Prologue
13th December 1931
A bitterly cold wind blew through the streets of New York, but Winston Churchill was comfortable in the back of his taxi cab. He looked out of the window as the city moved past, regarding the grey outlines of the buildings swathed in a continual thick downpour of snow. He had agreed to meet his friend Bernard Baruch at 1055 Fifth Avenue, but it was late and in the darkness he had difficulty discerning one building from the next. His driver was little help, as it turned out that he was nearly as new to the city as himself. Winston sighed and squinted, hoping that would help penetrate the snow, gloom and his lack of knowledge of the city.
The outline of a particular building sparked some sense of recognition in him and he asked the driver to stop so he could take a closer look. Stepping out, he suddenly realised how cold it was. Gathering his coat about him he stomped up the pavement and gazed at the building he believed was his rendezvous. Even at this angle, he couldn't tell if his premonition had anything to it. With a grunt of frustration, he stepped to the curb and looked right to check for traffic. Satisfied, he began to cross the road.
He never felt the car hit him. One moment he was walking across the road, the next he was flat on his back nearly on the other side of the street, staring at the night sky made wholly black by heavily laden clouds and feeling the cold snowflakes settling on his face. He heard shouts, but they seemed to come from far away as if he were submerged. He gasped and his chest felt as if a great weight had been placed on it. The darkness above him, framed by the buildings seemed to be growing, pulsing in time with the beating of his heart, shadows moving like treacle across the windows, bricks and doors.
He groaned and tried to sit up, but his arms felt numb and a stabbing sensation shot through his right shoulder. His breath seemed to catch in his throat and he choked on nothing. He collapsed into the snow again. His vision was growing blurry and the shadows continued to trickle down the buildings and across the ground toward him. He saw figures crowding around him, concerned eyes staring down at him, mouths asking questions he couldn’t hear or answer. He tried to move but his legs did nothing.
The darkness enveloped the figures, so they were just silhouettes crowding around him, heads, shoulders, arms, hands merging together and with the ground, the buildings and the sky until he could see nothing. The last sensation he felt before he let go of consciousness altogether was the snow still drifting down from the sky and settling upon him, melting into icy water on his skin.