Rebel Without A Bra

4. Nothing Terminal

Chapter Four

Nothing Terminal

“Even Lycra has its limits.”—Legless

Hilda pushed an empty glass under the dispenser, allowed two chunks of ice to plop along with the bubbly, then waved away the simulated lemon slice.

Unlike Beryl, Hilda enjoyed the sense of panic and was wondering how or even if she should explain the energy crisis to the masses. Thanks to her, the energy crisis was no longer so immediate. She would soon have the Voted In installed in the gym, and once they were riding the stationary bikes, it would be like old times . . . well, except for Lycra shorts. No Voted In would be seen dead in one of them—and she did have some heart.

The ol’ fella appeared on the screen.

Hilda slid her earphones in and watched as he negotiated his motorbike with as much panache as a footman on a pushbike. He fumbled, wobbled, skidded, and then headed into a garage.

For a moment the screen went blank.

Hilda downed her bubbly, then stood up for another as the garage door flashed back on the screen.

Hilda sat down; a van was parked in front, covered in dents and scratches.

“What the beetroot happened to the ol’ fella?” muttered Hilda, as an old lady strutted by with a jaunty swing of her cane.

Hilda, after a string of curses, tossed the earphones aside, jiggled the connector on her H-Pad and cursed again.

She had lost him . . . so soon.

The H-Pad spluttered and blacked out. Hilda paced the floor. How could she keep an eye on things?

She thumped the H-Pad, ignoring its “Earth’s fault, blame it on British Telecom” moan, and thumped it again.

Dunoon’s ferry car park flashed onto the screen; it was empty.

Hilda sipped her fizzy (forgetting it was empty) and stared.

Why here?

She flicked pause, then the 36 degree surround button. There was nothing . . . anywhere. Just a couple of sorry-looking shoppers huddled in the bus shelter clutching their coats against the wind.

Hilda was about to thump the H-Pad again when Don pulled up.

He’s catching a ferry?

Hilda zoomed in on Don’s car. She watched as he tucked into his roll and sausage when a large white van entered the car park.

Hilda glanced at the deep scratches on both sides of the van.

The same van?

The van circled the car park several times as the wind turned into a gale.

Pete and Mex were in the back arguing over the point of Mex’s log. Bunnie and DJ were arguing over the leaflet and its cryptic Edinburgh address, while Don was tucking into his roll and sausage with relish. Only Woody and Hilda saw the van circle like a shark fin in the ocean.

The van pulled up inches from the car. A gust of wind blew a seagull across the windscreen; it screeched as the old lady moved to open the van door.

“Mind . . .” shouted Woody.

The wind caught the van’s door.

Thump—jolt—crash . . .

“Jesus,” spluttered Don.

Hilda watched the old lady land with a thud onto the tarmac and tug her walking stick from her seat. A couple of lager cans cluttered to the ground as the old lady, with great strength, pulled the van door now wedged against Don’s car free.

She examined the van door for scratches.

“What about my car?” shouted Don.

The old lady waved her stick at Don; the wind slammed it into the side of Don’s car. “My door’s fine, thanks,” she said.

“Not your door, my friggin’ car,” shouted Don.

The old lady, with an “I’m a sweet old lady” look, tapped Bunnie’s window with her cane.

“The toilets near here?” she shouted over the wind.

Bunnie wound down her window. “You’ll need to wait for the ferry.”

Don stretched across Bunnie and shouted at the old lady, “What about my car?”

The old lady gave him a wave, muttered “right enough,” opened her door—allowing it to hit Don’s car yet again—and climbed in.

Don jumped out of the car and raced to the van as she started the engine.

“What about my car?” He tapped on her window.

“Don’t worry, the van is old.”

“No, my car?”

“Not a scratch, don’t worry,” she mouthed through the window.

Don began to shout as the sound on the H-Pad died.

Hilda watched Don mouth “For f**k’s sake . . .” then the screen went blank.

“For beetroot’s sake,” snapped Hilda.

She jumped up and began to pace, twirling her earphones with frustration.

“Let me think,” she muttered.

“I can help,” said the H-Pad.

“You?” snapped Hilda.

“It is part of the prototype type,” muttered the footman. “To have up-to-the-minute updates every . . . er . . . minute.”

“Thank you,” purred the H-Pad.

“You can thank Beryl for that, she liked to know what was going on,” muttered the footman.

“Going on,” said Hilda, “she only wanted to know what was happening so she could make cuts.”

“The woman’s a barber,” said the footman.

“Butcher,” said the H-Pad.

Hilda glared with a “I make the comments” look, then continued on with her pacing. The footman watched as the earphone twirling became more frantic.

She needed something better, way better, something befitting of the superhero, the leader that she was destined to be . . .

Silently, a manual slid from beneath her door.

Pete had been taking in the air, as Bunnie liked to put it. He had spent the ferry journey in search of a view and was not prepared for the rain in all its glory. He took one look at the grey waters in the biting wind and headed to the lounge area.

A funny sensation hit his stomach, a sort of squeezing, knotting, something bad is going to happen feeling.

Bunnie called it intuition; Don called it indigestion. Either way, it played havoc with the roll and sausage he had just demolished.

He had an urge to do the plough, to clear things. He looked about for a quiet spot and found the “john,” as it was known in some circles on Planet Hy Man. It was too small for the plough, so he went for an arm above the head on your toes stretch, accompanied with an om, until someone knocked on the door.

“That you, Pete?”

“Om.” The last person he wanted to hear was Herself.

“I know you’re in there squeezing in a stretch,” said Mex with a strained voice.

“Five minutes, ma’am . . . om.”

“I need you,” she muttered in a voice Pete had not heard before. He pushed open the door halfway to see Mex breathing like a rabbit caught in a spotlight. Her sugar high had dipped like a ship in the high seas, leaving her feeling sick, guilty, and panicky—feelings unknown to her.

The ferry jostled with the waves, bumping Mex into the wall.

“Ma’am, it is merely a sugar dip. I did warn you about the tablet.”

Mex put her hand to her mouth. “Don’t mention that stuff.” She pushed Pete out of the way and made for the toilet.

Pete closed the door on her retching. “And possible seasickness.”