Paul Andrew Sneddon

Escape

This is Chapter 12 of my book “Follow the Light”

And we are off, bleary-eyed, into the Ayrshire morning. Emmy looks gorgeous, her short blonde hair and a smile that I would never tire of seeing.

My car sitting on the street coughs up a cloud of exhaust fumes as I turn the key. A few commuters on their way to the station do a double-take, but we breeze past them, leaving them choking in our wake.

We get a good run of lights as we hit the dual carriageway.

I light up a smoke, and she flicks through the radio until she finds something she likes. The radio crackles to life with one of those old songs you know but can’t quite place.

For a moment, it’s like we aren’t ghosts at all.

We sing along to the chorus.

She looks at me, and I look straight back.

The engine opens up on the dual carriageway and we are cutting through the Ayrshire morning.

We’re analogue in a digital age; we’re radio in the streaming age.
We are the words written on the page.

And we don’t give a fuck if that’s good enough for you.

She laughs.

Welcome to the moment.

Thanks for reading, you can read the full book on Kindle unlimited here.

Mikey and Pammy Polis

This is chapter 6 of my book “Miserable Bastards”. It was one of the first longer stories I wrote, that I liked.

Mikey's back, somehow looking worse than when he left.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

He's bleeding from his lip and rubbing his eye. He looks like he's been under police questioning for an hour.

"The polis found my hedgehog, called me a clatty bastard. I told her
to get to fuck… so, er, she hit me."

"Oh, for fucks sake," says Frank as Bam comes round the bar and takes him by the hand over to a booth.

We all follow, and as I stand I feel a little unsteady on my feet. I'm getting a decent buzz from this whisky; let's see what the fuck is going on.

I get there and Mikey's cleaning himself up as Bam gives him another cross-examination.

"So, where is the hedgehog now?" she asks.

"Never mind that," snaps Frank. "Where are the polis?"

Mikey is turning pale.

"Mikey?"

"Oh fuck, I just ran." he says, looking over at the door.

"Christ, you, oot the back. Take some smokes, and we'll shout you when it's clear. Right, everyone else, back to where you were."

Fuck's sake.

We're back to our seats, back to our places, trying to look innocent. This is one of those moments where it would be good to be drinking in a bar with windows.

It was an old rule of mine: don't drink in a bar without windows or one with pool cues but no pool table.

"Fucking hell," shouts Bam. "We're sitting in here like a guilty party," she turns up the music and starts moving, boogying, getting down.

And we're all up. Even Pat is doing some kind of robot move.

Suddenly the door bursts open, and in walks a police woman, shorter than Bam. Face red, sweaty. This is Mikey's attacker.

This.

She's shouting.

"Where the fuck is he, where the fuck is he? Nae one, nae one. Nae one does this to Pam Wilson. PC Pam Wilson."

I'm trying not to laugh. I look at Bam; she's trying not to laugh. Frank's going for the Oscar, straight-faced and smooth.

"What appears to be the trouble, officer?" he says in a radio DJ voice.

"Frank McTavish, I should've known that I'd find you in a shite hole like this. Where is he? I'm going to leather that wee arsehole."

"No idea what you mean, Pam. How about a drink for old time's sake?"

"A drink? I wouldn't drink in here. Probably catch something. And it's
PC Wilson to the likes of you, alright."

They are looking at each other, but no one says a word.

Suddenly the door swings open again, and a red-faced, puffed-up policeman bursts in.

"Pammy, Pammy, what the fuck…"

He stops as he sees this little standoff.

Pammy looks embarrassed. "I told you to wait outside, PC Findlay."

"Come on, you. I've got reports of an aggressive mime threatening someone with an end of the world board on Sauchiehall Street."

PC Wilson looks around the bar at everyone.

"I'll be back," she says and turns on her heels and storms outside. PC Findlay looks apologetic and leaves.

The door swings closed, and we all burst out laughing.

A Walk in The Woods

Usually on a day off I’ll sleep late but Friday I was up and out the door sharp. No particular place to go, just me and my two feet.

Sun was shining.

Everyone I met, bar one person, said hello or good morning.

Through the neighbourhood and out to the woods.

I never knew about this till recently, but you go under the flyover and you are in the country. Just like that.

The bridge over the river.

I listened to the birds in the trees.

Took a deep breath.

Breathed out slow.

Walked back into town along the water.

Timescale

Bed rest.
Doctors orders.

I’m 46.

I’m on a timescale.
I’ve got stuff to do.

I get up and walk to the kitchen.
Come back.
30 minutes to recover.

Fuck’s sake.

I’m listening to Otis Gibbs.
Stories of Townes and Guy.

Window open.
It was sunny 30 minutes ago.
Now it’s raining.

The ache in my chest
reminds me of something.
That slipped my mind.

The rain cleared as I closed my eyes
and let the music play.

The Work

The boiler sounded like a lung collapsing.

My mouth was dry and the headache pulsed around my skull. I looked out in the darkness and back to my phone.

10:39am. No bars.

Just the orange glow of the street light. I caught a glimpse of myself; the surface of the mirror shifted. The colours bled out.

I took a breath.

I pulled the curtains, heard the low hum of the street light. I watched a bird fly from the trees. Like a getaway, upwards till it fell.

The empty thud as it made contact with the concrete.

I backed away from the window. Sweat dripped down my back. Scrambling to unlock the door.

It stuck.

Until finally I was out to the street.

Silent, empty houses.
Sale signs.

One street light went out and the next one went on. I ran along the street and they lit up.

I took a deep breath and I ran. Down the path and into the cemetery, dead flowers and photographs.

And here, a new grave. The earth piled high.

I saw a fox move between the rows. The grave was just mud and earth. I picked up the dirt and held it in my hands. Looked up to an empty sky.

The noise in my head growing. I got up.

Over the old railway track, there was a car parked in the middle of the road, doors open. I ran to the shore, right to the water’s edge.

My hands went down to the water. I looked down.

My hands were blue.

I saw smoke rising along the beach. There was a figure.

I thought of the mirror.

He said, “You’re late, did you forget again?”

It started to rain, it painted us blue.

He pushed me away as he disappeared.

I turned and ran.

Past the car, the cemetery, but I kept moving.

The street lights followed me back, or I followed them.

In through the front door.

Wheezing.

I wrote.

The dawn broke outside my window.