Our Winning Short Story: No Need to Panic by Josh Turner

At our 10th birthday party, we were delighted to announce the winners of our photography and short story competitions. As promised, we'll be publishing the top three entries to the short story competition, so let's get cracking. The winning story was No Need to Panic, by Edinburgh-based writer Josh Turner. Our judging panel described it as simple but powerful, well executed and tautly written with a serious point wrapped in humour. Our congratulations to Josh and, without further ado, here it is:

No Need to Panic

Josh Turner

 “I really love this flat,” Nial says, fumbling in his pocket for a ciggy.  He pulls out a packet, tapping them onto the table.  Grabbing one he leans forward, rummaging between the discarded takeaway containers for a light.  His hand curls around hard plastic.  Raising it to his lips he presses down, a click and then a flame.  He draws deeply.

 “Really bloody love it,” he whispers around the haze of smoke in his mouth.

 Sitting beside him, Jean stares at the mound of rubbish.  The whole place smells of stale smoke and rancid plastic.  “Are you sure, man?”

 “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Nial replies, breathing out a cloud of smoke that rises to hover below the ceiling.  “It’s got everything I could want.  And this sofa is lush.” 

Nial takes another draw.

Jean squeezes his hands tight, the finger tips going white.  “Well, like, it was kind of nicer before you got here, man.”

“Yeah well, there’s always a bit of mess when you’re living it up,” Nial replies.  “You should just take it easy mate, not get so stressed.”

Jean opens his mouth, stops, not sure what to say.  The phone rings loudly in the other room, saving him.

“You going to get that, man?” Nial says, picking up his book, fag hanging out of one side of his mouth.

“Guess so,” Jean mutters, wandering towards the noise.

*

Jean has a concerned look on his face as he returns.

“That was Cassandra downstairs, she says we should be careful this week.  They’ve done a survey or something.  Apparently the weather and the state of the building mean it’s really high risk for fires.”

“Rubbish, what would she know anyway?”  Nial says, not even glancing up from his book.

“I think she’s actually got an MSC in Fire Engineering?  I was chatting to her last week about it,” Jean replies, hands rubbing together as his eyes wander over the stale rubbish.

“Sounds like some made up degree to me,” Nial mutters.  The cigarette sizzles as he takes another draw.

Jean turns away, grabs a discarded carrier bag from the corner of the room.  He shuffles around, trying not to meet Nial’s eye in case he spots the resentment simmering there.  He grabs packets of half eaten noodles.  They’re slimy, and glossy beneath his hands.  He shoves them in the bag as hard as he dares.

Nial flicks the half-finished ciggy towards the pile.  It smoulders in the middle of the table.

“Damn, man!” Jean mutters, slapping at the smoking butt.  “Didn’t you hear what I said earlier!?”  He finally manages to get hold of it, dropping it into the ashy dregs of a drinks can that rests in front of Nial’s seat.

“Jesus, stop worrying man.  This building’s been here ages and it’s still totally fine,” Nial says, eyebrows spiking up to appear over the edge of the book.

“What are you reading anyhow?” Jean asks, trying to move the conversation away from another argument.

“Drowned World, man, it’s by some old guy.  It’s pretty good,” Nial replies.  Paper slides over paper as he turns the page.

Jean pauses, sniffs the air a second.  “Do you smell something?”

“It’s just the ciggy, mate,” Nial says.

“Seriously, do you smell something?”

Nial ignores him.

Jean tilts his head to one side.  Sweat trickles down from his forehead and into his eyes. 

Blinking, he says: “Honestly, I’m not kidding, is it getting warmer in here?”

“That’s just the sun through the window or something, man.  Like seriously, the sun's massive, man.  It can get pretty hot.  That’s nature for you; bloody massive.  Nothing you can do about.it.”

Jean moves back to the reassurance of his cleaning, tackling the worst of the clutter around Nial’s seat.  He pauses again, head tilted.  “I think I can hear downstairs' alarm going off, man.”

“It’s probably nothing, dude, they’ll just wave a tea towel at it.  Stop.  Bloody.  Stressing.”

“Err yeah, I guess you’re right.”  Another plastic bags get scrunched up and thrown into the one Jean is carrying.

Suddenly Jean’s leg jerks up.  “Crap man, there’s actual smoke now.  I swear it’s coming up from the floor boards.”  He pushes himself to the side of the room.

“That’s nothing, man, just a bit of smoke,” Nial says, blinking once. “Just open the window.”

Jean slides up the sash, sticking his head out a second before quickly pulling it back in.

“Nial, like, I don’t want to scare you or nothing, man, but… there’s actual flames coming out of the flat below!”

“Jesus, fine!” Nial says, slamming the book down on the table.  He grabs his phone from his pocket and dials.  A quick mumbled phone call, then he stuffs it back in his pocket angrily.  “I spoke to Bob, he says it’s fine.”  He picks up his book and continues to read.

“Bob's a plumber, man!” Jean yells.

“Exactly, knows all about this kind of stuff,” Nial replies, flicking a page over.

Suddenly a face appears at the window, yellow helmet on top.  “Gentleman, I’m from the local fire brigade.  We have strong reason to believe this building is on fire.”

“Did you hear that Nial!?” Jean yells, a frantic snap ripping through the end of his sentence.

“Just scare-mongering, don’t be such a sheep, ignore it.”  Nial replies.

“Gentleman.  I really don’t want to alarm you.  But the reason we believe this building is on fire, is due to the ample quantity of flames actually rising from the floors below.  My professional opinion is – it’s burning,” the fireman says, scratching at his nose.

“It’s fine,” Nial snaps, almost ripping a page as it turns.  “Go away.”

Jean’s eyes are wide, bloodshot now from the smoke coming through the floor.  He looks at the fireman, at Nial. “I guess we’re, errr, we’re ok, sir.”

The fireman shrugs, then slowly disappears below the window.

Jean’s whole body begins to shake with sweat.

Another face appears at the window, older than the first, with a thick grey beard. 

“Gentleman, I’m the local fire chief.  I’ve had a good look at the building at my colleague’s request.  I’ve double checked his work and even sent off a couple of photos to HQ.  I can now confirm, this building is aflame.”

“Did you hear that Nial!  We have to do something!” Jean cries, through the thick black smoke between him and the sofa.

“Seriously, leave us alone!” Nial yells, throwing his book to clatter against the upper sash of the window.

The chief simply shrugs, “Well, we can’t force you, son,” he says.  The face slowly drops down to disappear like the last.

Nial begins to fiddle for a cigarette on the table.

“Nial, I’m not kidding, man, but the sofa is burning!” Jean cries, his voice cracking with fear.  His eyes blink back tears as they flick to the empty window.

“It will go out soon, stop being a baby,” Nial sighs.  His hand rummages between the remaining rubbish.

“YOUR HAIR IS ACTUALLY ON FIRE!” Jean yells, choking on the acrid smoke.

“Ahh, thank god,” Nial says, reaching up with his cigarette. “I couldn’t find my light.”

Copyright - Josh Turner, 2014