Spring 2015
THE LONDON CAGE
by Mark Leggatt
D
Norway 1982
own in the valley, at the foot of the glacier, the lights of the village appeared through the blizzard,
then blinked out as thick snowflakes flattened against the windshield. The wipers were losing the battle.
Another mile. The wind pummeled the windows. He wrestled with the steering wheel, foot hard to the
floor, trying to hold the car in a straight line. Keeping his eyes on the rocks to the right, he traced the
edge of the road alongside the glacier that towered above him, leading down to the village. The headlamps
dimmed as he ploughed into another drift, slowing the car to a crawl. The snow piled up over the
windshield, and he pulled the gear stick into neutral before the engine stalled. One more mile. They’ll have
a Rescue Station. And Norwegian Army. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, but it was black. They’ll be behind
me in minutes. A gust of wind slammed against the car and pushed the rear sideways.
The gear stick crunched into third and he slipped the clutch. The engine groaned and he could
smell the clutch plates burning, but the car remained jammed. The wheels spun as he reversed back,
then rammed the gearbox into second and shot forward. The hood disappeared under the drift and the
engine spluttered to a halt. For the love of God, just one more mile. He cranked the engine. The starter motor
groaned, then stopped. Soviet crap! He switched off the lights and heater, then tried once more. The
ignition clicked. Nothing happened.
He roared and pounded the steering wheel. If I try to walk out of here, I’m a dead man. He peered into
the darkness. The wipers stopped as the battery drained. The lights of the village were gone. There’s only
one way. Pulling up the hood on his jacket, he kicked open the door, forcing it aside enough to squeeze
through.
Holding the door for support, he looked up to where the rocks bordering the glacier ascended into
darkness. Take the high road. They’ll never find me. A hard gust of wind blew him along the side of the car.
Or maybe they’ll just find a body.
In front was a line of thin trees that led up a small ravine. He struggled forward, pulling on the
branches for support, bringing lumps of snow down onto his shoulders. The frozen twigs tore through
his gloves as he dragged himself higher. His breathing became heavy, and sweat soaked his back under
the thick coat. His glove slid off a branch, and he twisted right to avoid burying himself face first.
Turning his head, he looked back between the trees. Holy Jesus, thirty feet? Is that all? The hood of
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