Page 11 of 59 Minutes
FRANKIE
‘How far was that village we passed?’
‘I’ll go now.’ Otis is already holding his car keys.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘It might not be safe, Frankie.’
‘If you don’t get back in time … and we’re separated when …’
It is an unbearable thought to finish and instead he hugs her, just quickly, and then they scramble out of the living room and down the unfamiliar hallway.
The little wooden door to the downstairs toilet is open.
Frankie really needs to pee but that’s out of the question. Everything is out of the question.
They run out of the front door, Otis’s face as grim as hers must be. She’s not used to him sharing her pessimism and it chills her. He needs to be the yang to her yin, but it’s all yin right now.
‘You must remain inside,’ the radio says, as they buckle up. Otis flashes her a look, just quickly, then turns the key.
As he reverses at speed and zooms back down the lane, her stomach surges.
The denim-blue paintwork of Otis’s car scrapes along tree roots, knotty banks and low-hanging tree branches.
He cared so much about his paintwork just hours, minutes, ago.
Neither of them is speaking, Frankie’s left hand snakes up to grip the grab handle over the door.
She feels hot with panic, her heart audible in her ears, her bladder prickling.
Mist starts to settle on the road in front of them, almost solid in the headlights. Grey shapes slide through the silver air, dissolving into aggressive hedgerows.
Otis is bull-breathing, fast and deep, as he white-knuckles the wheel and leans forward, pressing faster. The radio fills the silence but Frankie thinks for a moment that she can hear a distant siren.
Maybe the army is driving around in a truck, maybe it’s their war cry. Maybe it’s someone who will help them, and it won’t all come down to this, a mad trolley dash in an unfamiliar place. Will there be anything left in any shops? Will it be full Mad Max in that pretty little village?
‘Shit!’
A rabbit springs out from a hedge and Otis swerves automatically, just missing it and sliding almost head on into another car, which whips into a gateway just in time, beeping its horn.
Frankie closes her eyes and when she opens them, they’re still on the lane, still racing along. Otis normally drives this car like it’s a Fabergé egg. Now he’s driving like he’s in a video game.
Her skin itches from the adrenaline and she feels like she could wet herself.
Should they have caught that rabbit for food?
Jesus Christ. She’s not sure if she’s ridiculous for thinking that or crazy to dismiss it.
She’s vegetarian. How will that work with limited supplies?
She thinks of horror films. The way people turn, pick each other off, consume each other.
Did Wes Craven and George A. Romero do a better job of preparing her for the future than her school teachers?
The same calm male voice keeps its vigil on the radio.
An updated message on a loop. How many of these have they got prepared?
Did someone know this was happening? The voice urges them not to travel but what choice do they have?
He tells them to seek shelter, to conserve water, batteries, food and fuel.
That it is unlikely that emergency services will be able to help the majority of people.
He says this with the same flat tones as an HMRC advert reminding people to fill in their tax return or risk a penalty charge.
The voice changes to a woman, she’s speaking faster, as if catching her breath. Frankie looks up at Otis, but he’s staring at the road. He looks gaunt, somehow, like his stuffing has been seeping out into the footwell as he drives.
‘This is an emergency news broadcast from Pirate FM,’ the radio woman says, more sombrely than the station name would suggest. ‘Speaking from a secure location, the prime minister has sent the following message to all radio stations.’ There is a click and pause.
When the prime minister’s voice starts, it sounds like it’s been recorded in a train toilet.
‘Good evening, Britain. I am speaking to you directly to urge you to remain calm but act with haste and diligence. We have faced tough times before, and I am cheered to think of London during the Blitz and our NHS heroes during the Covid crisis. Then, as now, we endure.
‘I am under no illusion about the incredibly tough times to come, the likes of which we have never before seen. But with hard work and common sense, Britain will emerge, in some form, ready to rise and rebuild. They will not defeat us. God bless you all, and God save the King.’
‘God save the King,’ Otis says, slowly, but it sounds like a question.
Above them, the sky hangs swollen and black, but dead ahead is nothing but solid grey mist, a migraine aura. She grinds her teeth, working them so hard that a snap of pain shoots up one side of her skull.
The recorded messages return, telling them to make sure they seal any water bottles and keep some for washing as well as drinking. The voice coolly reminds listeners that the very worst thing to do now is go outside.
As Otis turns a sharp corner, he briefly loses control and judders across the barely visible road.
There is no one else out, no engine sounds, no lights.
Not a tractor, car or lorry load of military people coming to save the day.
The headlights swing loose as Otis rights himself and Frankie catches the outline of three horses, hanging their heads over a heavy metal gate.
Their breath blends with the mist and the car has passed them before Frankie can even wonder what they’re doing out after dark. What can they sense that’s got them het up? Are they a family? She realises her hand is on her belly again.
Is that a Dartmoor pony , she thinks. Was that really today?