Brake Failure

by Alison Brodie

  Ruby felt like a favourite doll being fought over by a group of little girls. Her confidence blossomed, her whole body relaxed. She had never known what it was like to be popular - and it was wonderful! This was how Claire must feel - ALL the time.

  Everyone went silent as the screen door whined open. The woman was short and skinny with a raw-boned, sun-brown face, her shirt sleeves rolled up above the elbows. ‘Y’all got yer GOOD bags ready?’ she asked, swinging a rucksack to the floor.

  ‘Yes, Idabel,’ everyone chorused.

  Idabel turned a chair and straddled it, a buckled cigarette clamped between freckled lips. She looked at Ruby. ‘What’s yer name, sweet pea?’ she asked, trails of smoke leaking from her nostrils.

  ‘Ruby.’

  ‘Ruby’s just arrived,’ Darlene interjected, ‘from England.’

  ‘England, huh?’ Idabel sounded suspicious.

  Darlene leant towards Ruby as if to tell her a secret: ‘Idabel’s from Kentucky. She’s teaching us what to put in a GOOD bag. You know; a Get Out Of Dodge bag.’

  Idabel pinched a flake of tobacco from her tongue. ‘So, Ruby, what you doing ’bout New Years?’

  Ruby, unnerved by those hard accusatory eyes, glanced at her hostess for support. ‘Attending Darlene’s Boogie Night Stomp?’

  Idabel let out a loud histrionic sigh. ‘I mean, what preparations you made?’

  ‘None, yet, but I am going to buy a crate of champagne and-’

  ‘Christamighty! Not another damn-fool Pollyana.’

  Ruby stayed silent. She wondered if the woman was a lunatic.

  Echo explained. ‘A Pollyana is someone in denial, someone who don’t expect nothin’ bad to happen. Preppers, like us’ - she smiled around the table - ‘are prepared.’

  Ruby waited for some clue that might indicate what they were talking about. Mary-Jo picked up a pastry. ‘I bought twenty pounds of non-perishable summer sausage in Eureka.’

  Karis nodded. ‘And we bought a generator and by the end of December we’ll have enough canned food to last eight months,’

  Was this something to do with the Millennium Bug? Ruby hesitated to ask, fearing Idabel’s scorn yet anxious to know the full extent of an impending global disaster.

  ‘But what … um … actually, can go wrong?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Idabel’s eyes bulged. ‘How come you don’t know? You’ve got a Prime Minister. Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘The British tend to play things down…’ Ruby added hastily, ‘But I want to know everything.’

  ‘Okay.’ Idabel nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve got to be a Survivalist, like us. Don’t depend on nobody but yerself.’ She dragged on her cigarette. ‘You ever bin snakebit?’

  The only positive thing about this conversation, Ruby thought, was that Claire was not here to witness it. ‘No, actually I haven’t.’

  ‘Know what to do if you woz?’

  Scream? ‘No.’

  ‘That’s what ahm talking ’bout. You need ta know the basics ta survive. Fresh chicken blood draws the poison. I bet you don’t lurn that in no England!’

  ‘No. Quite.’

  Idabel stubbed out her cigarette, squashing it into the ashtray with a business-like force. ‘Listen up. There’ll be power outages, food shortages and looting. You cain’t ’spect the government to help, neither. The problem’s going to be way too big.’

  ‘But I didn’t think there was anything to worry about.’

  Idabel smiled grimly. ‘The US government’s spending one-hundred-fifty billion dollars on preparing and you ain’t worried?’

  Ruby tensed. If this was true, why hadn’t anyone told her?

  Idabel continued, ‘And your Virgin Airline’s not flying the gnat.’

  ‘The gnat?’ Ruby felt lost in a maze of anxiety and confusion. ‘What’s the gnat?’

  ‘You know, when you go to bed at gnat?’

  ‘Oh, night, yes.’ Ruby nodded quickly and resumed. ‘But I thought the problem was simply a computer glitch?’

  ‘Thaz right. But computers run the planet, yeah? So what’s gonna happen when the date flips from ninety-nine to double zeroes, eh?’ Idabel waved her cigarette. ‘Karis, you explain.’

  Karis began: ‘Computers are programmed to store information using the last two numbers of any year. So it’s logical: when they register two zeroes they’ll think it’s the year nineteen-hundred. Then ask yourself: how much data’s gonna be lost in a one hundred year miscalculation?’

  ‘Shit-loads.’ Idabel bent into her rucksack and brought out a small cardboard box. ‘Here, Ruby, I’ve got something for ya.’ The box was extraordinarily heavy. Ruby lifted the lid to see it packed with neat rows of copper bullets.

  ‘Ballistic wampum,’ Idabel stated.

  Ruby gazed at the bullets. She gazed at Idabel.

  ‘I guess you ain’t got a clue what ahm talking ’bout, you having no injuns in England?’

  Ruby felt as if she’d been sucked into an experimental play in Hoxton.

  ‘Wampum’s another word for barter,’ Idabel said patiently. ‘Say ahv got a bunch of dead squirrels. You come to me an’ you say, “Idabel, I sure am itching to fix me a squirrel stew.” So I say, “Alrightee.” I give you the critters, you give me the bullets. Unnerstand?’

  Ruby nodded blankly.

  Idabel stood up and strutted to the door. ‘You stick with me, Ruby, an’ ahl show you what’s what.’ She opened the door and glanced back with a satisfied smile. ‘Come New Year’s you ain’t gonna be fighting off no looters. I’ve got a cabin in the Ozarks, snug and warm, where no-one kin find you till kingdom come.’

  *

  Carrying the box of bullets, Ruby walked home, her skirt swirled by the hot wind. The shadows were long but the heat was still intense. She had rationalised Idabel’s scare stories. Idabel and Grandad were totally alike: they relished the prospect of global anarchy so they could put their skills into action and prove to everyone else that they’d been right all along. Thankfully, Ruby had been acclimatised to Grandad’s ranting from an early age and knew it was all hot air. Besides, everyone else that morning had been quite cheerful; if they hadn’t been, Ruby would now be gripped with terror. Instead, she felt a lightness of spirit. She had FRIENDS! Friends who were warm, generous and funny.

  She’d discovered that Echo distilled “moonshine” and teased Karis. Karis was university educated, edited the church bulletin and didn’t like being teased. Mary-Jo had five daughters. Darlene had a son, Truman, who sounded positively unhinged. Blair lived with a “booze hound”. And Idabel lived with her partner, Mae, on a trailer court in Mill Creek and worked at the feed mill during the week, while at weekends they stayed at their cabin in the Ozarks and dug man-traps.

  As Ruby crested the hill she saw the sun low in a sky of pale pink. From a great distance came the long low blast of a horn. Yesterday, she had sat at a level crossing for fifteen minutes waiting for one of these freight trains to pass; a long line of old, sun-blistered boxes, mismatched, as if put together by a child; and stamped with the faded words SANTA FE. Again, she heard the long low blast, a strange melancholic sound that seemed to tug at her heart.

  “The US government’s spending one-hundred-fifty billion dollars.” Remembering Idabel’s words, Ruby felt her mood darken. Why would the government spend that much if there was nothing to worry about?

  “You’ve got to be one of us - a Survivalist.” Ruby walked faster. Perhaps she, too, should pack a Get Out of Dodge bag … just in case.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mission Hills Police Precinct, Kansas City

  12.30 am, Jan 1, 2000

  The Chief of Police had sent the MVA photo out to all patrols. When he phoned Zelda to say he’d be a no-show, he heard her sigh. Five years ago she would’ve brought in a box of food, a couple of beers, then she would’ve kissed him and left. She used to understand, but not anymore.

  The phone rang. It was the bank manager, confirming the amount of cash gone missing.
‘It’s the accumulation of four banks in the area,’ he explained. ‘Because of Y2K fears it all had to be pooled at one location ready to be taken to a safe reserve. It’s insured, of course,’ he added.

  The money seemed to be the least of the bank manager’s problems. He went on to complain about the food stains and cigarette burns in his office carpet, but the Police Chief cut the call short when he saw the figure waiting in the doorway.

  She was one of the ladies from the kilt-and-pearls brigade. A tall brunette - pretty if she didn’t have those teeth. The white blouse and smart skirt made her look respectable, but the stud in her eyebrow and the bluebird tattoo on her neck told a different story.

  Sergeant Waltz introduced her. ‘This is Ruby’s friend, Molly.’

  ‘Molly, come in.’ The Police Chief pulled out a chair. ‘Take a seat. You wanna coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m good.’

  She seemed anxious but not scared. The Police Chief was not the intimidating kind. He looked like a grandfather - hey! - he was one, three times over. Twinkling eyes, a face full of wrinkles; folks would relax around him, not suspecting he was as sharp as a blade.

  ‘Has Ruby contacted you this evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long’ve you known her?’

  ‘Since September - just after she got here from England.’

  As she talked, the Police Chief wandered to the internal window. Ruby’s husband seemed mighty friendly with the cute blonde with the pony-tail. ‘Molly,’ he said. ‘Would you say Ruby is happily married?’ The girl paused - only for a second - but it was enough.

  ‘Sure.’

  He nodded like he believed her. ‘Her husband, Edward? His work brought them to Kansas, right?’

  ‘Yeah, it was a big promotion for him.’

  ‘I guess Ruby was pleased about that …’ The Police Chief was speaking his thoughts, stating the obvious, so he was surprised by Molly’s silence. ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Molly, it’s ten below out there!’ He pointed at the window. ‘Your friend’s freezing to death. If you want to help her, you have to help me. So, let’s start over. Was she happy about coming to Kansas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she thought she was going to Paris, France.’

  ‘So, she was disappointed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How disappointed?’

  The girl paused. ‘She said Paris was where she belonged. That it was the only place she wanted to be.’

  The Police Chief hit the intercom button. ‘Waltz, put a call out to all airports flying to Paris, France.’

  Ten weeks earlier …

  Chapter Twelve

  Ruby’s fingertips looked as if they belonged to a hundred-year-old woman - all white and crinkly. Perhaps she shouldn’t have spent the evening in the Jacuzzi. Her wiry hair - which was normally rather bushy - had positively exploded. She climbed into bed, opened her diary, and began to record the events of her day.

  9 am Phone the surgery with sore throat and the receptionist tells me to go straight in.

  9.15 The doctor praises me for arriving so fast. (Unlike Dr Strachan, who sighs then rests his chin on his hand like a schoolboy about to listen to a church sermon). This doctor is wonderful, behaves as if I have Lassa fever. Does tongue swab, blood tests, everything. He says I look fine but will phone with the results. I mention some other things. After abdominal examination, he says I don’t have fibroids but stress can cause irregular periods. He checks my pre-cancerous melanoma and says it’s a freckle. He assures me there will be no Y2K meltdown.

  10.15 After one hour of undivided attention, I leave, satisfied. Thank goodness for comprehensive medical insurance. I shall make full use of it.

  10.30 Hy-Vee. Great bargains, although the garlic + parsley are never v. fresh and I have to explain what they are to the check-out girl. Ask a supervisor where I can find some endives and she says, “Cooter’s Bar, Clay County.” A woman with a trolley-load of small children chimes in: “Snake Pit, Leavenworth.” I ask if these places are organically certified and they give me the most peculiar look. Sometimes I think these people have no understanding of the English language. Edward was right when he said everyone in Kansas is friendly. Shelf-stackers + customers all say hi! (In England, people pretend others are not there). I go to my usual checkout girl, Clementine, who grins at me as if I’ve just donated a kidney to her baby brother. As usual, she wants inside information on the Queen, and since I don’t want to disappoint, I say Her Majesty smokes like a chimney and her corgis bite.

  12.30 Buy heavy-duty backpack in hunting shop. This will be my Get Out Of Dodge bag.

  12.50 Home. Stack 20 packs of Perrier in corner of garage + 20 tins of asparagus. (I’m now a Prepper). (Thankfully, it’s too early to panic, although when the time does come I’m sure to lose all sense of proportion).

  1.30 Eat light salad. For this evening’s meal, I will make Duo de Saumon et Saint-Jacques aux endives caramelisées au champagne (minus the endives).

  2.30 Stop for cup of tea and read newspaper article: “Fanny Mae Eases Credit to Aid Mortgage Lending.” Makes me think of a little old lady with her money-box in a farmhouse kitchen - not a billion-dollar banking corporation. Here’s another one: “Freddy Mac”. They seem to be throwing money at poor people. I failed Maths “O” level so I’m no expert, but to me it all sounds a bit Unwise.

  3.00 As usual, I do the ironing in front of the afternoon Western. Today, it’s “Lonesome Rider.” Nearly burn Edward’s Turnbull & Asser shirt when Troy finally kisses Maria.

  5.30 Phone Sandra at Imperial College. I tell her about my new life, but I sense her mind is on other things; namely Higgs boson. (Still have no idea what that is, even though she’s told me a hundred times).

  5.45 Edward arrives home with half-eaten chocolate cake his secretary, Donna, baked for him. He says Donna is pretty, but I know she’s built like the Michelin Man because her father is our realtor, Murt Woebbecke.

  7.00 Dine by candlelight. Edward eats fast + talks fast. Makes me wonder if he’s actually tasting what it took me 2 hours to prepare.

  7.20 Edward collapses on sofa in front of TV. Normally he’s methodical but with a TV remote in his hand, he becomes positively erratic. Just as I’m getting interested in a programme, he clicks to something else. There are so many films, so many commercials I become confused. Is that the doctor advertising decongestant? Or the surgeon who has to tell his fiancé she has two weeks to live?

  10.00 Dear Diary, I don’t want to be here. I want to be in Paris!!

  *

  The next morning, Claire phoned. ‘An American has moved into the ground-floor apartment,’ she said. ‘He might call himself an artist, but he’s aesthetically handicapped. I suggested he visit van Eyck’s Madonna and Child at the Koninkliijk. When he came back he said that if he had a choice between van Eyck’s Madonna and Rockwell’s Rosie the Riveter, he would take Rosie any day. As you can imagine, I will not be putting him in the same room as Professor Hans Van Goebens. In fact, I shan’t have him up here.’

  Ruby bit back a laugh. Her ground floor American didn’t know it, but he’d just had a narrow escape.

  ‘As I always say,’ Claire continued. ‘Your guests must be chosen as carefully as the wine. That reminds me, I’m organising a fund-raising gala to keep a Brueghel painting in Belgium. It’s to be held in the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts. I’m having Serrano ham flown in from Italy, oysters from Arcachon and a cellist from Madrid.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘What about you Ruby? What’s on your social calendar?’

  Ruby was quick to answer: ‘We’ve accepted invitations to a hog roast, and two Thanksgiving Dinners - because we don’t want to disappoint. And we’ve been invited to a Halloween party and a-’ How could she paraphrase Darlene’s “Millennium Boogie Night Stomp”? ‘And a Fin de Siècle cocktail party.’

  ‘How jolly,’ Claire purred. ‘A
nything else?’

  Isn’t that enough?

  ‘I’m also hosting Bonfire Night for the neighbours.’

  This was a lie. Ruby had suggested it to her new pals, explaining the English tradition of burning a Guy on top of a bonfire. They had gazed at her in horror. ‘When I say “guy”’ Ruby added quickly, ‘I mean Guy Fawkes. He tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605 and ever since then, the English stuff pyjamas with newspaper, stick on a head and burn him. ‘Great fun!’ she insisted. ‘Loads of fireworks, too.’

  Her neighbours promptly told her fireworks were outlawed in the Kansas, although you could buy them in Missouri; that burning an effigy would bring out the cops and the anti-KKK brigade; that bonfires at home were forbidden in the sub-division, although it was okay to book a fire pit at Shawnee Mission Park, although it was illegal to have alcohol.

  Ruby - with the image of her guests being bundled off in police riot vans - had speedily retracted the idea.

  Claire continued. ‘Talking of neighbours; it seems your grandfather is whipping everyone into a state of frenzy over this Millennium-Bug thing. He has Audrey Butler in army fatigues; and Mrs Symmonds-Elliott has turned her koi carp pond into a trout farm.’

  Ruby felt, again, a niggling anxiety; a precursor to something much, much bigger. What would happen when the bell struck midnight on New Year’s Eve? Would she be plunged into darkness? Cold? Far from home?

  Claire sensed her anxiety. ‘Don’t tell me you’re worried about the Götterdӓmmerung?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The end of the world as-we-know-it.’

  Ruby wasn’t going to let Claire suspect her unease. ‘I’m not bothered,’ she said casually. ‘What about you?’