Summer
He stood out in the street, the first light of a summer morning sneaking through.
5am.
He had met Jane when he came back to town. She was working at the charity bookshop across town when he had gone in for a browse. He didn’t think he would get recognised back home but she had made him immediately.
He checked the phone as he walked down the street.
She reminded him of May. The books, the wit, the sex. But there would never be another May.
Couldn’t be.
But there was fun to be had and it made him feel young again, leaving the house before the sun came up, or her husband got home.
He walked through the streets. Changed now, but not that much. He remembered some of the faces and the names. Gone now, but he could feel their spirits.
Still here.
He felt a sweat building and coughed hard.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
The doctors had told him to get more exercise.
What did they think he had been doing all night, and now up before the joggers.
The streets were empty. He loved this time.
Fuck, I should be writing something.
5am.
That was how he used to do it. In the silence. Stealing a march on the world.
These days it was unusual to be out of his bed, or anyone’s bed, before 10am.
The sun was bright so he slipped the shades on.
People came to visit now to see where he came from. The man who had written the books.
Some probably came to town now to see how he had ended up.
But fuck them.
He stopped at a bench by the bus stop.
Lit up a cigarette.
She had said she was good in bed and she was no liar.
He felt an ache in the shoulder and rotated his arm.
A police car rolled slowly up the street and stopped beside him.
The sergeant had the window rolled down.
“You want a lift, Slate?”
He made a faint smile back as he rose to his feet.
“It’s okay, I’ll walk.”
“Good man.”
He walked beside the police car until it rolled on, tyres rolling over the tarmac.
5:12am now. The sky washed out above him.
He flicked the cigarette into the gutter and stretched his back.
He crossed the road toward the hotel. The bakery shutters were still down. A gull screamed overhead and reignited his hangover.
Arsehole.
He kept moving.
He passed his old local. The same pub where he’d written half a chapter outline on a beer mat and it became his biggest-selling book.
He paused at the corner.
The wind cut through his shirt.
He felt the night on him. Sweat, sex. His hangover.
He checked his phone again.
No messages.
Good.
He kept along the pavement to the hotel. Frankie was outside having a smoke in his uniform and smiled as Slate approached.
Slate slipped him some cash and Frankie nodded.
Through reception and back to his room.
Home
The picture of Annie on the desk.
Autumn
The autumn rain fell against the window.
The fifth podcast of the day was coming up next. He was in the bathroom looking into the mirror. More lines about the eyes than he remembered.
He drank from the bottle of water.
Just like the radio back in the day.
This is Bobby’s great idea to keep me relevant, eh.
How much am I paying that guy?
He popped back a couple of pills from the little tub he kept by the sink.
Two of these in the morning.
One of Frankie’s pills at night.
That’s a balanced diet. The doctors would be proud.
He looked down at his phone.
Disorder in the House.
20 chapters written.
He couldn’t tell if he loved it or hated it.
He remembered the draft he had burnt 20 years ago.
Safe.
Apologetic.
Establishment approved.
He laughed a little and thought of all those sad folk ready to trade their voice in for 5 minutes of fame and a pat on the head.
There’s your grave, now lie in it.
His phone bleeped.
Message from Bobby.
“Remember, smile and be nice.”
Och aye, no bother wee man.
Best behaviour, he chuckled as he grabbed his coffee and sat in front of the screen.
Has he not read any of my books, you need to be yourself or don’t even bother.
I’ll be Slate until the day I die.
The host’s face appeared.
“How you doing pal”
“Great to see you, Slate, the man himself. Listen, before we get into the new book, everyone here just wants to thank you for your recent donation to the children’s hospice appeal. That was a massive gesture, mate.”
“Happy to help. They were there for my daughter, Annie. Good people. I was grateful for what they did.”
The host’s smile faltered for a half-second. “I’m so sorry to hear about that.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. But it never leaves you.”
“We’re so happy to have you here, the man that burnt the book!”
Slate shifted in his seat.
“Aye, well. No my finest hour. I was skint. Always skint. And somebody comes to me and says, here, write me this, I’ll pay you more than you’ve ever made.”
“So, a commission.”
“Aye. Something like that. Finished it that winter, and… fuck, can I swear on here?”
The host smiled. “Aye, of course.”
“Every character smoothed right down. Like a blancmange, you know? Couldn’t let it go out in my name. So I didn’t.”
Winter
The curtains drawn tight against the winter.
He had dreamt about the old days. May and him cooking up breakfast. The square sausage, the eggs.
With a great effort he sat up on the bed.
He could see the dust in the air in the half light.
The room was cold.
He checked his phone and read the message from Jane.
“You about later? I know you said not to text but I want to see you.”
He sighed.
The hangover.
Necessary.
He went to the shower.
Room service leftovers for breakfast.
He lit up the cigarette, the phone wedged between his ear and neck.
He knew the number by heart.
Was tired of calling it.
Bobby answered, slightly disinterested.
“Slate, it’s yourself. Listen, I’ve got a few things cooking but we aren’t there yet.”
He sighed.
Same patter. Different day.
Slate hung up the phone.
“Prick.”
He picked up the paper.
The headline screamed: New bus stop opened in town.
“Exciting place,” he chuckled.
He took a drink straight from the bottle and looked at the books piled up on the table. The picture of May looking back at him.
He was older now than she would ever be.
The house they had owned across town.
Felt like another life.
Not better.
Just different.
He stubbed the cigarette out.
A cough rattled up. He pressed a fist to his chest until it passed.
“Yeah I know…” he mumbled.
He remembered what her mother had said to him.
She blamed him. For the cancer. For both of them.
There was a knock.
He opened the door.
“Mr. Slate, for you.”
Frankie was holding a small, see-through bag. One pill.
Slate flipped him the cash and took the bag. The whole transaction took about fifteen seconds.
He shut the door.
The room went quiet. Just him, the bag, and the picture of May on the table.
He felt it between his fingers and took a deep breath.
The cough came up. This time it didn’t stop.
His vision blurred, he stumbled. His heart was like a drummer who lost the beat.
The weight on his chest.
And then the ground came up fast.
There were hands on him. Moving him. Lifting him.
He woke up to what looked like Frankie leaning against the wall.
The ceiling.
Like water.
It fell. Like rain.
His hand reached for the pills.
The paramedic was giving him chest compressions.
“Christ.”
He heard voices.
His daughter’s voice.
Calling him.
He looked around the room, but there was just Frankie, laughing.
And then.
The shout of “Clear!”
Again.
He flinched.
The noise split the room. Then silence.
Frankie was holding the picture of May.
Put that down, you bastards.
The shout went up again. “Clear!”
Electricity tore through him. The paramedic looked at his partner. Shook his head.
Save me, you pricks.
The other paramedic leaned over and closed his eyes. “Was he not some writer?”
“Aye. My sister read his stuff.”
Frankie leaned over and took the pills from his pocket. “He won’t be needing these.”
“Ho you!” shouted one of the paramedics, but Frankie was already gone.
(C) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 