Doctor Who_ Time and Relative - Kim Newman [8]
The drifts in the gutters and on the pavements are several feet thick. Dogs and cats are frozen solid under some of them, probably not in suspended animation.
The Star, News and Standard each give different figures, but people have died. Every day, there's a story about a pensioner expiring in a fridge-like flat, or a lost child turning up white and lifeless. There is skating on the Serpentine, but a student rag crew has been banned from doing a charity walk on the Thames. Current still runs under the floes, and the ice in the middle of the river is dangerously thin.
Our School snowman isn't the only one. Parks and allotments are full of the fellows. Some kids have dressed up their creations like bishops or bowler-hatted gents and ask passers-by for pennies, like for Guy Fawkes' Night. At the bus stop, children have shaped a drift into a row of fat folk waiting for now-rare buses.
The High Street is swept and salted. It was busy today. A lot of shops close most of the week, because of the quiet crisis, but open on Saturday morning. That means people have to get all their things at once.
The Pump, the pub on the corner, has newly-raised prices for brandies and spirits chalked up outside. In opening hours, there are always motorbikes parked outside The Pump, with lads in black leather jackets comparing the noises they can get out of their machines and jeering at anyone who complains about the racket. They call themselves the TonUp Boys. Apparently, you can't get into the gang unless you've driven your bike at over a hundred miles an hour ('the Ton') and lived to tell the tale. Now, the motorcyclists all wrap their bikes up in canvas shrouds and make even more noise getting them started because the points ice over. I'm always sure to cross the road so as not to walk past the pub when the Ton-Up Boys are out and about. They say horrid things to any girls in sight, even those as tiny and unnoticeable as me.
I went to the shops for Grandfather, with a list. There are shortages, and I couldn't get everything. Eggs, bread and tea are difficult. In the queues, women were talking about rationing coming back. Milk is impossible to find. The float stopped coming round two weeks ago. Bottles left on doorsteps froze and the pintas popped top-bursting white fingers. A lot of shops have policemen supervising the queues, with thick capes and helmets. Some people get shirty. Truncheon-prods are not unknown.
I spent my pocket money (6d) on chocolate, but it was frozen and I hurt my teeth eating it.
'Hello, Forehead,' called a voice.
It was John the Martian, sitting in the passenger seat of a jeep. At weekends, he wears a woolly army jumper instead of a blazer. Today, he wore a black balaclava that bulged out at the sides over his glasses-arms.
The balaclava didn't cover enough of his face to conceal scarlet blushes.
'Hello, John,' I said. Since the business with Ghastly, I'm careful not to use nicknames when talking to people. (I don't know how Gillian gets away with it.)
I was puzzled about the blushes. Then I realised John doesn't naturally talk to girls. It's only when Gillian is around that it seems the done thing. Out of School, he isn't sure if he should admit I exist.
'I'm here with Dad,' said John.
Soldiers were in the High Street, setting up an inspection point. Captain Brent, John's father, was bossing the soldiers about, doing his best to be polite to women in queues who asked him questions. He was better at the bossiness than the politeness.
'We're taking over from the civilian authorities for the duration of the Emergency,' said John
'What Emergency?'
'The cold. It's an Attack. Anyone can tell that this isn't natural. It's being done to us. It'll be official, soon.'
John's father came back to the jeep. He had a younger soldier with him, his driver.
'Who's your little friend, Johnno?'
'Uh, Fore ...'
'Susan Foreman,' I said.
'Same school