‘Aren’t we all?’ said Daisy who was becoming concerned about the ever increasing volume of the engine. She reached up and made sure the door was unlocked. Finally, she identified something else that had been bugging her.
‘What’s that beeping?’
‘We’ve got eighty kilos of fertiliser and a gallon of chlorine in the boot of this car,’ said Tert, reaching down to disengage the hand-brake. ‘We’re a bomb.’
She rammed the gear-stick forward into first and dropped the clutch. Much of the rubber from the tyres remained on the road. It didn’t worry her since she wasn’t going to be in a position to replace them.
‘Bloody Hell!’ exclaimed Daisy. She couldn’t use the door to escape now the car was accelerating down the alley. In desperation, she rammed her right hand between her legs.
Clutch-gear-accelerator. Second gear; thirty kilometers an hour.
Daisy’s hand moved slowly, trying to get herself started. It was hard to get into the mood when there were people in close proximity trying to get her killed.
Clutch-Gear-Accelerator. Third gear; sixty kilometers an hour.
‘How about a final drink?’ she asked, remembering all the times she’d had sex while drunk. Of course, they hadn’t gotten her to the point she needed to be. This was going to be hard. Now there was an amusing piece of Freudian slippage.
‘It’s illegal for women to drink,’ replied Prime.
‘No bloody wonder I took this gig!’ yelled Daisy above the rising sound of the engine.
Clutch-gear-accelerator. Fourth gear; ninety kilometers an hour. The press conference was now in view. A short man with glasses and eyebrows that looked like a pair of hibernating hamsters stood on a podium. Before him were journalists and parliamentary lackeys who all knew which side their bread was buttered on. They were unaware it would soon be toast.
Daisy thought of being tied up. She thought of men and women. She thought of their bodies. She remembered what she used to do to try to respond to terrible lovers, and realised it never did her any good anyway. What she needed now was a mobile phone.
Her hand was getting tired and numb, but she didn’t dare stop.
‘We are going to strike a blow against the oppressor today, sisters!’ cried Tert.
‘Hmmm?’ said Daisy, who had worked it out and was now in the zone, purring like a cat. Only partly conscious of what was going on, she unclipped her seatbelt and put her hand on the door-handle. If she timed it right, she might live to see another day.
Clutch-gear-accelerator. Fifth gear; one hundred and ten kilometers an hour. The alleyway walls were a blur. Of course, to Daisy, everything was a blur. She gasped, she shuddered, she purred.
The car emerged at top speed from the alleyway, hit a wet patch and slid sideways toward the waiting rabble.
Tert screamed.
Prime screamed.
Daisy screamed, though for different reasons. Her body convulsed, shuddered, and her arms stiffened. The door flew open and she tumbled out.
BZORNT!
She woke up with a killer headache and instinctively felt between her legs. She didn’t find what she was looking for, which meant she could slouch again, and perform minor comfort adjustments in public places.
He opened his eyes.
The room was plain white. There were no doors.
That’s odd, he thought. How did I get in here?
Click to see the next installment: Confinement by Monika Hocks
Northcote, September 2004
Pingback: Book 1 | Daisy Donnie: Prehistory