Open the window at 4am.
Listen to the rain
falling on the window.
The street.
The parked cars.
The garden chair
I left out last night.
Sit in the glow
of the streetlight.
Just listen.
Hear a car race up the street.
Too fast.
Then it fades.
And I’m left with the sound
of the rain.
The smell drifting in
through the window.
Pick up my guitar.
Quietly picking out a chord.
Me and the rain.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
The waiter brought the mug from the front bar, just like the singer had requested: half full of white wine. The crowd was different through here, the buzz of the front bar seemed another world.
He left the mug by the piano and smiled at the singer.
She was sitting by the window, singing about some arsehole who had ripped her off. The little crowd in the back room was half watching, half studying their phones. They weren’t here for her, but when she hit the chorus and her voice lifted…
They stopped.
They looked up.
A few smiled.
A head nodded.
And then.
Then they went back to their coffee.
Their phones.
Their conversations.
But she played on, a strand of her hair falling down over her face.
She played: G down to E. And sang: “The blue lights are shining tonight.” And again: “Sometimes we rise. Two souls in the light.”
She settled the notes down.
To the major, the minor, fourth, and back.
She whispered, “Sometimes we fall.”
She heard another voice. She turned around.
It was Frankie, from the front bar.
Everyone else was gone.
She smiled.
His voice, baritone.
She played it again, and he sat by her at the piano. She played the chords gently. Swooping down low and rising back up.
He placed his hand by the keys, at the top of the piano.
His fingers were rough.
Worn.
A lifetime of work.
She played round the chord progression.
And this time he played a few notes.
Like footsteps in the snow.
“Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we rise.”
The music got stronger.
Their voices connected, rising together.
He laughed.
She smiled.
She looked out the window.
Saw the people on the street.
A few heard the music.
Looked up.
Smiled.
Or shook their heads.
At the two ghosts.
Playing,
just for themselves,
just because they could.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Doug tore at the guitar string. His fingers were shredded, the guitar fed back. Louder and louder till it was ringing in his ears.
He looked at the notebook.
Big Empty.
He grabbed a glass and knocked back the drink. He was nearly sick as he picked up the bottle and threw it against the wall. He watched it smash and cheap whisky burst all over the wall.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He sat down at the edge of the bed and slid to the floor. The light was off, the place was silent. He looked out the big window, the sky above was alive. Colours breaking over the darkness. The moon looking on.
The room was cold. He pulled his coat twice against the chill. His eyes felt heavy as he felt himself sinking down. Lower and lower into the earth. Pages of words and ideas falling around him like rain. He felt the darkness envelop him.
He shouldered the guitar and hit an A chord.
He was flying.
Looking back down at himself, sitting in that room as he soared above the city. The lights, the traffic, the people. Fading. He was free. Soaring faster, the stars above, but he didn’t care. He cut through the still night air, felt it rushing past him.
He took a deep breath and yelled with delight.
“Fuck yessss.”
He swooped down over the dark river, under the bridge, and back up to the sky. Higher and higher. Gravity pulling at him but he felt the rush in his blood. Gravity trying to hold him. He smiled, but he could feel himself slowing.
“Fuck you,” he yelled.
For a moment there was just life.
He just was.
Feeling the pulse of the universe.
Whole.
And then. He was falling. Faster and faster. He kicked his arms and legs, he shouted and yelled. But it was all in vain. As he gained speed he laughed like a child. What else could he do?
The city was getting closer. The lights brighter. He was spinning through the sky.
He heard the traffic.
Somewhere there was music playing, he heard a lonely piano. He smelt the food cooking over the stove, saw the chefs in the back alleys having their smokes, the party girls out for the night, and an old guy stumbling out the bar.
And then he landed with a crash on top of a pile of rubbish below his window.
As he lay there he felt the grey flood into his veins, his eyes, his bones. He lay there for a moment, looking up at an empty sky as the stars faded.
He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out to the road. He felt something rise up inside of him and vomited on the pavement as the number 11 bus rolled by.
It was playing music.
One of his songs.
What the fuck.
He felt pain shoot up from his chest and there was a ringing in his ear. He wiped the sick from his mouth and half walked, half stumbled down the pavement. His laces were loose and they spun as he walked.
He stumbled left.
Stumbled right.
Stopped and tried to steady himself.
People saw him coming and moved out the way.
He sat down on the church steps. His breathing heavy. He watched the crowds, and felt the world spinning. The minister came out and had a look of concern when he spotted him. He said,
“You can’t sit here pal, this is a church.”
“Aye I just need a minute. I was flying a moment ago.”
“Sure you were, sonny,” he laughed.
“No, I really was.” He looked at him.
“Listen I’m showing a few youtubers around and everything has got to be just right. They have got a big follower count..”
He turned and walked away.
“Well go fuck yourself.”
The minister didn’t look back.
Doug slipped away, down a side alley and away from the people. He heard a conversation and there was an old man drinking from a bottle, muttering to himself.
The old man had a big pile of papers and notebooks. He scored through a line and threw it on the fire. Then a whole notebook. He took a swig from a bottle of cheap booze. Talking to no one in particular. He was dressed up in a suit and tie.
He offered Doug the bottle and he took a swig, as the old man laughed. The world turned and stretched and leaked like paint waiting to dry.
“What was in that?” he asked.
“Life and death, my friend,” the man smiled a toothless grin.
Doug shuddered. Fuck. The man’s face blurring, melting.
“Who are you? What the fuck are you?”
“Don’t you know?” laughed the old man. “I’m the writer, all my life, words, tumbling like rain, caught in the storm, finding my way. Fighting the emptiness, big empty.”
“Well, how did you end up here?”
“Life my friend, life. We don’t get to write the ending ourselves.”
Doug just looked at him. “We’ll see”
“Got a couple of quid?” The old man asked.
Doug dug into his pocket and gave the man £5. The old guy put a hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks friend, now kindly fuck off.”
Doug looked at him as the old man started burning more paper.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Doug.
The old man just stared into the flames as they built higher and higher.
Doug stepped back, not wanting to get caught in the flames. He turned and stumbled on, back to the street where the bus warped and flashed like it wasn’t even there.
He saw people walking past. He couldn’t see their faces. One of them bumped into him. Then another. Someone swore at him.
Aye well fuck off.
He held his hands up to his face. He felt an arm on his shoulder.
“You alright Doug? You’re late, you’re due on in 5 minutes.”
He looked at a man’s body with a cat’s head talking like an old friend.
“Ok, I’ll play big pussy cat, where do I go? Ya big puss”
“Why you got to be such an arsehole, man?”
“I’m sorry, Catman, where do I go?”
He led Doug through a door and up a flight of stairs. The old wooden stairs creaked below his feet. The place smelled like sweat and beer and the definite smell of perfume lingering in the air.
An old wooden stage stretched out.
The Catman thrust a guitar into his hand and Doug looked at him like what? He just looked at Doug.
“You been on the fucking bin juice or something? Get out there.”
And he pushed Doug out onto the stage.
The crowd stood and applauded. Doug gave them a wave. They sat down and there was silence. He lifted the guitar and felt the weight of the strap on his shoulder.
Doug shouted,
“What do I do, Catman?”
Cat came back,
“Throw us a rope, bring us back from the big empty.”
He looked at the crowd and looked down at the ground. He looked at the guitar.
He remembered.
The broken glass.
The ambulance lights.
His blood on his guitar.
Strings.
Electricity.
He closed his eyes.
Hit the chord.
The notes filled the stage.
The light was blinding.
The roof tore open.
Music ripped the sky.
And he was soaring again.
Alive.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
‘Two Doors Down’ is a song I wrote a few years ago now. I was thinking about the song when I wrote this story the other day.
Content note: This story includes mild violence, crime themes, and adult references.
I check the street behind me. So many faces, but none I recognise. The city has its own rhythm. People are spilling out of the bars onto the streets. The restaurants are packed. On the street, there’s an easy vibe, but there is something bubbling beneath the surface. Always is.
I cross the alley and duck into the side door of the hotel. Someone has used a fire extinguisher to jam the door open. I duck through the door and along a dusty corridor past the kitchen, where someone is listening to the radio. Weather Report. No end to the hot spell.
I climb the stairs and into my room. Room 135.
It’s not the same room I had before, but I bet they are all the same. It hasn’t changed much. Same furniture. Same places we stashed the cash. Still in need of a paint job and some new carpet.
I didn’t pay a lot, but it still feels like too much. I lay the guitar case down on the bed and place the bottle of whisky and my wallet on the table. I walk over to the window. It’s open, but you would never guess. The hot air stands.
Eight p.m., but the mercury must be pushing 30. It’s the same heat out there as it is here. I can hear the hotel’s neon light hum.
Looking out the window, the streets are still busy. Groups of people on a night out. Couples, hand in hand, arm in arm, kissing in the corner in the headlights. Some people scatter as a police car tears up the road, sirens loud and lights flashing.
I remember her.
She waited in the car, usually with some takeaway while I went in. Grab the money and we’re out of there. She could drive. Fast.
She didn’t say much apart from, “Shut up and let me drive.” Talking about her brother. Or: “When’s the next job?” “Let’s go steal a car.”
I can see her there by the bed, sleeping in that old Rancid t-shirt. Said she always had a thing for Tim Armstrong. Bundle of cash like a pillow. Irritable in the summer heat, drawing on a cigarette.
I pour a drink. Cheap whisky. Burns on the way down. Just what I need. I can almost hear her voice. “Christ, you pour whisky like my grandmother. Just drink the damn thing.”
I remember she whispered, “I’ve got the truth,” as she had poured it over her chest.
The locks click as I open the guitar case. I lift it out and hold it in my arms, sitting at the end of the bed.
Fifth string. Slide from E to D. And back again. Down the scale to the low E.
Blues. Steady. Pulse. Sings. Two doors down. Two doors down. Singing my blues.
I grab the receipt for the room. Scribble it down on the back. I can see it. Like an old movie. The money. Banknotes all over the bed. The bathtub.
Her whispers. “Hey now, babe, won’t you stay a little while?” The wall. She kept her boots on.
I breathe out, slow. I took the money. Left her the bill. Guess her brother isn’t getting that operation.
There’s a knock at the door. Her perfume drifting in like a ghost. “Tell me that you’ll be here… when it all comes down.”
I open the door. She smiles. “I knew you’d be back.”
A shot rings out. Gunsmoke curls up. An acrid chemical smell.
She walks away in those boots. Doesn’t look back. She’s muttering the lyrics to Roots Radicals, I can hear the sound of her boots, and the sound of the street.
Fading out.
This is the song, recorded at home on an old tascam 4 track I’ve still got somewhere.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 