Bryan spent the rest of the day with a reinvigorated Sean Lucas preparing access to the roof, laying mattresses to form a sort of staircase to a central pick up point. By dark, he was satisfied that the nine survivors would be ready to go at noon tomorrow.
However, in his fatigue, he hadn’t accounted for the unexpected – not surprisingly, his group were not the only survivors in the Louisiana flats!
By 1130 the next morning, the nine had made their way up to the top floor and Bryan was in the middle of explaining how they would get onto the roof, when a man’s voice interrupted him.
‘Not so fast, mate – you’ve forgotten something – we’re going, not you!’
Bryan’s head span round and was confronted by three people. A boy of about fifteen, a middle-aged woman, and a tall, bearded man – who was brandishing a large kitchen knife.
‘Who the hell are you?’ gasped Bryan, ‘we thought that the building was empty, and anyway, there's room for everybody – no need for any silliness.’
‘Well, you thought wrong mate and I’ve got a bone to pick with you!’
The man advanced on Bryan waving the knife, clearly intent on doing him some damage. Bryan backed away as the man revealed his grudge:
‘Thought you’d got away with it, didn’t ya! They were my boys you threw over the railings to their death, you bastard. Well, now I'm gonna fix you and all of your fuckin’ friends.’
The eight other survivors huddled in a group with the man’s wife and son, cringing with despair at this potential disaster at the eleventh hour. Bryan continued to back away past the stairwell and towards the balcony railings, whilst slowly reaching behind his back, desperately searching for something hidden there.
The man lunged at Bryan with the blade, but he only found fresh air as Bryan dodged smartly aside, reaching for and finding the small handgun tucked into his waistband. He’d had this since the old days in the Bristol nightclubs, but wasn’t even sure if it still functioned. What's more, he’d never fired a gun in his life!
He raised the pistol and cuffed his attacker on the back of the neck – which had zero effect, as the man instantly recovered, lowered the knife to waist level and plunged it squarely into Bryan’s torso.
The man stood back in surprise at his success, whilst Bryan stared in shock at his midriff and sank to his knees. One hand came up to grasp his wound as the other twisted round towards the man and fired off a single shot.
Thankfully, the pistol did work!
The thugs’ father staggered backwards with the force of the bullet and fell to the ground, stone dead.
Bryan joined him on the floor as he collapsed clutching his stomach. Sean Lucas, broken from his fear induced trance, rushed to his side – but it was too late.
Bryan was already gone! Lucas checked his pulse, but could find none. He slapped Bryan’s face, trying to get some sort of reaction – but there was no sign of life that he could determine in his panic. After a couple of minutes, Lucas reluctantly gave in to the inevitable.
‘I think he’s dead.’
His murderer’s wife and child now stood alone, trembling with the fear of retribution.
‘I'm so sorry,’ she cried, ‘my husband was a fucking monster and a bully. I'm glad he’s gone, I'm so sorry for your friend.’
Sean Lucas, surprisingly, took control.
‘It's too late now for explanations or excuses – we've got to climb up onto the roof to catch that helicopter – if we’re not there it might just fly off and rescue someone else, and maybe never come back for us.’
The group selfishly acknowledged his view of the sorry situation, and started to shamble up onto the roof to the pick-up area constructed by the unfortunate Bryan, just as the rescue helicopter came into the hover over the flats.
Within thirty minutes, all ten of the survivors from the Louisiana apartment block were flying away to safety.
Lucas spoke urgently to the helicopter winchman and tried to explain what had happened to Bryan, but he was told that they couldn’t go back now, and that another rescue team would be immediately diverted to recover Bryan’s body.
Sean Lucas glanced back at the flats trying to catch a glimpse of Bryan Wester, lying alone and cold on the top floor balcony.
A decent man, just not a lucky one.
Day 25
Wednesday 8th January
Walthamstow – East London
Brady and Ross spent the night in No.50. It didn’t seem practical or sensible to search for anywhere else, as they would have to return here in the morning in any case.
Ross had made one final security sweep of the surrounding area whilst Brady covered him from the front of No.50. He could find no potential threats, even though several houses had damaged roofs which could have hidden people who wanted to watch the pair, but with no positive evidence, he was compelled to be satisfied.
They descended into the loft space and then further down into one of the front bedrooms, which had remained dry. Water was seeping out from the pile of snow and debris in the attic areas, but the room they selected as a base was unaffected – cold – but secure and free of any damp.
Ross prepared the evening meal whilst Brady investigated the rest of the house. He reached the lower floor, checking each room carefully for evidence of human occupation. The two bathrooms had been used to capacity and were certainly unsavoury. The kitchen showed evidence of recent use – discarded food and old packaging and, strangely, there was fresh dog food in a bowl. The lounge had a fireplace with recently used logs and coal burnt out to ashes. Brady was puzzled. Did they, in fact, have the right house? He checked for evidence of the Townsend family, and eventually found it on a kitchen noticeboard which had old postcards pinned to it. All were addressed to the Townsends and two were from Chloe herself. He examined the handwriting – it was a strong hand, but feminine all the same. He put them in his pocket.
He wandered around the ground floor, searching for the missing family but could not work out where they were, so he climbed back up to Ross and made his report.
‘We've definitely got the right address, but I can't find them. Do you think they have gone already?’
**********
In the cellar, the Townsends sat absolutely still, listening.
Matt had been the first to notice the noises upstairs, and when Brady had checked out the kitchen, they all picked up his footsteps.
There was a mixture of relief and concern. Les had warned them all several times that three types of person would probably turn up after the snow stopped. Rescuers; friendly folk wanting to help and share; and finally, scavengers wanting to steal what they had by force. As a safeguard, they would employ absolute caution until they were certain who was up there. Consequently, the family started to operate in silence and planned to wait until the middle of the night, when the two boys would investigate further. Les reckoned that a casual search by any invader would not reveal their refuge, as the cellar door in the cupboard under the stairs looked just like a wall with a coat rack nailed to it. It didn’t look like a door at all.
So they waited.
********
Meanwhile Brady and Ross hunkered down for the night, ate a warm meal and discussed the days’ events. By 2100, Brady was asleep with Ross on stag. They would change at 0200.
********
Joey and Mickey, hiding across the road were doing likewise. They had made a brief close-up recce of No.50, but had decided to wait until morning before acting. Both were now asleep.
********
Chris’s wristwatch alarm went off at 2.30am and even though it was barely audible, it made everybody jump.
Matt and Chris dressed warmly and asked Sue for a couple of kitchen knives for protection. Les immediately vetoed this proposal, as he warned that most people in confrontation scenarios were stabbed with their own knives! So the lads said their goodbyes and crept up the cellar steps towards the door to the cupboard under the stairs. They waited a full five minutes before cracki
ng the door an inch, and then listened for another five before slipping into the space and closing the door behind them.
The house was silent. Chris opened the outer door leading to the hallway and listened again.
Nothing.
So the boys continued their journey into the main body of the house. They slunk around the ground floor, checking for evidence of intruders, but found none. They both froze in terror when Matt kicked over Bracken’s food bowl, making a clang loud enough to awaken the dead. However, there was no reaction in the house, so after five minutes of standing motionless, they continued the search.
They reached the foot of the stairs and looked up. Chris pointed for Matt to go up first and followed as his brother climbed step by step, stopping and listening at regular intervals. They reached the top without incident and stole into their parents’ bedroom to check it out. They stood in the centre of the room looking for evidence of other people when a soft male voice made a casual enquiry:
‘Going somewhere lads?’
The boys almost died of fright and spun sharply to face the source of the question.
‘Stand still, lads. Hands on heads. Now, identify yourselves.’
Chris was having none of it.
‘What do you mean? You identify yourself! This is our house and you are trespassing!’
Brady looked at Ross and back at the boys, whilst Ross covered the stairs.
‘Don’t mess me about lads. I'm the one with the gun. Now, identify yourself – and make it quick – I haven’t got time to waste.’
Matt spoke first.
‘We are Matt and Chris Townsend and we've been living here since the snow began. Now, who are you?’
Brady smiled.
‘That's good news, boys. Now before I reveal our identities, can you confirm that a Chloe Fletcher is alive and well and living here?’
The boys gave each other a look which spoke volumes.
‘I assume she is then,’ said Brady.
The boys remained silent.
Brady decided to act.
‘Ross, go downstairs and see where these two appeared from. I’ll keep them covered.’
‘Okay,’ whispered Ross, and set off down the stairs and within thirty seconds had discovered the open door to the cupboard and the hidden cellar entrance within.
‘Bring them down, Andy, I think I’ve found where they’ve been hiding.’
Brady shepherded Matt and Chris down the stairs, and when they were in the downstairs hallway, demanded more information.
‘Right, no messing about lads, we’re here to help you. Chloe’s mother sent us to get you all out. Now, no more obstruction! How many people are down there?’
Chris finally caught on and passed Brady the info he needed.
‘The whole family, five others apart from us - plus the dog – I suppose you heard the bowl? Let me go first or they’ll be terrified!’
‘Okay,’ agreed Ross, ‘but no tricks, please, it won't help – as Andy said, we’re here to get you to safety.’
Chris nodded and bent down to open the cellar door. He started down the steps with Brady right behind him, followed by Matt and Ross. At the bottom, Chris gave the agreed knocking signal and the door opened.
‘It's alright, Dad, we’re okay. We've got visitors.’
The four men filed into the cellar as the Townsend family edged backwards.
Les spoke first.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
Brady attempted to calm the situation.
‘We’ve been sent from Brussels by Chloe’s mother to attempt a rescue. Your radio message was picked up by a helicopter a few days ago and we were dispatched on the direct orders of the Ambassador. Clearly, it's not what you know!’ he quipped.
He turned to Chloe, recognising her by photos shown him by her mother in Holland.
‘Hello, Chloe, I very pleased to meet you at last. I'm your father.’
Day 24
Tuesday 7th January
Sandringham House – Norfolk
It was almost 11pm and Sir Ian had completed all of the daily phone call commitment. In fact, he had been plagued by international leaders or their minions, demanding to know what steps were being taken to resolve the crisis. All of these calls were now diverted to a special office in Brussels manned by civil servants, who also spent their time fending off difficult questions and pleas from the media for information. Sir Ian only spoke to a chosen few – he had better things to do that repeat himself time after time.
One interesting development was that the US President had discovered the whereabouts of his sister-in-law. Clearly the Americans controlled assets which the rest of the world could only dream of.
Dame Ann was sitting with Sir Ian, discussing the proposed rescue plan for UK survivors. Of course, there were other problems to be solved, but it was agreed that survivor rescue must take priority.
‘Anne, can you outline the progress we've made with the rescue programme?’
‘Yes, but first, may I confirm that the daily broadsheet we discussed is indeed going to press as we speak. I contacted the chap from the Telegraph, and he has moved into the offices of a small local paper in Eindhoven, where other journalists will be sent when recruited. I’ve agreed to spend an hour each day giving him copy and the ‘party-line’ to publish. A system of distribution is being piggy-backed onto a German daily paper, so our people in the camps should get something tomorrow. Frankly, it's mostly bad news but today we've led with the rescue operation and tried to be as upbeat as possible.’
‘Well done, Ann, it's important that we keep our people as well informed as possible. In the final analysis, it will keep them off our backs so that we can get on with the job in hand. I’ll give you an Editorial each day if you like, as a sort of general overview.’
The Ambassador – or Deputy Prime Minister as she was now – continued.
‘Thank you, that would be very useful. Now, regarding rescue operations. The naval and military staffs in Brussels and elsewhere have been hard at work. That Admiral you promoted is a particularly useful chap. He’s drawn up a plan whereby all shipping at our disposal – which includes Royal Navy, Merchant Marine and some foreign vessels – have been deployed, and are on station awaiting first light tomorrow. The only qualification for this task is that every ship must have a heli-deck or heli-pad. Two helicopters have been allocated to each ship. Whilst one is on rescue ops, the other will be for crew rest, unloading and refuelling. These ships are crewed by the staff on board when all of this started – they’ve generally got nowhere else to go. We plan to commence operations at 0800 GMT tomorrow morning.
We've commandeered every UK based cruise liner and ferry, plus other nations have volunteered vessels and we are using them as hospital ships. These are strategically positioned around the UK. We have over fifty of these vessels at our disposal. Medical staff has been recruited from the pool of refugees in Europe and their families are being housed more permanently.
‘How many ships with helicopters have we got, Ann?’ Sir Ian queried tiredly.
‘I'm sorry, Ian, please let me clarify. There are about eight thousand miles of coastline surrounding the UK, but a lot of it is located round very small, mainly uninhabited islands in the North. The Admiral has drawn up a grid and he tells me that there is a ship positioned every 30-40 miles along the shoreline. They are more concentrated in the South of England, in the Bristol Channel, approaching the Clyde and around the Mersey due to population bulges. Most are standing a couple of miles offshore to avoid the ice – however, there are distinct signs that it is melting quite rapidly. It was never really that thick, so wave action and sunshine is dispersing it at a surprising rate.
We have had a separate fleet of high speed choppers criss-crossing the country all day yesterday and today, attempting to identify survivors. They’ve found precious few as yet! I think that many people still alive are so deep in the snow that they may not have yet realised that it has actually stopped sno
wing!
Nevertheless, I’ve drawn up a draft of a leaflet which I think we should be dropping to survivors all over the country – and I include Eire whenever I use that generic term. The information contained in it should serve two main purposes: firstly to bring survivors up to date with the situation and reassure them that rescue is coming; and secondly, some brief instructions on where best to position themselves for heli pick-up. The leaflet will be A5 sized and waterproof. I intend to employ a fleet of C-130 Hercules and Merlin helicopters to drop these everywhere. You’ll be gratified to learn that the RAF were pretty quick off the mark on the sixteenth of December, and got most of their aircraft off the ground and into our bases in Germany, where they are now on standby. Clearly, the crews will be desperately keen to return to the UK to find their own families, who they were forced to abandon. With your permission, I'm going to order a print run of ten million leaflets as a start. I’d like you to approve the wording before we retire tonight.’
Dame Ann handed over a proof to Sir Ian, who took five minutes to read through the information printed on both sides. He made a couple of minor changes and handed it back to Ann.
‘That's fine. Can we get this printed for tomorrow?’
‘No problem, there are three printing presses in France awaiting my go ahead. I’ll phone through the amendments now.’
‘That's excellent work, Ann, let's get some coffee sent in and we can talk through some other issues on my ever growing list.’
It was going to be a long night - one of many more to come.
Day 24
Tuesday 7th January
Claridges Hotel – Central London
Roisin O’Donnell, sister of the wife of the President of the United States, had been in London on a pre-Christmas shopping trip when the snow started on December fifteenth. She was accompanied by her husband, Josh, and her two teenage sons, Josh Jr and Padraig. The family had preceded the shopping trip with a seven day touring visit of Southern Ireland in an attempt to source Roisin’s Irish ancestors. After visiting several small villages in County Cork, they discovered a small graveyard where it appeared that a distant relation was buried. Satisfied that her Irish roots had been confirmed, they downed some celebratory Guinness in a small local hostelry and set off to the bright lights of London for the main event. They had been in their suite of four rooms for only twenty four hours when the troubles began.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 62