Lockdown Lane

The wind whips past the sitting room window, threatening the panes of glass with its hellish temper. I observe under the cover of darkness. I can hear muffled voices in the adjacent lane that runs the length of my garden. Even before the virus decimated Edinburgh, the lane was always a source of malignant activity. A suburban lane, offering a shortcut from one long nondescript road to another. It used to be frequented by dog walkers and teenagers using the nearby leisure centre by day, and off-road dirt bikes used it to get to the park at night. Was it still being used by dealers? I strain to hear, it’s useless in this weather. A raucous laugh is lifted by the wind and splits into four different directions as soon as it has escaped the snarled mouth of the issuer. What has he got to laugh about? I always liked to stick my nose into other people’s business. Any sounds of police vehicles outside would leave me glued to my window, good little curtain twitcher that I am. The police don’t come anymore. My reverie is broken by a wailing from outside. I almost don’t want to look. That’s a lie. I inch towards the landing window. From here I can see two of my neighbour’s front doors. One is firmly closed, as it has been for the past few months after the guy renting the house did a bunk back to wherever he came from. HE was smart, I concede. The other door is wide open, it’s my elderly neighbour’s place. Their flat is on the ground floor which of course is asking for trouble. I told her to take the upstairs now Sergio has gone. She was worried about her husband managing the stairs. I tried to tell her he shouldn’t be going out anyway. I can do nothing for them now. I tried to warn her. Independent a fault. Keep your doors locked and don’t use the garden, I beg you. I watch as an ambulance takes the prone figure of an old man into the back. She doesn’t go with him. No need for sirens now. I get a flashback to 6 months ago; we received our vaccines and we sat around the picnic bench in my garden and toasted each other’s health. They always did like a drink, whilst pretending they didn’t. Amazing how when someone else is supplying the booze they make an exception. I catch myself half smiling at the memory. So, another one bites the dust. I can’t deal with other people’s misery anymore. I used to be empathetic to a fault. Someone at work asked me once, ‘what is actually up with you?’ like it was a bad thing to be kind and mindful of what someone else is going through. I was embarrassed by his comment but found myself wondering if it was a character flaw. It’s a moot point now. Survival has knocked that out of me. I glance at the only way into my flat. Secured. I steel myself for what I need to do next. I only venture out when I get low on provisions. Not too low though, as there have been times I haven’t been able to obtain any. ‘Obtain’ is a better word than ‘steal’.

I have found that if I dress all in black with my face covered, most people on the street give me a wide berth. I am wearing layers, since I am so skinny now. Men’s clothes, and I find I have a swagger now, or maybe that bit is in my head. I live mostly inside my own head now since my family escaped. I hope they don’t think of me. Martyr that I am. Wrong nationality more like. Their government saved them. I take a quick look outside to make sure my neighbour has gone back in. No sign of her. Let her own bloody daughter look after her, at least she still has a family.

I spread the map of the city out in front of me. I look at all the shaded parts. Different colours for different successes. At a glance, I know the best areas now for optimum haulage. I toy with the idea of trying a lonely place. I look towards the Pentlands on the map. There are barbarians up there. I shudder and push the thought from my mind. That will be my last resort. The minute I think I can’t take this any longer, I’ll head on up to Scald Law and launch myself off the top, the natives can feast on my bones if they find me. What a pretty setting for a death. Of course, I could do what every other desperado does and fling myself off the Forth Road bridge, but there is likely to be a queue. I don’t do queues.

I shrug my backpack on and decide tonight’s adventure will be in Stockbridge. An old friend of mine, dead now, used to tell me about a lady she did cleaning for. I gave her a lift one day and I think I could remember the road if I saw it. She would get her shopping too, and she definitely told me the old dear always bought too much for one person. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad.

I slip out the upstairs window, onto the extension that downstairs built, and drop quietly to the ground. My cat used to do it all the time. I don’t want to be seen coming out of the door. I want people to think my flat is long deserted. I silently mount the bike, ears tuned for any sound. The lane is deserted now. As I cycle down it, I vaguely remember cutting back the hawthorn hedge each year, and the neighbour’s clematis which was never looked after by him. There is barely enough room for me to get through now, it is so overgrown. A haven for wildlife. People ate everything they found now. I remember seeing someone riding up the road on one of those blasted dirt bikes, with a dead swan in his lap. The head lolling as he bumped over the speed humps. There is no body of water here for 3 miles at least. Wonder what he traded for that.

I take back roads and arrive in Stockbridge 30 minutes later. It was an easy cycle. Things are easier at night. I pass the entrance to Fettes police HQ. No point in looking that way for help. Once the news story broke, the police force was called down to London to ‘help’ and most of them didn’t return. People decided they would take the law into their own hands, since many of them knew better anyway. The problem was that everyone’s idea of right and wrong got skewed. I mean everyone’s level of risk is different anyway, right? The vaccine was never meant to be made available for under 30’s. The contacts that the government signed stated as such. Something about population control and having enough food for the planet. Not quite natural selection though is it? When your government has signed your death warrant. Just for being a certain age. Well people didn’t really like that. Under 30’s went to war with over 30’s. Those that could leave, left by any and all means necessary. I remember at the time the story broke, thinking my god, we have created millions of refugees, they will get to know what it is like for Syrians, Afghan people and the like. Families were torn apart. Damn it, got lost in reverie again, missed the road end. I stop and turn the bike around and hear a noise by an overflowing wheelie bin. Keep your head. Just cycle at your normal pace, try to seem calm. There aren’t any homeless people anymore. Anyone out at this time, is on the hunt. Like me. I don’t see anything though my heart is hammering in my ears, reminding me I am alive. I see the flat and cycle past it on purpose. I turn the corner and wait. I hear something on the cobbles. A fox comes into view and jerks its head up too late. It makes a noise only for a second and is silenced with the swing of an axe. I screw my eyes closed and don’t dare to breathe. I am crouched against the side of a building, my knees are on fire, I really need to stand up. 30 minutes later, when I finally do, relief floods through my veins. No signs of life. All is quiet again. I walk steadily, pushing the bike along, my eyes darting this way and that. I enter the flat from the back door. It is a communal door leading to the individual flats. It is another ground floor, which this time is good, I take the jemmy from my backpack and set about the lock. It gives and a minute later I am inside. I take a peek in each room to make sure I am alone. This lady had style, and money obviously. The kitchen is spacious and leads to a larder – it is fully stocked. I am at once relieved. I unlock the front door and retrieve the bike. I gorge myself on rice pudding and wonder how long this feral behaviour can go on for. I use my torch to take an inventory of what is in the larder and estimate that I can stay here for a month at least. As I am looking, I stumble upon a trinket box. I open it to find a heart-shaped locket. It looks old. Clearly it is solid gold. Inside there is a black and white photograph of a lady. Looks like the owner is long gone. Money is of no use at present, but I may be able to exchange it for food. I slip it into my backpack.

I hear a crackle. My eye is diverted to the flats across the street, lights are appearing in every window. The power has been restored! In a panic I rush to flip the lights out again. I am alert and waiting for something to happen. A full hour goes by until I finally relax a little. I really need to find out about rescue efforts. The old dear doesn’t seem to have had any use for a TV. In the kitchen I find a radio and switch it on, I make sure it is barely audible. I try to find a channel that isn’t just static. I am suddenly feeling very vulnerable. I crave the safety of my own flat. If I can just make it back to my TV I can see if the government have a plan. I gather up the things that are spilling from my backpack. All things that help me stay alive. Torch, first aid kit, various tins of canned food, and, staring up at me the dead eyes of a fox.