Doon the Laneway - Part One

I have been lucky enough to secure a draft copy of Wanderingscribes supernatural love story set on a Scottish island that she had locked away in her boot for so many months. As her fans will be eager for any news (especially as she appears to have given up with the blog now that it has served its purpose), I present this small snippet , exclusively for your delight and delectation. Enjoy. Doon The Laneway The last rays of a golden sun were slipping below the horizon casting long shadows across the fields as wee Hamish McScribe made his way doon the laneway. "Mebbe tonight I'll find the lassie o my dreams" he thought to himself, fidling with his sporran in anticipation. His thoughts were interrupted as he drew level with the battered old rover parked in the woods, the home of Mad Hag, a homeless sassenach who had moved to the village of Dunworkin many months ago. Although she was mostly harmless, she had a tendency to dance naked in the moonlight and sing to imaginary angels that danced around her car. As he went to walk by, his ears caught a muffled sound coming from within. He peered through the grimy windows that were starved of colour. Inside, oblivious to her surroundings, Mad Hag scribbled furiously in an old exercise book she carried everywhere. As his eye was caught by the sun glinting off the thin sliver of saliva that drooled from the side of her mouth, Hamish felt a pang of pity for this poor creature. As she rocked back and forth, softly crooning to herself, Hamish could just make out the odd phrase. "They loved me... they worshipped me... you'll see.. soon get that deal...Oh yes, I'll show 'em..." He turned and stole quietly away down the laneway, shaking his head at the poor wretch. "Och, the things ye see when ye havenae got a gun" he thought to himself........ Hurrying across the grey granite car park of The Happy Haggis Inn, Hamish burst through the door and closed it behind him, denying access to the howling wind. "Hoots mon, it's blowing a right gale ootside and no mistake" he muttered to the assembled crowd as his eyes became accustomed to the low light in the small bar. Glancing around, he could make out the usual figures of Jock McSporran and his wife, Mags, seated in a cosy nook. Jock raised his glass in greeting as Hamish made his way to the bar, his shadow dancing in the glow that the candles positioned all about gave out "Hoos it goin’, wee Hamish" Jock exclaimed warmly. "Aye, just fine" Hamish replied. "It fair blew me kilt off oot there though" Jock smiled warmly as he raised the glass to his lips. "Aye, it's no a night to be oot and aboot". Approaching the bar, Hamish was surprised to see the landlord, Donald McPorridge, clad only in tartan underpants and a feather boa. "Donald, where's ya troosers?" Hamish enquired. "Did ye no hear? We're expecting a guest from the big city presently. I thought I'd add a touch of cosmopolitan sophistication to the place." Hamish looked at him quizzically. "Wi no breeks?" "Aye" replied Donald as he began to pour a pint of Hamish's usual tipple, Cockaleekie Ale. "I heard that they've bottomless bars doon in London and as oor guest is frae them parts I thought I'd dress to make her welcome". "Who are ye expecting then?" Although the only other inhabitants of the bar were Jock and Mags, Donald leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered "Some big literary agent by the name o' Cowmilly Triang". Hamish took his pint, raised it to his lips and took a sip. The nearest hotel was 50 miles away so any visitors to the district were usually put up by Donald in a small room he kept above the bar. "So what's she doing coming to Dunworkin?" "She's interested in yon lassie that lives oot her car doon the laneway" Donald replied as he twiddled with his boa in a slightly effeminate way. "Mad Hag?, But why would someone want to talk to her?" "It seems like she's been keepin' some sort of diary and they want to make a book o' it" replied Donald. As he took his seat across the way from Jock and Mags, he pondered on the little he knew of Mad Hag. She'd appeared in the village a few months back, parking her car behind the towns chemical toilet plant and had kept herself to herself, only taking the odd trip to the village's small library now and then. As he sipped his pint of Cockaleekie, Hamish's mind wandered back to his run in with Mad Hag earlier in the evening and the exciting news that the village would shortly be receiving yet another visitor. "Hey Donald, when’s yon visitor due?" he shouted across the bar. "Anytime the noo" replied Donald. As if on cue, a pair of headlights swept across the windows as a car pulled into the car park. All the inhabitants of the bar looked at each other in turn as the sound of a door being closed preceded footsteps. The footsteps stopped at the door for what seemed like an eternity but was in fact, just a few seconds, long enough for all eyes to fall on the handle as it turned with a creak and the door was pushed open. The howling wind sent the candles in the bar fluttering wildly as the tall figure stepped into the room. Is the mysterious visitor the agent from London? Why does Donald look so comfortable in his skimpy attire? What is Mad Hags secret that drove her to Dunworkin? Stay tuned for the next exciting excerpt from "Doon the Laneway" .......