed trek to find Chris’s mother in the next village. Of course, George was feigning a twisted ankle, because he knew that going out into the storm meant certain death for them both. They didn’t have the proper survival gear and George was over sixty-five years old – he just wasn’t up to it!

  However, Chris was driven by the naivety of youth and a passionate desire to find his mother, so when the subterfuge was discovered he clearly decided to leave when consumed with anger and adrenaline. Brady must have instilled a false state of self-confidence in the boy, so that Chris had foolishly imagined he could go it alone. George could not persuade himself that the boy might have survived, and was now in a morbid depression.

  He had barely eaten during the past week and a pile of dirty washing up and soiled clothes lay in the kitchen. The fire in the hearth was almost out and George just couldn’t be bothered to make the trip downstairs to fetch more logs from the cellar. In fact, he'd taken to sleeping in his fireside armchair and hadn’t washed or shaved for several days. Four empty bottles of Scotch lay scattered on the carpet - he was in a truly wretched state. He felt terribly sorry for poor young Chris, but most of all he felt desperately sorry for himself. He could not reconcile his failure to protect the boy. He kept asking himself the same questions over and over again: ‘Why am I still alive – why didn’t I go with him?’ He certainly could not forgive himself or justify his own survival.

  George Brayne had lost the will to live.

  Day 24

  Tuesday 7th January

  Walthamstow – East London

/>   Brady and Ross Bryant reached the approximate location of the road where they believed Chloe and her adopted family were holed up. It was around 1430 and had taken longer than anticipated, due to evasive manoeuvres employed by Ross to avoid contact with any other human life. They had dodged from building to building protruding through the snow, waiting patiently at each point of cover to ensure that no other potential threats caught them by surprise again. At one stop, Brady spotted two figures on skis about four hundred metres away, moving in the same direction. They waited until the couple were out of site before continuing.

  ‘We’re in no hurry, Andy,’ cautioned Ross, ‘better we get there unobserved than get involved with anyone else. We might not be so lucky next time!’

  ‘That's fine by me,’ agreed Brady, ‘just as long as we are ready to start the rescue by tomorrow morning.’

  Brady also decided at this point to show a few more of his cards to Ross:

  ‘A chopper will be passing over at midday, waiting for an update on when or if we can lift them out.’

  ‘Oh, I was wondering how we were going to get them back to base. I knew we couldn’t ski them out of here. Of course, a heli is the obvious answer. I suppose Ms Fletcher has ‘fixed’ that as well?’ replied Ross innocently.

  ‘Inevitably. She seems fairly driven over extracting these people safely.’

  Ross just shrugged. He didn’t care who was running the job or for what reason. He was a mere foot soldier following orders – up to a point!

  They progressed up towards the exact spot shown on the GPS where No.50 should have been. It was extremely difficult to work out exactly which house was which – especially as some were completely buried and some had suffered collapsed roofing. So they skied to the end of the road and consulted a blown up print of a Google Earth photo of the street. If they could make out the end house – No.62, then it should be a relatively easy job to work their way back six semi-detached houses to No.50. After a few yards they reached an area where the snow evened out and deduced that No.62 lay in front of them. They counted back the six buildings which they could determine by the irregular outline, and approached what they estimated to be No.50.

  ‘Right,’ snapped Ross, ‘you ski round the back and look for a way in, and I’ll keep on stag out here.’

  Brady didn’t argue and set off towards the rear of the building whilst Ross peered into the area surrounding the house, searching for potential threats.

  Suddenly, there was a shout from Brady.

  ‘Ross, the roof has collapsed into an upstairs bedroom, but I can see a poster on a back wall. It's a picture of some boy band and there's a name on it. ‘Chloe Fletcher loves Westlife.’ We've found it!’

  ******

  However, unbeknownst to Brady and Ross, they had been under covert observation for some time…..and it wasn’t at all friendly.

  ‘Still got them, Joey?’

  ‘Yup, only two of them – armed and fully kitted. Could be military – probably Special Forces. Don’t know what they're doing here though, Mickey.’

  Mickey considered his options whilst Joey trained the binoculars on Ross.

  ‘We’ll wait and see for now. It's getting late and they’ll probably have to shelter for the night soon. Mark the position on the Sat Nav and we’ll get back to HQ and report. It could be that they're on a rescue mission. That means a chopper and if I'm right we could be out of here sooner than we thought.’

  Joey wasn’t too happy with that option.

  ‘Hang on mate, if we go back and tell the others, we’ll be ‘bumped’ off any escape flight. There are dozens of others ahead of us in the queue – I say we take cover for the night and see what happens. Look after number one – that's my motto.’

  Mickey, ever the flexible pragmatist, pondered for a few seconds and nodded.

  ‘OK, we’ll park ourselves here for tonight and see what the morning brings. Keep an eye on them whilst I sort out somewhere to hold up in this wreck of a house.’

  He crawled backwards until he was out of Ross’s line of sight, stood up and worked his way down into a dry first floor bedroom in the large semi, one hundred metres down and across the road from number 50.

  ‘This’ll do’ he murmured to himself. ‘I just hope there aren't too many stiffs in this one!’

  Day 22

  Sunday 5th January

  Corsewall Lighthouse – South-Western Scotland

  Jen and Kris Boyne, a middle-aged, retired English couple, lived in Portpatrick, a small fishing village in Dumfries, Scotland, and on Saturday the fourteenth of December, they travelled the short distance north to stay at the Corsewall Lighthouse hotel and restaurant. It was a Christmas surprise for Jen from Kris, and they planned to relax in the sumptuous surroundings until the Monday morning. They could dine at the five-star restaurant and take walks along the rugged coastline to burn off the extra calories consumed.

  Saturday night was first-rate! A special festive menu was served and an excellent guitarist came and entertained them with traditional Scottish folk/rock until the early hours. They both retired heavily under the influence of copious amounts of fine Scotch whisky.

  The next morning saw them oversleep – and why not – so it was nearly 10am by the time they pitched up for breakfast.

  ‘Nearly missed it!’ joked the proprietor-come-waiter.

  ‘Sorry,’ smiled Jen, ‘we imbibed a little too much of your excellent whisky last night. Perhaps we can walk it off after breakfast?’

  ‘You’ll be lucky, Mrs Boyne, have you looked outside?’

  ‘Actually, no! We had a quick shower and came straight down. Is there a problem?’ queried Kris.

  The waiter turned and pointed at the single small concave lighthouse window.

  ‘It's snowing and quite heavily. You might be better advised getting back to Portpatrick before the track becomes impassable. We've already cancelled three bookings for this evening.’

  Kris and Jen ambled over to the window and peered out. It was indeed snowing – and the ground was already covered. They returned to their seats and silently considered their options. Kris spoke first.

  ‘Well, it can't last for long and we only live fourteen miles away. We’re booked in till Monday, so I think we’ll stick it out, if that's alright with you? After all it is Christmas, and your hospitality is too good to sacrifice for a flurry of snow.’

  The proprietor shrugged and sucked his teeth:

  ‘Fine; of course; it's your decision and you are most welcome to stay till Monday. But please don’t say I didn’t warn you! Can I take your order for breakfast, now?’

  Kris and Jen exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows, fully assured that they could return safely to Portpatrick on Monday. Surely the landlord was exaggerating.

  By early evening, after several hours reading yesterdays’ papers, snoozing in the hotel lounge comfy chairs and watching newscasts of doom and gloom on the television, Jen and Kris were ready for a stiff drink. The snow had petered out briefly at lunchtime, but was now crashing against the lounge window, and the sea was pounding the cliffs below the lighthouse.

  ‘Two very large gin and tonics please, barman,’ quipped Kris cheerfully.

  The young man behind the bar looked up with a startled expression.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there. I didn’t realise anyone was still about’

  Kris looked puzzled.

  ‘Why, is there a problem?’

  The barman was still slightly bewildered.

  ‘Well, no sir, not really, but all reservations in the restaurant for tonight have been cancelled and all other guests have left the hotel. Apart from my father, mother and me – you are the only other people here!’

  ‘Bloody Hell,’ exclaimed Kris angrily, ‘why didn’t someone tell us before, so we could go as well?’

  ‘I did just that, Mr Boyne. This morning, at breakfast, and you elected to stay,’ answered the proprietor from behind them.

  The voice of the owner was c
alm, yet firm.

  ‘I warned you of the snow storm and you wanted to stay. Of course, you are welcome to leave now or stay the night. We can feed and water you tonight, but if the snow abates, I strongly recommend that you return to Portpatrick first thing in the morning.’

  Although alarmed, Kris was not one to panic, so he responded calmly.

  ‘It's only a bit of snow, after all. We’ll stay the night now – since it's dark – and set off in the morning. Where are those two gin and tonics then? We may as well make the best of it! Can I buy you a drink, landlord?’

  When Monday morning arrived, the snowstorm continued to rage at full pelt. Jen looked out of the bedroom window and could barely distinguish their BMW Estate – even though it was the only car in the yard. The snow was drifting up to three feet deep and the Irish Sea was smashing ferociously into the rock face below, throwing the boiling surf fifty feet into the frozen air.

  The owner, a Mr Gordon Millar was polite, albeit a little cagey.

  ‘It seems Mr and Mrs Boyne, that for the time being, we may be stuck with each other. I don’t believe that it is possible to travel safely from here to the tarmac’d road at the end of our access track. You may not have seen the television weather forecasts, so I recommend that you familiarise yourself immediately. This weather is unusually fierce and worse is yet to come – far worse. I consider that the remaining five occupants of Corsewall lighthouse sit down together and make serious plans to ensure our long term survival.’

  Kris was aghast.

  ‘Come on, old chap, surely it's not that bad. It’ll probably be clear by tomorrow. No need to panic – is there?’

  ‘Too late for that, Mr Boyne – that particular bird has already flown. Scotland and Northern England are already overwhelmed and the perennial chaos reigns. We must now pool our resources and look to our own particular needs so that we don’t freeze or starve!’

  Gordon Millar proved to be absolutely correct in his predictions.