The pub holds promise, but I need to stay sober. If I can.
The underground just keeps going. Loops. All day long. For the price of one ticket.
Got time to kill. A cold winter day. It keeps you warm. No ticket inspector. Just one ticket on, one ticket off.
People, faces, quiet, loud. All day long you see them, looking awkwardly at the adverts, avoiding eye contact. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Ride on, ride on. I’ve got some soul on the headphones. I’m not alone. Mavis Staples, “We’re Going to Make It.”
Or the library. Heat and all those books. Good company when you’ve got nowhere to go. A mind revolution, walls broken down, different lives, different perspectives. Changed, alive, brain firing.
Or the nights the library is closed and you can’t find peace. When you’re too tired for books.
Then it’s music and walking and burning a hole in the soles of your shoes. It’s city streets, dreams, hopes, angels in the cracks of the pavement, the river bridge, smoking a joint in the car park.
With an old friend, or a new friend.
Then through the crowds, all these people with places to go. Just keep moving.
Check the clock. 8pm.
Into the venue, grab a beer. Familiar faces. Smiles and warmth.
I get there early; I’ve got a few minutes to kill. My mouth feels dry. I loosen my tie just a little.
I watch a fella try to stop people in the street, but no one’s buying.
A security guard nods as I enter the building, the light flooding through the glass like an old church. A few people are coming and going. There’s no one behind the reception desk. The security guard presses a button, and one of the gates opens. He tells me to go on through; they are expecting me.
I walk through a long hall. I see Frank and Tam. They just walk past. They don’t look at me, much less talk to me. The condemned man has fewer friends than anyone.
I keep walking down the hall to an open door. I stop in the doorway. There are three people sitting at the desk. I recognise two of them and a third person. Buttoned-up suit. Greased-back hair. Must be HR. I recognise the two managers from our floor: Evelyn and Massie. They both offer a weak smile. They look nervous.
“Thanks for coming,” they say, and we shake hands. “This is Ralph from HR.”
I offer my hand, but he refuses to shake it. Evelyn gives him a look, and Massie just looks beaten. We sit. Evelyn takes the lead.
“Thanks for coming. This isn’t easy for any of us,” she pauses. “We have followed a process as required under law. We have gone beyond requirements to offer support to our colleagues. Unfortunately, in order to keep the business functioning and to provide value to our shareholders, we have to reduce headcount. We have to terminate your employment forthwith. You will receive a month’s pay. We thank you for your service.”
She puts the paper down.
“Just like that,” I say. HR is grinning like a cat. “Just like that.”
My ID goes in a box by reception. Won’t be needing that, I guess. I walk out into the sunshine and run my hand through my hair. Everything looks the same, yet everything is different. I take a deep breath.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years.
No one comes out to see me. No familiar faces. Just silence. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. Out of the world.
I take a step forward. Suddenly, I’m in the middle of the road. A taxi driver is shouting at me from an open window.
“What is your fucking problem, pal?” he shouts.
I stand there. I want to move, but my legs don’t respond. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I spin around. I feel like a coiled spring, ready to attack.
“You alright, mate?” says a deep voice. “Here, let me help.”
I’m guided to the pavement and to a bench. Someone offers me a bottle of water, and I take a sip. I struggle to my feet.
The voice says, “Take a seat, big man. Take a moment.”
Arms are pulling at me, but I struggle free, and I’m stumbling down the street. I undo my tie and let it fall to the ground.
I hear the voice shouting after me. “Don’t be a fucking arsehole, man!”
But I keep moving, and the noise fades behind me. I go down the street, past the pub nearest work. I cross the bridge over the river. The water looks dark, cold, foreboding.
The Pub
Across the river is Tam’s, a pub with food and drink. I open the door and walk in.
There is no one here but a guy behind the bar.
“You look like you have had a tough morning, big man. What can I get you?” he asks.
“Pint, please. Whisky chaser.” “No problem.”
He pours my drink, and I take a seat away from the bar. I put my head back and stare at the ceiling for just a moment as the unmistakable snare crack and chords of Like a Rolling Stone fill the pub.
I’ll tell you how it feels.I’ll tell you.Like finding your wife in a hotel room.With strangers.And a video camera.
I take a sip of my drink. And beckon forth oblivion.
Time passes in a blur of drinks, strangers, and the barman with a Bob Dylan fixation. At 1 am, he is standing opposite my table.
“You’ve had a good go round, pal, but I need to close up,” he smiles. “Is there someone I can call?”
“Just a taxi,” I half-slur. “Where are you heading?” “Home,” I say. “Kirkentoun.”
“Christ, that’s a distance. No worries.” I must have been the best customer he ever had.
The taxi drives through the city, past deserted streets, to the motorway, until the concrete turns to grass. I ask him to stop on the edge of town. I pay the man, and as he drives away for the trip back to the city, I’m sick in the ditch at the side of the road.
I look up, and from here I can see the stars and what looks like a plane or a drone. I breathe in the country air; only it smells like shite.
“How the fuck can you live in Ayrshire and not be into golf?”
He took a puff on his vape and filled the car with a mushroom cloud of strawberry vapor.
“Christ, Chubs,” moaned Eddie, opening a window from the passenger seat and trying to waft the vape cloud out.
“How the fuck can you drive like this?”
Chubs continued undaunted.
“St Andrews calls itself the home of golf, but over here in Ayrshire, you’ve got Prestwick. The first Open was held there; you’ve got famous courses at Troon. The Open was there last year. You’ve got about a million other courses, from pitch and putts to municipal courses.”
Eddie sighed.
“Ah, fuck that. That’s for the tourists, pal.”
Chubs’ face turned a little red.
“The fucking tourists? Listen, pal, it’s in the fucking air, it’s in your Ayrshire fucking soul. Down here, it comes from working-class roots.”
Eddie tried to hold back a laugh. “You’re talking shite pal’!”
“Alright, alright. Christ. Listen, you cut me off. So you’ve got these courses everyone knows, but you’ve got real courses too. Magic wee courses that are like finding buried treasure. Ones for the people, the real people that work all week.”
Eddie chuckled.
“Come on, Tae fuck, Chubs. You are having a fucking giraffe. I never realized I was living it up here in a socialist paradise utopia. I must have missed that. Let them eat cake… let them golf. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that the fucking royals are really a deep undercover working-class family from Saltcoats.”
Chubs snorted and put his foot down as they overtook an old couple in their Beamer.
Eddie tried to stifle a smile.
“Listen, pal, there are courses here built for normal people. You can go out and play for less than a football match at Ibrox or Celtic Park. You see families playing, groups of pals. It’s real, then in for a pint when you finish. I remember my da’ teaching me how to hit a shot, skipping onto the course so we didn’t have to pay. Watch out for the greenie.”
“Aye, he was a good man, your da. How long has that been now?”
“Three years since the cancer took him.”
There was silence for a moment.
Eddie looked out the window. “Did he ever play the big courses?”
“Nah, wasnae his style. He preferred the municipal courses.”
They both laughed.
“Here, I need to find a parking space,” muttered Chubs.
Part Two
The weather had turned by the time they parked.
They climbed the steps and looked out at the beach. The water. The rain coming down sideways.
Chubs sat on the bench in the shelter trying to catch his breath. Eddie watched a woman and her dog out on the sand in the distance before he turned to look at Chubs.
“You alright, pal?”
“Aye, man, of course I am.”
Eddie raised his eyebrows.
“Maybe fewer vapes and Greggs mate, a little more fresh air.”
Chubs looked up at his pal.
“Aye, alright, you cheeky bastard,” muttered Chubs as he tried to hand over the sausage roll wrapper from the kiosk. “What time are we teeing off?”
“We’ve got an hour.”
Chubs took the flask from his pocket.
“Got myself a cheeky dram or two in here,” he said as he took a swig.
An old couple walked by, dressed for monsoon weather on top of a hill in the Highlands. Eddie gave them a nod.
“Lovely day for it, eh?”
He looked back over the water. “Hard to believe that this place was jammed with people at the weekend. How come we book a round and it’s pissing down?”
“What did you expect?” laughed Chubs. “It’ll be blue skies by the time we tee off. I checked it.”
“Aye, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was fucking snowing by the 19th. You remember that lassie from the pub last week, the blonde?”
“Aye, aye, see you and your women by the way, pal. I don’t know how you can keep up with them all.”
“What can I say, Chubs, it’s a gift.”
“I seen Jenni the other day. You guys ever talk” asked Chubs
Eddie grimaced a little.
“Naw man, that’s done. But it’s all good, I’m keeping busy’ he said as he forced a smile.
“You ever get a name wrong and it all kicks off.” “Ha, that’s why I call them all darling,” he laughed.
“Anyway, that wee darling sorted me out with some of this. rolled and ready to go, pal.”
“Aye, ya wee beauty, you’re some man, pal.”
They sat on the bench as Eddie produced a lighter and lit them up. There was a moment or two of silence as they drew them in.
“We’ll no see any polis down here; they’ve barely got enough to police a demonstration these days.”
“Aye, man, life’s good.”
They sat back and listened, the rain and some lone seagulls. Time seemed to drift
Part Three
“Aw, fuck, here Eddie, mon. I think we’ve missed our tee time,” muttered Chubs.
The rain had started to clear, and there was a haze out on the water. At least Chubs thought it was. Eddie was sitting with a far-off look in his eye.
“Eddie… Ed.”
“What, what… oh… fuck aye, I think you’re right.”
“Oh, fuck, man, I was ready for a round.”
Chubs breathed out.
“Still, pal, it’s been a laugh.”
“Haud on, big man, it’s not lost yet. Give me the car keys.” “What, what for?” A confused Chubs looked at him.
“Don’t be a fanny, just give me the keys.”
“Alright, alright. Here…” He reached into his pocket and threw the keys over.
Eddie disappeared, but what felt like moments later, he was back with four clubs and golf balls.
“Mon, let’s go. I’ve got an idea. This is going to be a real Ayrshire Open”
The clouds cleared and the sun was breaking through.
They walked round to the Ballast Bank, rising by the shoreline. It had been built to protect the harbour, but it now had benches and a view out across the water.
That’s how they ended up there, on top of Ballast Bank, a four iron and five iron in each hand and a bag of golf balls, teeing up and aiming out over the Firth of Clyde.
Eddie hit a slice.
“That one’s ending up on Barassie Beach,” laughed Chubs.
“Your old dad would have loved this pal, well that or he’d have said we were off our heads”
“Aye, no doubt about it. Off our heads” smiled Chubs.
“Just like old times pal,” laughed Eddie as he teed another one up.
Matty turned off the news report from the Riverside Dome and sat looking at the line of guitars on the wall. This was like a teenage dream come true. First week at the guitar shop. He had already sold a couple since starting on Monday. He pulled down an acoustic Fender and started picking a soft, sweet melody. Eve came up the steps from the basement.
“That’s a pretty tune.”
“Thanks, I guess,” he muttered, looking slightly embarrassed.
She laughed. “How come you aren’t at the Riverside Dome tonight? I hear Bring Your Ghost to the Fire are playing?”
“Oh, Eve, mate. A guy was in this afternoon, claiming to be Hubie’s guitar tech. I used to fucking love that band. The first album was like a slice of life-saving, street-level, tough rock and roll with a big heart.”
“Oh, I know, I loved that. It’s weird. It’s an album you could fire up at a party, or on your own at 3 a.m., and it still hits.”
Matty looked up from the guitar. “You serious? You love that album?”
She looked at him, a little surprised. “I knew you were one of the fucking good ones.” She laughed, and he started playing the opening riff to “Howl on the Lonesome Road.”
“Holy fuck,” she smiled and started singing the first verse:
‘Has been, used to be, doesn’t make a difference, We’re here in this moment, and by God, you got to live it.’
They both joined in on the pre-chorus, Matty reaching for the note: ‘Hey now, can you hear it? The sound of the universe, The sound of whatever’s left, To lift us up.’
Eve smiled. “That was the best.” Matty was nodding his head. “How did they go from that to ‘Boogie Pants’?”
She sang: ‘She got the boogie, Boogie pants, Boogie woogie, Boogalicious, Boogie woogie bluesy.’
They both started laughing. “Yeah, that’s a bit shit,” said Eve, as Matty played the riff from “Boogie Pants.
“Hey, we could go sing at that open mic,” offered Eve. “Yeah, definitely. I know it’s kind of like they stopped trying. Maybe the record company had too much of a say. You know they like a more commercial sound.”
Across town, that same noise sounded like a hammer to his head as Hubie got back to his dressing room.
He picked up the open bottle of champagne and took a swig. The door behind him opened. “Thirty minutes to the meet and greet.”
Hubie threw the bottle at the door. It smashed on the wall with a crash. “Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!” he screamed. “Tell the others to do the fucking meet and greet.”
He opened a bottle of vodka and took a swig. He thought of the ladies in the front row. Jesus. Could be fun. But he already had his own high priestess of pain and sex. He checked his phone. He thought of the smell of her perfume, her leather, her kiss. She would be here soon. He pined for her, for the oblivion she brought.
He looked at the itinerary. A thirty-date swing through Europe. Like a funeral march. Then he could bury this band. He would be free of this business. They have been fucking over rock and roll since the beginning. Anywhere you got art, talent, fire, you got some arsehole who thought it was his job to represent… himself, mostly. Well, fuck ‘em all.
He thought back to the early days, when they were hungry, confident. The rush of playing and recording music, meeting people. The connection at the shows. Even before all this, music has been everything. Up in his room. Learning old songs, discovering the classics. Writing his first songs.
It was simple then. He didn’t have much. But he had the music. He looked at all the crap in his dressing room: like a police report already written out, it was just missing the handgun. His ears rang, but he could still hear music and voices from the hallway.
He felt like breaking the TV but couldn’t muster the energy. He looked at Terry’s smug card on the table, it was on everything, all over town. Bring Your Ghost to the Fire, presented by Terry Anders.
Whose fucking band is this?
He felt his anger rise but didn’t move. He just had to stay alive. So many ways to lose yourself, and he was barely hanging on. He picked up the acoustic guitar and it took all his effort to strum a loose A minor chord.
‘One day, some way, we’re going to rise up…..sing my song’ He sighed. ‘My song… My song’ Fuck off Terry.
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away.”
“It’s me,” came a voice from the other side. It was her. She didn’t wait; she opened the door and walked in wearing black boots, her hair high tumbling down. She crossed the room with confidence, slipping off her coat revealing a tight leather dress. “Did you miss me, bitch?” she smiled, and they kissed. She held his face close.
“I brought you a present,” and she put a few pills in his hands, which he quickly swallowed.
‘Good boy,’ she smiled as she took off his shirt.
Hubie forgot about the fans, the music. He forgot about the guitars, just another part of the business
Paul Andrew Sneddon 