Page 59 of 59 Minutes

FRANKIE

Along one cellar wall is an ancient futon, piled high with blankets and towels, one of its armrests hanging loosely from the joint. They sit together on it, like strangers in a waiting room.

And all she can think of is Otis.

And his heart as fast as an injured fox’s.

And the hole in the truck’s windscreen.

And all that blood.

‘Here.’ A nearby bucket is slid between Frankie’s aching feet warming in Janet’s socks. She retches but nothing comes out. She must block out thoughts of Otis, of how she just abandoned him. She has to think about something else, anything else …

‘My daughter Carrie,’ Janet says, suddenly. ‘And my little granddaughter Clementine …’ The words dissolve into a slow moan as she grips Frankie’s hand in hers.

Frankie can’t bear it. She wants her mum. Her brother Sebastian. Even her sly, volatile dad. She wants them all. Wants them to fold around her, absorb her, keep her and her baby safe. And more than anything, she wants Otis back, wrapped big around her and her poppy seed middle.

Frankie is not this woman’s daughter, this woman is not her mum. None of this is good enough, and it’s all they have.

Hopefully , Frankie thinks, astounded by the clarity of this, hopefully Otis has already passed and won’t suffer what is coming.

But still she pictures him waking up. Out there.

A cascade of questions overtake her. Was the car radio still on?

What about the dashboard clock, was it smashed or will he know, if he wakes, how much time he has?

Could he have woken already, gone looking for her?

And what about Ashley? Could he be outside now, could he—

Under her leg, something vibrates.

‘My phone,’ she says, grappling for it as it makes its second loud, unusual shriek today. She stares, unblinking. Not able, at first, to believe the words.

NUCLEAR MISSILE THREAT AVERTED. REPEAT. NUCLEAR MISSILE THREAT NO LONGER IN EFFECT.

‘Oh my god, Janet. Look.’

They both stare at her screen but cannot dare to believe it.

‘Is that true? Is that message real?’

‘Do you have a radio?’ Frankie asks Janet, urgently. ‘A TV?’

‘It’s Dartmoor, not the dark ages.’

Before Frankie has stood up, Janet is up with a knee-crack and a wince but she scrambles up the stairs as quick as a mountain goat.

She’s in the kitchen already when Frankie walks in, flicking on an oily radio near the hob.

Frankie holds her breath as the radio crackles to life.

It’s not a great signal, but they can hear the bewildered voice shouting out from its speaker, the same woman from earlier, the DJ from Pirate FM.

‘And I repeat, missile strike averted. Missile strike averted. Oh my god, we’re going to be okay. Lily, if you’re listening, Mummy loves you. I love you all. I repeat, missile strike averted.’