Ice Diaries (24 page)

To my surprise, Morgan said, “We’ve
got time for a quick one, Tori.” He smiled at Serena. “Beer
for me.” He was up to something.

“I’ll have white wine,
then. Thanks.”

“Stay put and I’ll get them
for you. D’you know where Mike is?”

“On his way here, probably.”

As soon as we were alone, I hissed,
“Why are we hanging around? At any moment Mike could walk
through that door and we’d be trapped. It’s the only door
to the building, and the windows don’t open. And for all we
know, he’ll have thought of putting plasticene in his ears and
will shoot you on sight.”

“This is too good an opportunity
to miss. I want to get the spares for the sleds while we’re
here and he’s not. We need trailers, too.”

“But we don’t know where
his stuff is.”

“No, but Serena will. You just
ask her casually which flat they’re staying in, without making
a big thing of it, then I’ll snoop around while you keep her
talking. We’ll only have one drink, it won’t take long.
On the way out we’ll look for their trailers.”

I wasn’t totally convinced, and
the thought of meeting Mike again made me shake; but remembering the
ACE not working, I could see spares were important for our journey.
Morgan said we should hide the sleds just in case. On the way out he
detoured to the queue at the bar. Waiting for him by the counter, I
noticed that besides packets of peanuts and biscuits, priced 1g, the
glass shelves held sandwiches made with real bread, 5g, white and
thickly cut. I hadn’t eaten bread for a year. Someone must have
a bread machine. My mouth watered. Then I saw bowls of fresh green
salad, 4g. My eyes widened. Morgan touched Serena’s arm, making
her jump.

“We’ll be back, there’s
something we’ve got to do.”

The only building nearby was the top of
a scruffy sixties high rise, spotted with satellite dishes; the snow
lay conveniently a metre above the balconies, so we were able to tuck
the sleds under cover, round the back where they weren’t too
conspicuous. Snow was falling more heavily again; I was not keen on
the idea of travelling through it on a sled. We might get stuck out
in the open. Back in Strata we took off our jackets and made
ourselves comfortable on the sofa vacated by David and co. Anxious
though I was, it was bliss to sit down in the warm. I unlaced my damp
boots so I could curl my socked feet beneath me. Morgan stretched
then put his arm around me, rubbing my shoulder, and kissed my cheek
quickly.

Serena wove between the sofas, carrying
three drinks and packets of peanuts. She no longer had the gloss that
had been so evident when we first met; she looked more ordinary, as
if the effort to be well-groomed had become too much for her. “Sorry
to be so long.” She put the tray on the low table in front of
us and plonked herself down next to me. “It’s ridiculous,
the bar is the only place here you can get a drink, and it gets
crowded evenings. There aren’t any local shops, not that you
can get at anyway, so they do regular trips to the nearest
supermarket but everything they bring in belongs to the commune and
you have to buy it from the shop.” She waved in the direction
of an open door at the far end with a home-made sign above in
multi-coloured letters, STRATA MARKET.

Morgan said, “What’s the
currency?”

“Credits.” She fished a
green plastic disc out of her pocket and handed it to me.
Waitrose
was embossed on one side. I passed it to Morgan. “They call
them greenies. There’s only so many in circulation, and you
have to earn them from other people. It’s quite a clever
system, because it makes everyone work because they need money to
stockpile stuff. You never know how long something’ll be
available in the shop. There’s not much I can do, except
babysitting. I refuse to dig rubbish pits or empty latrines and Mike
doesn’t like to see me scrubbing the floors. I wouldn’t
mind a bar job, but he’s against that too. One hour’s
work gets you three credits, and a glass of wine costs two.”

Serena had just spent the equivalent of
three hours’ babysitting on us. I gave her back the greenie,
and sipped my wine more slowly. If I’d known, I’d have
brought her some of my bottles from Bézier.

As if reading my mind she added, “I’ve
got a few bottles in the flat, but you can’t drink them in
here, it’s not allowed and they make a terrible fuss. You
wouldn’t believe how many rules they’ve got.”

“You ought to dig down to another
Waitrose and get loads of discs then you’d be rich. Of course,
it would cause rampant inflation. Prices would rocket.”

She laughed. “They’d have
to go on the gold standard. Mike’d be pleased.”

“So do you have a flat here?”

“Yes, on the sixteenth floor,
that’s seven above snow level.” I couldn’t help
glancing quickly at Morgan. “It’s only occupied up to
there. The committee has to approve anyone wanting to stay. They have
a meeting where they ask all sorts of questions to see what you have
to offer, whether you’ll fit in and if they like you. They
liked Mike all right,” she gloomed. “Predictably. Then
they allocate you a flat sort of on probation and Ginger wires it up
for you so you’ve got underfloor heating and electricity. You
have to pay rent.”

I opened a packet of peanuts. “Who’s
Ginger?”

“He’s a genius mechanic who
got the turbines working. He lives right at the top in the penthouse
so he’s on hand to keep them going. Sometimes they freeze or
get snowed up. Other times the wind blows too hard for them to work.
He’s fixed up a load of car batteries for when the turbines
stop, but they only last twenty-four hours. The committee gives you a
list of instructions about not using too much electricity.”

Morgan said, “Who’s in
charge?”

“Randall Pack. He set the place
up originally.”

Morgan got to his feet. “Back in
a minute.”

Serena pointed. “They’re
through that door, on the left.” She watched him stroll away
and sighed. “He’s a dish. You’re so lucky, Tori.
Imagine what it’s like, living with Mike.”

“Why don’t you leave him?
You’ve got the keys to your sled. Just pack up a trailer and
clear out. Go south.”

She looked as wistful as a puppy by a
dining table. “I wish I could … the thing is, I know I
couldn’t do it alone. I’m hopeless at organizing stuff.
I’d get lost or realize in the middle of nowhere I hadn’t
brought the right kit.”

“Couldn’t you find some
reliable man and offer him a lift south on your sled in exchange for
him sorting out all the logistics? There must be someone suitable
here.”

“If there is I haven’t met
him yet. I’d trust Ginger, but he’d never leave his
turbines. No one else could keep them going. I say, d’you want
to meet him? If the lift’s working, that is. I often go up
there to smoke. The view’s amazing, though of course you can’t
see it now because it’s dark. But he’ll be there. He
doesn’t come down much.”

“I don’t think we’ve
got time. We can’t hang about in case Mike comes back.”

I told her everything that had happened
after she’d left Bézier. It took a while. Her eyes got
rounder as the story went on.

“God, how lucky you thought of
saying that! I couldn’t quite believe Mike really meant to kill
Morgan. So as soon as he gets hold of earplugs, he’ll take a
pot shot at him?”

“Seems likely. D’you know
how long he’s planning on staying here?”

“He hasn’t said. I’d
like to know, because I haven’t got much money and if we’re
staying I seriously need to get round to earning some. You have to
pay for everything here.”

“How did you manage when you
first arrived?”

“The Welfare Committee gave us a
loan – sixty greenies between us, and believe me, that doesn’t
last long. They’re like some Victorian charity, expounding the
virtues of hard work, telling you the community can’t be
expected to support you. They suggest things you can do to make
money. There’s always work melting snow for water – the
inside set-up’s not bad, they have an immersion heater you feed
snowballs into, but you can end up outside feeding fires under
bathtubs and lugging buckets of snow. You have to be on your last
legs before they give you a handout. It’s all right for Mike,
the man he did the swap with for the gun paid him a load of greenies
as well. He’s only given me a few now and then. I had to sell a
pair of boots, my best ones. Boy, am I fed up with him.”

At that moment Morgan reappeared
looking pleased with himself, a small backpack he hadn’t had
before slung over one shoulder. “Snow’s getting worse.
We’d better wait a bit before we leave.”

Serena said, “Hey, Morgan, d’you
want to go to the top of the building and meet Ginger?”

He didn’t answer at once.
Something outside had caught his attention. I swivelled to look
through the windows. Two round lights were visible through a swirling
veil of snow, gradually getting larger; approaching snowmobile
headlights. I shoved my boots on and tied the laces hastily, pocketed
the peanuts, grabbed my backpack and leaped up. The lights swept
across the steamy windows and stopped right next to the other sleds.
Three dimly-visible figures got off.

Serena turned to see what we were
looking at. “Oh God, Mike’s back.”

Morgan said, “I’ve got a
sudden crazy urge to see turbines. Let’s roll.”

The three of us walked fast, back the
way Morgan had just come, hurrying without seeming to.

Ice Diaries ~ Lexi Revellian

The door led into a dimly-lit white
corridor. On the wall the numbers 09, two feet high in silvery grey
paint, told us where we were. Three lifts stood at the far side.

“Oh good, they’re working,”
said Serena, noting the glowing light on the steel panel. She pushed
the button. Seconds trickled by while I silently cursed our bad luck
and ran through possible scenarios. What we’d needed was for
the snow to have obligingly got worse the instant we arrived,
preventing Mike getting to Strata, then to have lightened when we
were ready to go; and it had done the opposite. We had a limited
amount of time before Mike found out we were here. David, Katie or
Eddie would tell him as soon as they saw him. And someone in Strata
would have earplugs, if he hadn’t improvised something already …
I wondered if he’d be prepared to use the gun in public, or
would wait until he could trap us on our own. Unless he’d
lingered in the Hall he might walk round the corner at any moment.

I stared at the lift, willing it to
hurry, and noticed a printed sheet of A4 sellotaped at eye level:

THE LIGHTS WILL FLASH THREE TIMES
BEFORE I CUT THE POWER TO THE LIFTS.

Ginger

Serena saw what I was looking at. “He
turns them off if we’re getting low on electricity, and
everyone has to use the stairs. That’s why he’s the only
one who lives at the top.”

I was thinking we should take the
stairs when a lift arrived and its doors parted with a sigh. Three
men got out. The first was tall and striking and wore dark glasses
and a rakish military-style jacket. With his craggy good looks,
shaggy hair and the bunch of pendants round his neck he made me think
of an aging rock star. He had the air of relaxed confidence and
authority that derives from success, money and the respect of others.
He stopped and cast an eye over us. The men with him stopped too.

“Guests?” He turned to
Serena. “Who’s sponsoring them? You?”

“Yes,” she said. “This
is Tori and Morgan. They’re just here till the snow lightens.”

He nodded. “Enjoy your stay,”
he said to us, and walked towards the Hall.

“That’s Randall,” she
said, getting in the lift. We followed her. “Visitors have to
have someone who’s answerable for their good behaviour. I
should have told you. Just don’t get in a brawl while you’re
here, you’d get me into trouble.”

Morgan said, “Who deals with that
sort of thing?”

“The Peace Committee.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Orwellian
name.”

“Oh, it’s more hippy than
totalitarian. The committees rule on the small stuff, and anything
major goes to Randall. Once or twice he’s kicked people out. He
has this laid-back manner, but they say he’s ruthless if you
cross him.”

The lift moved smoothly up to the
fortieth floor. Taped to the wall beside me was a handwritten notice:

If the lift stops press Alarm and I
will restart it long enough for you to get to the floor you want and
out. Don’t use it after that or you’ll be stuck till I
turn it on again. And it’ll be YOUR OWN FAULT so don’t
bother moaning to me about it because I won’t care.

Ginger

“What happens if the power gets
low while we’re up here? Will we have to walk down the stairs?”

Serena laughed. “No, Ginger would
turn it on for us. He’s an old softie really, he just gets fed
up with people trying to take advantage.”

We got out of the lift, Franz Ferdinand
immediately assaulting our ears, and followed Serena to an open door.
She banged on it and went in. “Hi Ginger, it’s me.”

A large space; what had originally been
the most expensive duplex in the building. That it had been designed
specifically to impress was just a bit too obvious; the place was
jumping up and down waving and squealing, “Look at ME!”
Massive struts, pillars and beams reminded the visitor this was no
ordinary apartment, but a penthouse in an iconic groundbreaking piece
of architecture. Huge slanting windows ran the length of a double
height living room, their glass obscured by a clinging layer of snow.
To our left a steel and glass staircase rose past vertical panes
displaying what had once been a spectacular panorama of London
lights, and was now a view of blackness with swirling snowflakes. The
room held an idiosyncratic mix of opulent show-flat furniture and
workshop equipment. The work area was lit by bare light bulbs
dangling from looped flexes. A trail of grime on the carpet led from
a lathe, some other machines I couldn’t identify and benches
piled with tools, to a well-used grubby section of the long L-shaped
mocha sofa. A laptop sat open on a coffee table; beside it a printer,
stacks of DVDs, a full ashtray, the remains of a meal, and a fishbowl
full of greenies. Cans of beer littered the floor. The room smelled
of machine oil and cigarette smoke, and Take Me Out belted from a
sound system that wouldn’t have been out of place at a rock
concert.