The Last Minute

by Eleanor Updale

  Lucy spots the mitten, on the floor by the magazines.

  Outside, Matey carries on: ‘“ . . . way to spend . . .”’

  ‘Mummy!’

  Max’s mother stands up, still helping the girls with their useless scissors, and their tubes of glue.

  At the florist’s shop, Janine lifts some flowers out of a bucket and turns them over to snip their stems. Accidentally on purpose, water drips from them onto Nick’s canvas shoes.

  Outside the bakery, Joe catches Paul’s eye. He shrugs and rolls his eyes to heaven as Lotte flicks the imaginary scarf over her shoulder a second time. Paul reads Joe’s gesture as meaning Crackers but harmless, which more or less sums up his own view of the engaging old bird. At the same moment, they both hear Joe’s mother calling from inside the shop.

  TICK

  13 seconds to go . . .

  ‘JUST A MINUTE, Mum,’ says Joe, who’d feel rude denying Lotte an audience of two for her magnificent performance. He can guess what’s happened, and feels in his pocket for his own car keys. He’s sure the school won’t start their celebrations without Sheila, so there’s no need to rush.

  In the world of Jack and Pete, the drunken Scotsman is still showering his friend with thanks for making his last night on earth the best of his life: ‘“ . . . the lascht day . . .”’

  Over by the pet shop, Kate’s face brightens as the cyclist continues: ‘ . . . only direct action . . .’ At last, someone who agrees with her!

  Just a few metres from them, Kelly Viner, still worrying about how to get through the traffic jam, has at last got through to her dad. The first thing he hears is her squeal of fright as Gillie Dougall, her eyes wide with panic, plonks the cake box down on the bonnet of Kelly’s car, so she can pick up the lid.

  ‘ . . . and eight.’ The first round of leg-lifts is over. Half the class were relaxing on the count of seven.

  ‘Mummy!’

  Sam watches Max’s mother walk towards the window. He’s hoping she will take the boy away so he can give the glass a good wipe before the manager sees the state it’s in.

  With one hand supporting her pregnant tummy, Lucy bends to pick up the mitten. The movement makes her unborn baby kick again.

  ‘Must go . . .’ says Terry to his distraught friend.

  On the street beneath him, the Krasinskis’ motorbike has come to a stop, unable either to get through the traffic or, because of the digger and the trench, back up onto the pavement. Even if it could, Stan Krasinski would have a job finding a way past the florist and the charity boy, the animal-rights girl and the man with the bicycle. So the hospital cleaners are now stuck with everyone else. They are pretty sure they are going to lose some pay. What they don’t know is that the policeman behind them is making a note of their registration number. They may be fined as well.

  At air-traffic control, the trainee who has been assigned the task of handling what was supposed to be a routine landing calls for help.

  ‘Please stay seated,’ says the co-pilot. Two attendants are sitting on Daniel Donovan in the aisle. He’s still protesting that they’ve got the wrong man, but they’re holding his face against the floor, and it’s impossible to make out what he is saying.

  Dorothy Long is shaking with shock. The strange young man lying across her lap appears to be unconscious. But who knows what he was planning? Is there a timer ticking somewhere on the plane, ready to blow it out of the sky? Has he got accomplices elsewhere in the cabin? She wishes she could reach to get the picture of her grandson out of her handbag. If she’s going to die, she wants the image of his innocent face to be the last thing she lays eyes on. But the body slumped across her means she can’t move, and her bag has been stowed for landing anyway. She doesn’t want to break the rules, and she doesn’t want to make a fuss, so she sits and prays, for the first time in her life.

  Stuart’s praying too, and with equal lack of hope. Sweating now, despite the cold, he makes the mistake of pushing his hair back off his clammy forehead with his dirty hand.

  ‘Adieu, mes amis,’ Lotte repeats, even more passionately languid than before.

  TOCK

  12 seconds to go . . .

  THERE’S A THUMPING noise and a whirr from the belly of the plane. It’s the normal sound of the wheels going down in preparation for landing, but it brings squeals of panic from some of the passengers.

  ‘“ . . . of my life,”’ says Matey, preparing to switch back to his own voice.

  Outside the pet shop, the cyclist is jumbling the code numbers on his combination lock, still talking to Kate, the animal-rights campaigner: ‘ . . . will achieve anything.’

  ‘Don’t worry . . .’ she says, over his bent back, before he has even finished speaking.

  At the coffee-shop window, Max is pointing at the hearse. ‘Mummy, why . . .’ he asks.

  ‘Other side!’ Maggie is not going to let the exercise class lose momentum.

  Lucy slowly straightens up, panting, and slightly dizzy, the mitten safely in her hand.

  Gillie is bending down now, balancing the cake box on Kelly’s car bonnet with one hand, and reaching for the lid on the ground with the other. It’s too far for her to stretch without losing her balance.

  On the kerb, only a few metres away, Sharon taps Anthony Dougall on the shoulder. The policeman closes his notebook. To Anthony’s fury, he starts walking towards the Krasinskis’ motorbike.

  As Terry slips one arm into his overcoat, ready to make a dash for work, his friend launches into even more intimate detail of his troubles.

  Too late, Stuart realizes that he now has mud, or worse, somewhere on his face, and possibly in his hair as well.

  TICK

  11 seconds to go . . .

  THE SUPERVISOR IN air-traffic control walks towards the flustered trainee.

  ‘ . . . and two . . .’ The regulars in the class know that Maggie is being kind. She’s counting the lifts before some of them have even changed legs.

  ‘ . . . we’ve got that covered,’ says Kate, slightly offended that the cyclist thought her commitment to her cause stopped at sticking up posters. There’s so much more she could tell him, if Jon hadn’t dinned into her the need for caution: Remember. You never know who you’re talking to. Maybe she’s already said too much. And now the policeman is looking in their direction. Should she run, or try to get Lycra Man to help the cause?

  The florist steps towards her shop door. Nick blocks her way, desperate to get his first sign-up of the day. He’s talking about regular payments – small donations that can do great good . . .

  ‘Pub at six?’ says Terry, hoping that will get him off the phone in time to save his job, while giving his friend a reason to keep going through the day.

  Down the street, Matey takes on a portentous tone: ‘But Jack was glum.’

  Holding up the mitten, Lucy puts on her sing-song voice for Chloe. ‘Here it is, darling,’ she says.

  Max’s mother is trying to pull him away from the window, to join the girls with the glitter and the glue, but he tears himself out of her grasp, pointing at the hearse, and saying, ‘Why’s that box . . .’

  More mourners arrive at the church, one of them carrying a stack of service sheets, fresh from the printers. He gives one to the vicar, who is back at the door, ready to receive the coffin. The leaflet is a gaudy affair, with a picture on the front of the dead man, Donald Whyman, raising a pint on a quayside. The vicar chants Donald in his head. Good job he checked. Now all he needs to do is find a way to get rid of the confetti from his pocket without being seen.

  Watching from beside the diesel pump, where he’s lifting out the nozzle, ready to fill up with fuel, the taxi driver is confused. His passenger is walking away from the cash machine. Surely there hasn’t been time for him to get money out? The taxi driver shouts and waves, to show the man where he is waiting.

  A few metres away, Lotte has paused for dramatic effect before revealing Isadora Duncan’s real last words. She’s tossing the phantom scarf i
n the air and showering kisses on an imaginary crowd of admirers.

  ‘Joe!’

  ‘Just a minute, Mum.’

  Stuart has the idea of using the screen of his phone as a mirror, to see just how dirty his face is.

  TOCK

  10 seconds to go . . .

  STUART’S POCKET IS empty. He looks down, and sees his phone lying screen-down in the muck.

  ‘Problem on GX413,’ shouts the trainee at air-traffic control.

  The taxi passenger doesn’t seem to be looking for the cab. He’s going in the wrong direction, up the side road, away from the High Street, round the corner to the side of the church.

  Matthew Larkin is still painting the thermometer sign. The vicar hopes the traffic will hold up the hearse and the family cars long enough for Matthew to finish his work and move the ladder before the widow sees it.

  At the other end of the roadworks, Ritzi, the little golden cocker spaniel puppy, is more boisterous than ever, still tugging at the lead, and now jumping up on Matey, who keeps talking while patting her head: ‘The dying man . . .’

  And on her phone in the car at the head of the traffic jam, Kelly Viner is talking so quickly that her father can’t understand what she is saying.

  ‘ . . . and three . . .’ The exercise class is formed of two distinct groups now: those at the front, who are just getting into their stride, and those at the back, who are already struggling.

  The postman rings Mariam’s doorbell again, trying to deliver the parcel. She hears the bell this time, but she isn’t dressed, and her pyjamas are soaking wet, so she ignores it.

  Noel Gilliard has given up the idea of writing anything for posterity. He clicks the email icon on his desktop.

  Downstairs, Lenny Gibbon is trying to untie his trainers, ready to have his feet measured. He says nothing, but it’s clear that he’s furious with his mother about the slap. He only just managed to stop himself hitting her back. It won’t be long before he’s bigger than her, and they both know it.

  In the coffee shop, Juliet stares anxiously at the auction screen. The red countdown shows thirty seconds to go till the end of the auction. Ten seconds till she has to press the button to reveal her bid. She knows that somewhere another woman has a maximum price in mind. It may be higher than hers, and all her plotting may be futile.

  Inches away, little Max tugs on his mother’s arm, and repeats, ‘Why’s that box . . .’

  Terry is still trying to get away from his friend on the phone. ‘You’ll be OK?’ he asks.

  On the coach, only three children are quiet. One is Jeff Quinn. He’s ignoring the mayhem all around him, and doing the word search in his judo magazine: looking for terms like ippon, hansoku-make, and waza-ari. He can’t get his mind off tonight’s contest – not that he really wants to. He can’t wait for this theatre trip to be over, and to get into his judo suit, ready for the bout.

  The second is Rahil, who is plugged into his sister’s phone, and using the Internet at her expense.

  The third is Calum, the florist’s son, no longer wired up, but counting his money, and thinking about the present he is going to buy his mum.

  From outside the baker’s, Paul gives Deanna a reassuring wave, as Lotte reveals the truth about Isadora Duncan’s last words. She cocks her head to one side, and her French accent becomes even more luscious than before. ‘Je vais à l’amour!’ she purrs.

  TICK

  9 seconds to go . . .

  LOTTE REACHES FORWARD and grasps Paul’s hands, staying in character for the unnecessary translation. ‘I’m off to love!’ she cries, embarrassing and amusing him at the same time.

  Relieved to be given the cue to get away, he waves down the hill to a bemused Deanna.

  Stuart bends forward again. No more ripping. A small mercy. His trousers must have reached their limit. He picks up the filthy phone. The screen will be no use as a mirror now.

  Rory Lennahan, who was never interested in seeing the horses, has finished his crisps now, and is blowing into the empty bag, ready to pop it. Two rows back, Shilpa Kohli is picking at the split ends of her long black hair.

  Beside her, Melinda Hurst is filing her nails. Like Jeff, the judo boy, they are excited; but they’re trying to hide it. They’ve both had enough of Heathwick, and they plan to break away from the class when they get to the theatre. Someone Melinda met on the Internet is going to meet them nearby. They’ve got money, fake ID and a change of clothes in their bags. They’re not planning to catch the coach back.

  The taxi driver calls out again to his passenger, who is disappearing round the corner by the pub. Flustered, he looks back at the cab. He’s right. The luggage is still there. The cases alone are worth a fortune, never mind whatever is inside them . . . Whatever is inside them . . .

  ‘ . . . and four . . .’

  ‘Why’s that box . . .’

  In the coffee shop, the chocolate cake woman has finally picked up her order: so many things that they’ve had to give her a tray. She’s looking for somewhere to sit with her noisy children. Juliet pushes her laptop towards the centre of the table, to try to make it look as full and uninviting as possible.

  ‘ . . . couldn’t understand.’ Matey has one eye on Lorraine. She has nearly made it all the way up the hill to the shops. Bernie cheers on her final, desperate, steps. Flapping and panting, she reminds him of Dr Roger Bannister finishing the first sub four-minute mile. In the black-and-white newsreel Bernie saw at the Saturday morning pictures more than half a century ago, Bannister had flailed and gasped like a seabird hit by a bullet, and collapsed on his friends waiting at the tape. Now Bernie holds his arms out ready to catch Lorraine. He accidentally drops Ritzi’s lead, and the dog sets off at speed for the park.

  ‘Seems OK to me,’ says the air-traffic control supervisor, looking at the screen. His tone is deliberately calm, and the trainee gets the message: Don’t panic.

  Terry really must leave for work, but he’s worried about his friend, and wants him to know it will be all right to ring him if he’s in trouble. ‘Mobile. Any time,’ he says.

  Outside the dance studio, the photographer lowers his camera, and Deanna slides past him, on her way to Paul at last.

  ‘Joe . . .’

  TOCK

  8 seconds to go . . .

  ‘JUST A MINUTE, Mum.’

  Paul frees himself from Lotte’s grip, calling out, ‘And I am too!’ He can see Deanna getting closer.

  On the coach, Charmaine and Chenelle scream with laughter at the sight of Bernie and Lorraine’s strange embrace.

  A few metres away, the man who found the first mitten is rummaging through his backpack, inadvertently becoming part of Matey’s audience. The tables have turned in the joke: the dying man is concerned about his healthy friend now: ‘So he asked . . .’

  The group around the beggar is growing all the time, and it looks as if Mrs Wilkins will be joining them soon, too. At the edge of the crowd, Anthony gives a startled jump as he realizes that Sharon is beside him. Sharon moves in closer, calling out his name.

  At the other end of the street, the cyclist has locked his bike, but still hovers close to Kate. She’s seen the policeman coming in their direction, and knows she’d better make a move. But she’s wondering whether she has a duty, for the sake of the cause, to keep talking to the cyclist. Meanwhile, Brian Eglington, the owner of the pet shop, has stepped outside to investigate the poster. He’s recognized the girl who stuck it there, despite her attempt at a disguise. He knows that Kate is the daughter of Donny Daintree, the breakfast show host on the local radio station. She used to come into the shop every Saturday to look at the kittens. Donny Daintree’s show is blaring away inside right now.

  In her rear-view mirror, Kelly catches sight of the policeman too. She thinks he’s making directly for her car. She’s sure he’s going to tell her off for using her phone, and drops it on the floor without turning it off.

  ‘ . . . and five . . .’

  In the café, Juli
et Morgan lifts her handbag onto one of the empty chairs at her table, hoping to keep the woman, her children, and her cakes away; and Max finally spits out his question: ‘ . . . got flowers on it?’

  ‘Not today, thanks,’ says Janine, the florist, as politely as she can manage. She doesn’t want to explain to Nick that she’s going to need every penny she’s got for Christmas, and beyond.

  The taxi passenger strides purposefully away. He’s picking up speed. The taxi driver’s bemusement is turning into suspicion.

  ‘Trouble in the cabin,’ says the trainee air-traffic controller, flustered, but trying to keep the depth of his concern out of his voice.

  Stefano is on his way back to the launderette. He’s looking for his lighter.

  TICK

  7 seconds to go . . .

  ‘BRAVO!’ LOTTE LAUGHS, as Paul strides away.

  ‘ . . . and six . . .’

  Stuart’s panic has brought on an urgent need to relieve himself. At last, some good luck. There’s a large oak tree just a few metres away. He strides off towards it, only slightly impeded by his loose shoe.

  Outside the newsagent’s, the backpack man is unwrapping the battery he bought in the shop.

  ‘“What’s wrong?”’ says Matey, putting on the voice of Pete, the dying man in his story.