JULIE ADAMS
43 Milliken Lane
by Julie Adams
Longlisted, Scottish Arts Club Short Story Competition 2022
The snow started to settle thickly on the moors just before midday on New Year’s Eve. By 2pm, the snowplough driver had called it a day and headed home.
At 4, when Steve Pendergrass drove his van into town, he had to lean so far forward to see through the thick flakes that the seatbelt would be imprinted on his shoulder for days. If he’d known the weather would be like this, he wouldn’t have taken the booking. But he’d promised Janet Willoughby a ceilidh band for her 50th birthday, and he wasn’t one for letting people down.
In the butcher’s, Tommy was preparing to shut up shop. He’d told his boss he’d close at 5.30, but figured nobody in their right mind would be venturing out in this. Unless they were going to the party. But that didn’t start till 7.
Further along Main Street, in Betty’s Hair Salon, Gemma was sweeping hair off the floor. Careful with that, said Betty, as the broom bashed her Crocs. Gemma muttered an apology, but she wasn’t really sorry. Betty didn’t pay her enough to deserve a real apology. She couldn’t wait to get out of here. Not just the salon; the town. Once she and Tommy had saved enough, they were planning to get the Hell out of Dodge. Six more months. A year at most.
She bent to shovel up the hair and felt a twinge in her stomach. She was starving. She hadn’t eaten today because she was saving herself for the buffet at her mum’s party. A couple more hours and she could stuff her face with quiche and sausage rolls.
Betty asked her to get Mrs Henderson tea and biscuits. She flicked the switch on the kettle and opened the biscuit barrel. She resisted the urge to fling a few ginger snaps in her mouth, knowing it would ruin her appetite for later. Besides, she’d got into a real bad habit of nibbling biscuits every time she made a cuppa for clients. No wonder her salon tunic was a lot tighter than when she’d started here.
The Jessop twins ran past the salon. One of them pressed his face against the window and stuck his tongue out. His brother thumped him with a snowball and they ran off laughing.
Outside the community hall, the ceilidh band was unloading their gear from the van. Evan, the caretaker, followed Steve and the other band members into the hall, running through his health and safety checklist. Steve interrupted him to ask where they could get changed. Evan showed him the back room but was annoyed, as he hadn’t even pointed out the emergency exits yet.
Across town, near the derelict timber mill, Shauna Burton was holding her phone above her head as though it were an offering to the Gods. After a few moments, she gave up trying to get a signal. Her arm was starting to hurt. She stomped off towards Main Street.
At 14 Laurel Road, Ellen Jones was just arriving home from a 12-hour shift at the hospital. The last thing she needed tonight was to get her glad rags on and go to a ceilidh. But it was her best friend’s 50th. So, she couldn’t not go. She started running a bath, hoping a long soak, a glass of Malbec and George Michael crooning to her for half an hour would get her in the mood.
Next door, Mrs Wilson, the town’s oldest resident was standing in her front porch, looking out at the swirling snow. Lucy, are you out there, she called, her thin, weak voice not carrying more than a foot or two beyond the doorstep. Getting no reply, she tugged her coat on top of her dressing gown and stepped out.
Outside the darkened butcher’s shop, Shauna was straining to see in. She rapped hard on the glass, gave it a moment or two, then turned to leave.
Upstairs at 43 Milliken Lane, Janet Willoughby was fixing false eyelashes in front of the bathroom mirror. She took a sip of the espresso martini Dougie had made her and checked her phone to see if anyone else had cancelled. Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. That you, Gemma, she called.
Shauna was knocking at Tommy’s house. His mum invited her in, but she said she was ok. When he came to the door, she hissed, I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I think you should tell her tonight. Get it out of the way before the new year. Better if it comes from you. He hesitated, then said, fine, I’ll do it before the party.
Back in Milliken Lane, Gemma was barging her way past Janet to get to the toilet. I don’t feel well, she said. I need to get to the loo. She slammed the door behind her and Janet called, well don’t be long, we’re leaving in half an hour.
Ellen was setting her TV to record Jools Holland when she noticed Mrs Wilson from next door walking in the middle of the road. She put her glass down and pulled on her boots and jacket.
In the bathroom on Milliken Lane, Gemma was screaming for her mum to come and help her. The door was locked, and it took several attempts before Dougie managed to break it open. When they burst through the doorway Gemma was on all fours, screaming, what’s happening to me, over and over.
At the community hall, the caterers were setting up trestle tables for the buffet.
Ellen settled her neighbour in a chair by the fire while she called Mrs Wilson’s daughter in Cornwall to let her know she’d found her mum wandering aimlessly in the snow.
Tommy set off towards Milliken Lane, hoping to catch Gemma before she headed out to the party.
And in the distance, blue lights lit up the snow-white moors as an ambulance crawled slowly towards Milliken Lane, where Janet sat in shocked silence, cradling her new-born grandson.
THE CHASE by Julie Adams
Tired. So tired. Eyes. So heavy. He sits. He lies. Eyes shut. A noise. A whisper. It’s Them. Eyes open. He’s up. He’s running. They follow. He focuses. A forest. A fern. A tree. A rock. He trips. He falls. A branch. A snap. They’re close. He stands. He pants. He runs. A fork. Which way? He pauses. He chooses. Left. No, right. A river. Ahead. Too far? He runs. Voices. Behind. Not far. They’re gaining. The river. So close. So close. He leaps. Half stumbles. He slips. And falls. Splash. Goes under. Splutters. Chokes. Surfaces. Gasps. Swims. And swims. His legs. Like lead. He kicks. He pulls. He heaves. He’s out. And running. Again. They’re closer. A cave. Safe haven. Not far. But rabbits. And holes. His leg. It’s trapped. They’re gaining. And gaining. And gaining. He whimpers. He wakes. He stretches. He wags. He woofs. Life’s good. Good boy.
Just desserts by Julie Adams
Tess finally gave up trying to sleep just before 4am.
The bass-heavy music from the flat below had been thumping through the floorboards for the past 3 hours. The vibrations it sent coursing through her made her feel like she was lying on one of those coin-in-the-slot motel beds she’d seen in American movies.
She sat up with a sigh and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had work in the morning; this morning. Her alarm was set for three hours’ time. So, even if by some miracle, the party stopped downstairs, she’d get so little shut eye that she’d feel shit for the rest of the day.
God, she felt like crying, but she was too tired to do even that.
If this was a one-off, she could let it slide. But it wasn’t. It was the sixth or seventh time her new neighbour had partied through the night, and she’d only moved in three weeks before.
The last thing she wanted to do was make an enemy of the woman who’d moved in. Especially as Tess had found her quite intimidating on the two occasions she’d come face to face with her.
The first time was when she knocked on the door the day her new neighbour moved in, to give her a card and a bottle of wine. The woman had opened the door and said, ‘what?’
The rudeness had knocked Tess off her stride, her face reddened, and she couldn’t find the words to welcome her. Instead, she just held out the card and wine, which were snatched from her before the door was slammed in her face.
As Tess left for work a couple of days later, she saw the unopened card sitting at the top of a black bin liner full of rubbish outside her neighbour’s door.
The black bin liner was overflowing with foil trays, dribbling leftover curries onto the communal hallway floor, which Tess had ended up having to clean herself a few days later.
The second time she’d met her neighbour was when she popped down to pick up a parcel that had been delivered while Tess was at work.
Her neighbour had eventually answered the door with what Tess could only describe as a face like a slapped arse. This was not a woman who got much joy from life. Or, if she did, she didn’t seem to let her face know.
When Tess explained she’d come to pick up her parcel, her neighbour said she didn’t know nothing about a parcel and closed the door in Tess’s face. Again.
As she walked away, she had to squeeze past black bin liners overflowing with empty wine bottles, and cake and chocolate bar wrappers. Tess heard her mutter ‘stuck up bitch’.
The weekend after this, Tess saw her neighbour leave the building and noticed she was wearing the exact same top Tess had had delivered but her neighbour claimed to know nothing about.
She mentioned this to her friend, Raj, over a glass of wine after work.
‘Do you want me to pop round and have a word?’ he asked.
She seriously considered this for a moment or two. Raj wasn’t shy of putting in a shift at the gym, so him having a word may well make her neighbour think twice. But no. This was her problem, not his.
And as she sat on the edge of her bed, knackered once more before the day had even started, she knew she had to think of something that would make living above this woman more bearable.
The music was still blasting out as she left for work, and she had to navigate her way past more bulging bin liners that had been abandoned in the hallway. She gave them a kick to vent her frustrations but knew it was pointless. She’d end up having to pick up all the empty bottles and biscuit wrappers, that had just spilled out.
It did give her an idea, though, about how she could deal with the situation.
That evening, when Raj called to see if she fancied meeting for a quick drink, she said no, she was baking brownies for her new neighbour.
‘Ah, you’re going for the charm offensive,’ said Raj.
‘Yeah, something like that,’ Tess said.
She sifted flour, beat eggs, weighed out sugar, butter and cocoa. Then she placed some kitchen towel on the floor, unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down to her knees, along with her pants.
She squatted over the paper and defecated on it before carefully picking it up and shaking the steaming turd into the saucepan with all the other ingredients.
The mixture was transferred to a tray and placed in the oven to bake. Once the brownies had cooled, Tess arranged them onto a couple of paper plates, then headed downstairs.
She was amazed her neighbour could hear her knocking above the music, but eventually the door swung open.
‘What?’ her neighbour asked.
‘Listen, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. So, I just wanted to give you these,’ said Tess, holding the brownies up.
Without another word, her neighbour snatched the two plates from her and closed the door in Tess’s face.
As she turned to go, Tess heard her mutter ‘silly cow’.
The next morning, when Tess came in from work, she saw the empty paper plates at the top of the bin liner, once again strewn in the hallway.
Tess smiled and took the stairs two at a time. She had some baking to do.
DRIP
by Julie Adams
The rain was bouncing when she stepped off the bus. By the time she turned into her street, she was almost sprinting. Head down, she nearly collided with a man in a smart grey suit, and just managed to avoid treading on his shiny black brogues. She muttered an apology and ran the dozen or so steps to her building. Once inside, she hurried upstairs to her flat. As she drew the curtains closed, she noticed the man she’d almost bumped into, standing on the pavement opposite her flat. Weird. Not only was he getting drenched, but he was staring straight up at her. Did he know her? He hadn’t seemed familiar. Then again, her eyes had been stinging from the mascara running into them. She drew the curtains and hurried into her bathroom, peeling her sodden clothes off as she turned on the shower. A few minutes under the powerful spray was enough to warm her. She towelled herself dry in her bedroom and changed into sweatpants and a chunky jumper. As she crossed into the kitchen she cast a quick glance outside to see if the man in the suit was still there. He’d gone. Good. Something and nothing, after all. She settled herself on the sofa and reached forward for the remote. It was only then that she noticed the pair of shiny black brogues poking out from under the curtains, dripping rainwater onto the floor.