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mess down south, and
rescuing UK survivors is not high on the agenda, if indeed it figures
at all. Still, the others think it’s a possibility; one which
helps to give our current life the illusion of transience. We have a
rota and go in turns each morning to sweep the snow off, a job that
takes twenty minutes and seems particularly futile when it’s
actually snowing and the letters get covered up even as you clear
them. Yellow paint, or red, might have been a better choice. But we
all go on doing it faithfully. It’s a habit now.
    Morgan raised his eyebrows. Now and then
when the light catches his eyes you can see they are ice blue like a
sled dog’s. “When was the last time you saw a plane or
helicopter?”
    “Nearly a year ago, when they
were evacuating. Before we had the sign painted.”
    “Bit of a waste of effort, then.”
    “There’s a chance a plane
will fly over. You never know.”
    “There’s a chance Father
Christmas and his reindeer will fly over too, but I wouldn’t
hold my breath.”
    Morgan was right, of course. We’re
wasting our time. Rescue won’t come.
    I led the way into the tower, torch at
the ready, though I didn’t need it yet. Whoever gets there
first lights tea lights in glass holders positioned at intervals down
the stairs with a communal Bic lighter. It’s there because none
of us wanted to use up our own matches or lighters, though we all
carry them. (Sometimes people forget to bring the lighter to the top
again, and the first arrival the next time gets ratty and holds an
inquisition to find out who was responsible. Most of us can be quite
petty on occasion, I think because of the strain of our isolated
circumstances.) Today they were lit, meaning someone was already
there. We went down the eight flights of narrow staircase, each
darker than the last, snow pressed against the windows. At the
halfway mark we passed my favourite notice, written by a now defunct
Nina-type, asking the person who had been spitting into the chute
hopper to desist as it could spread TB, also the person who had been
smoking on the stairs to stop this practice with immediate effect. At
every other floor doors lead to a lobby with lifts, and long dingy
corridors that access the flats. I’ve broken into all of them
over time, looking for a go-cart or other useful items.
    It’s strange when you get to
street level as it’s so very different from how things used to
be. The shops are dark, enclosed and claustrophobic. The lack of
light makes it seem even colder than on the surface. I wear a small
torch on a chain round my neck which is surprisingly effective,
lighting my feet so I can see where I’m treading. We passed
through an emergency door to a passage hollowed out of compacted
snow, and stepped into the supermarket via a large hole smashed in
the plate glass. Dim lights glimmered at the back, and we went
towards them. Rats chirped and squeaked, skittering away from our
torchlight. At the entrance to the stockroom Sam was stacking boxes
ready to take out. A candle in a lantern enabled her to see what she
was doing. She looked up and smiled at me.
    “Hi Tori.”
    “Hi, how’s it going?”
    Morgan had wandered off, poking round
the displays (he had his own torch) and now he joined us. His gaze
went to Sam, and stayed there. For a moment I saw her through his
eyes. Petite, curvy, blonde and immaculate in a white ski suit, she
glowed against her surroundings like a Hollywood star on a
post-apocalyptic film set. She’s the only one of us who bothers
with her appearance on a daily basis. Me, I stick with basic hygiene
and practical clothes except for our parties once a month when I make
a bit of an effort. Sam is pretty, and makes the most of it. She
streaks her hair with Charlie’s help, always wears makeup, and
puts polish on her nails. At home she even wears skirts and high
heels. You have to admire her attitude.
    Morgan moved in like a leopard who’s
spotted a gazelle. “Hi. I’m Morgan. Who are