Paul Andrew Sneddon

River

Content warning: this piece contains themes of depression and suicidal ideation.

If you or someone you know is struggling, support is available:
Samaritans — 116 123 (UK, 24/7, free)
International crisis lines — http://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/

A story about survival.

— Paul

The wind cuts across the field.
The old gatehouse shadowed against the dying sun.

Not a soul here.

On a Tuesday night in March.

The water looks dark.
Cold.
Deeper than I thought.
Deeper than I remember.

I look around the sides.
There is a path leading down.
Into the water.
The current.

All the way to the sea.

I watch the water for a while.
The wind rolls across, so it looks like it’s going the wrong way.

Debris and wood piled against the bridge.
Looks like the beavers have got ambitious.
Building skyscrapers.
I laugh.
Like something escaping.

Funny how we are drawn to water.

I’ve been thinking about walking down to the river all day.

All week.

Yesterday, I found an excuse not to come here.
Something drawing me here.

I followed a feeling.
It led me here.

But my brain, started quoting my writing back to me.

“I am of the earth, but not yet the earth.”

Ah, fuck. I wrote that?

I don’t remember.
Shit.

I did.

“Get up, you son of a bitch, get up, because I love you.”

Life is more than just me.
I am more than myself.
But just a man.

Flesh.
Blood.

A cold beer on a Saturday.

Well, did you mean them or not?
Are you out here playing?
Is this a fucking joke?

No.

This is who I am.
This is where I will live and die.

Here.

On this page.
In this town.
With these people.
With these thoughts.

The river.
The sky.
The moon sneaking on the stage.

I light up a smoke.
I run my hand over my face, the rough skin.

I sit.

In the yellow light of the streetlight.
A procession.
Slow.

A band, just accordion,
bass,
a guitar part snaking through.

Like the crowd that follows.
Carrying a coffin.
A woman crying.
Carrying a rose.

And a few that follow…
Just a few.
They nod as they pass.

The woman takes the rose.
Throws it into the water.
She looks at me.
I can’t look her in the face.
Her eyes burn through me.

She turns.
I watch as they disappear into the woods.

I sit in the orange glow.
Streetlights.
I can hear the river run.
I hold up my hands.

What are these hands?
What are they for?

They work.
I work.
Work to do.

The wind cuts across the field.
The old gatehouse shadowed against the dying sun.

Night Shift

Eddie drove down the main road, music playing loud. He was sure he was the only guy in Ayrshire playing 90s rock down the back roads.

Definitely the only one still using CDs.

What was it they called his favourite bands now?
Classic rock.

Fuck off.

Jean had been saying,
“Why not just go the whole way and get it on cassette?
Get with the times.”

Cheeky.

Somehow her Idlewild t-shirt still fit.

When he left she was ironing her uniform.
Humming along to some pop song.
He’d be able to pick her up in the morning.

He checked the app.
No bookings.

He tapped his fingers as the band hit the groove.

The car smelt like perfume and aftershave, and sweat and booze.

The last couple had started doing a line in the backseat. He’d punted them out on the corner.

He drove and drove.
Through the streets.
The little villages.
Five houses and a pub.

Back into town.

The old pub. Where they used to jam.
Bass.
Guitar.
Drums.

The music going round and round.

He switched off the app.
Leaned back into the seat.
He sang.
He laughed.

Drove past the crowds outside the pub.
Stopped and got some chips.

Sat down by the shore.
Till the sun came up.

Two Ghosts

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.

Seen

People walked past her without looking. Someone in the crowd bumped into her and just kept moving. She saw a wee cafe on the corner, pushed the door open and it was scotch pies and soup and warmth.

A waitress walked by and smiled.

“Hiya, just sit anywhere you like.”

She took a seat near the back and ordered a coffee.

The waitress brought it over and she held the cup in her hands and breathed out slowly.

The rain fell on the window as she looked into her cup and swirled it round. Out on the street, someone ran past with their coat pulled up over their head.

Amy checked her phone.
No messages.
No notifications.
Just like yesterday.

She pulled her jumper down over her hands.

The waitress stopped.

“You alright, love? You after anything else?”

“Oh, just another coffee, full caff, please.”

The waitress smiled.

Amy noticed the name tag: Lorna.

The crowd from the bingo was in. Someone mentioned legs eleven and they burst out laughing,

Lorna brought the coffee over.

“Here you are. Can I get you anything else?”

“I’m… okay, thanks.”

Lorna considered her for a moment and stepped closer.

“You alright?”

“Oh, I’m alright, thanks. This is a really nice place.”

“Thanks, if you need anything, just give me a shout. I’m Lorna, by the way.”

“I’m Amy.”

“Pleasure.”

Lorna turned and walked back to the counter. The couple in the window seat were arguing over something. The woman raised her voice, Amy watched from the corner of her eye as Lorna walked over and leaned between them, voice low.

The rain got heavier. Water ran down the street like rivers. The older woman at the counter gave Lorna a towel to put down at the base of the door.

“Thanks boss. This weather, Jill,” sighed Lorna.

Jill’s laugh was more wheeze than anything else.

Amy didn’t look up as they walked back. She heard them from the counter.

“What’s the deal with that lassie? She’s taking the piss sitting here all day wi’ two coffees” grumbled Jill.

Amy could feel herself turning red, the heat rising in her face. She stared at her phone like it had the answers.

“Two coffees. She’s not doing any harm, Jill. She seems a bit of a soul.”

Jill sighed.

“Well, see if she wants anything else, eh?”

Lorna made her way over.

“Hey, how’s your coffee? Can I get you anything else?”

Amy looked up at her from her phone, the screen in the middle of refreshing.

“Oh, I’m okay. I should get going.”

“You don’t need to rush off.”

Amy looked back at Jill, who was watching.

“It’s fine, honestly.” Amy stood and pulled on her coat.

Jill mumbled something under her breath.

Lorna looked back and mouthed, “Don’t be an arsehole.”

She put her hand on Amy’s arm.

“You’re welcome anytime, love.”

“Thanks.”

Amy was back out into the street and the rain. She pulled her coat tight.

The queue at the taxi rank looked miserable.

She crossed the road and turned down the back streets.

She got home. It was dark and cold. She didn’t switch on the light. She nearly slipped on the unopened post.

She ignored the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.

She pulled the duvet up on the couch, felt the coldness against her and typed into her phone.

“I spoke to someone today. Someone saw me.”

She put the phone down and sat in the darkness, listening to the rain on the window.

Blue

Part One

The light is fading out,
The shadows have a new lease of life.
I cough once, twice.
I sound like a motorcycle engine starting up.
I breathe in deep,
Fuck.
Fuck this.

The day never started.
I’ve slept.
Not much else.

My lungs feel like concrete.
Every breath is a battle.
Wearing me down.
Wearing me out.

Got the lights down low.

I took the bins out earlier,
Took me an hour to recover.
Heart trying to escape my chest.

Beating like an unreliable drummer.

But I’m here
And I’m grateful
And I’m lucky.

I’m not good at waiting.
Waiting to feel better.
I’d rather be down in the trenches.
A work in progress.

Put some music on.
Close my eyes.

Part Two

How blue can you be?
Pretty fucking blue.
Like the planet.

Or the guitar by the bed.
I read it’s 620–670 Terahertz,
But it feels more like “Blue Car” by Greg Brown.
The radio just doesn’t do that.
Put the song on.
Let it play.

Down from the mountain.
The smell from her vape still lingers.
Yellow hair.
The way her body felt next to mine.
Those late nights.
Early mornings.
Up all night, watching the sunrise over our little town.
I drive down its old streets, alone at 5:00 AM.

Green.
Yellow.
Red.

Blue.

Waiting.

Watching the birds soaring through the morning sky.
Staying warm.
Or are they out of here?

Am I the only person alive in this whole town?

Waiting for the blue light to change.
Park up.

Walk through the cracked pavements and empty streets,
Alone at the coffee shop.
Everyone fussing about nothing.

Black coffee.
Pure.
Simple.

Sunset, all orange and yellow.
If I could paint, I would paint it.
If I could sing, well I’d be a different person.
I don’t have much.
These words

And the world turns.
And life goes on.
So I sit beneath the darkening sky,
With an old guitar, just missing her for a while.

Part Three

Till I walk along the river
Winding through this town,
Through our lives,
To the bus station,

Lit up in the street lights.
Someone sleeping on the bench
Look at the destinations
Maybe I’ll just

Go

Somewhere.
Anywhere.
She had the choice.
She stayed.
For love.
For me.

I’m moving.

Past all the rows of houses. .
Back to where I belong.

To myself.
To her.

Part Four

Sleeping in our bed.
Her fan on.

Even in the winter -2 outside.

The moonlight above the trees sneaking in the window.

Her skin.
Her touch.

Our bodies together.

Her kiss.
The world fades.
Her.
Me.
Home.

Part Five

We’re in the garden on those two camp seats we bought for the beach.
Speaker playing her favourite band,
I hope they tour again.

Fuck, the world got old.
We’re older too.
But young enough.
And happy.

Her favourite song,
the one she heard at the Chinese restaurant playing country music.
It’s a beauty.

Beneath a blue Ayrshire sky.

Still here.
Still in love.

I hear the snare.
The guitar.
The music.

The big blue beautiful sky.

Let’s dance, while we can.
In this moment.

Part 6

She sat at the table.
Doing a jigsaw.
Cup of coffee.

Worried about the state of the world.

She said:
“Read me something.
Something you wrote.”

I read her:
“Ayrshire Light”
“Context”

A chapter from “Burn”

She laughed.
She smiled.
Worried what her mum would think.

She said:
You know.

The writing.Is you.

Anyone else.
I probably would have told them to fuck off.
But I told her.
I know.