Snow Blind Read Online Free

manually, a world where words are hardly used. Fashioning potatoes and children from seed, soil and sunshine is his contribution to life. Our physicality is completely different; he is hewn from our father’s rock-like presence, me from my mum’s delicate ancestry.
    â€œBeen here long?” I ask.
    â€œNo, Sandra and the kids just dropped me off in the Land Rover.” I imagine the mayhem of seven bodies crammed into the far reaches of the vehicle, some seated, some on sheep dip canisters.
    â€œSophia, right good to see you.” He offers his grinding roughskinned grip to her.
    â€œBepe nearly had an accident outside. Dan let him run out of the airport and almost let him be knocked over by a taxi.”
    â€œAre you stupid or what? Why did you do that?” He is happy to instantly blame me rather than seek further explanation. He exchanges worn glances with Sophia; both are paid-up members of a responsible parent club that I have been blackballed from. Sophia treats me like Bepe’s sad older brother who has yet to leave home.
    â€œListen, will I know any of these characters?” Chris is worried.
    â€œOf course. Johnny and Max from my year at school, Robert you met at college once and of course Juliet.” The last name betrays information I withheld till the very last. I have avoided telling everyone except Jonny my best man and Sophia, in the hope of skipping past inevitable resistance.
    â€œWhat, women on a stag do!”
    â€œListen, she was a good friend.” She was much more but I cannot remind anyone of that.
    â€œSounds a bloody odd bunch.” With that he withdrew his approval and sat it squarely on a fence, waiting for the appropriate time to chide my ill-judged selection. Old rogue friends and an ex-girlfriend, who I broke up horrendously with; it didn’t exactly feel risk free.
    Bepe reminds us he is still here by firing his gun at the stomach of the security guard who starts to move towards us. I pick him up quickly. They scowl but ignore the non-lethal weapon in my son’s hand despite the briefing from outside.
    â€œLet’s go up to check-in guys,” I say.
    â€œPostman Pat,” Bepe thinks the security guard has the look of a village mailman about him as we ascend the escalator which runs alongside the inside windowed shell of the building. We rise above the two taxi drivers who are now occupied with the police. The angel who returned my son has flown. A brief contemplation of what might-havebeen causes me to stumble at the top.
    â€œFace forward, can’t you read?” Chris points out a sign that I would never have thought I would have needed.
    I ignore SELF SERVICE CHECK - IN , a concept I mistrust completely, to find DESKS 23–26.
    S EE A MEMBER OF STAFF BEFORE YOU JOIN THIS QUEUE – another sign barks at me, denying me my right to join the great British queue.
    Bags shuffle forward in the dreaded line. Some owners are desperate to unburden themselves and proceed to retail therapy; others are starting their holiday right here. Chris and I pass over our luggage. We agree to check in separately so we can both get aisle seats; me because of oversized legs, Chris because of an oversized body.
    â€œHere’s Johnny!” Sophia is unaware of the grimacing axe-wielding face in my head, rolling his eyes through a wooden door. Johnny offers nothing but solace, we smile at each other knowing that there is love with no edge. No proving, no probing, just approval and openness. I first noticed his unkempt rebel fringe in class 3R and we have co-existed since. I can show him my soul and he will nourish it. We completely unite over the post-punk musical tapestry that succoured us through adolescent acne-afflicted angst. He will add a dose of calm to the heady stag brew.
    â€œLook who I found, Dan,” Johnny’s appearance has a sting in its tail. Back at self check-in, I see the fit scrubbed presence of Robert. His feathered