Book Lovers

Part 9 of the Miserable Bastards Series

Her flat is nice. A book lover’s flat. There are books everywhere. In the hall, living room, kitchen, bathroom.

The whole place smells of books.

She is smiling as she laughs at me coming from the kitchen and offering me a glass of wine.

“I thought you worked at the library,” I say, “not owned your own.”

“A lifetime of books,” she laughs.

“I was ill a lot when I was younger. Chest infections every other month. A lot of time sitting about resting. My mum used to take me to the library and I just fell in love.

I stumbled into music too.

Patti Smith…”

“Jesus died for…,” she smiles.

“Oh, I love that. Do you write?” I ask.

She blushes a little.

“I used to stay in a flat with two other writers. We were always trying to outdo each other. I wrote some stories and some poetry.

One day I’m going to get a collection published.”

“What things do you write about?”

She smiles.

“Here’s one:

The lights are going out,
But the world is turning on.

Obsession,
Craving.

Pick your poison.

Flesh.
Music.
Booze.
Books.

The Speed of Light,
Flying above the earth.

Life calls.

Come to me.
Worship me.”

She starts giggling, as I look at her.

“I thought that was going to be shite, but that was decent,” I smile.

She punches me on the arm playfully, and says: “There is a poetry slam night down the road a few of my friends go to. It’s on tomorrow night, you should go. You’d be very welcome.

There’s some talented people down there. I nearly got barred a couple of weeks ago. Some arsehole was heckling everybody, me and my boyfriend escorted him out.”

I smile. “You don’t mess around, eh?”

She smiles and writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Sure.”

I’m back out on the street and I check the note. It’s the address and 7pm.

I slip it back in my pocket and walk back down the street.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

(Near) Death in the Alley

Part 8 of the Miserable Bastards Series

The streets are bright, feels like walking out into a spotlight. Feels like the volume level has gone up, like I’ve just taken off my headphones. Buses, cars, people, movement, energy.

Fuck, I’m moving to a different beat. I walk over to the wall and watch the river of people floating by. A couple of them give me dirty looks.

Aye, well, fuck you too.

I feel my stomach churning a little. Daylight doesn’t suit me. I stumble round the corner and I’m in the alley, I nearly collide into a dirty van. I get past it just as my nausea reaches fever pitch and I’m sick all over the alley.

Fuuuuuck.

Again.

That whisky could probably be used as a paint-stripper.

I can hear the van; the engine starts up. The horn beeping.

Oh fuck off, I laugh.

I hear a door open, footsteps. Rough hands pick me up and I’m balancing a bit precariously.

Alright, alright pal. Calm down. Don’t you know I have to be wined and dined.

“Junkie scum,” he shouts, his face red, eyes blazing. He stinks of aftershave. Suddenly, I feel the impact of a punch to the stomach and he pushes me onto the bins. I fall flat on my back and I’m spitting out sick.

The footsteps fade and the van rolls past. The exhaust fills my lungs and I cough and splutter.

I just lay there for a moment

Trying to ignore the dull pain in my stomach.
Trying to catch my breath.

I’m laying back against the bins. It smells like death.

Or is that me.

I just sit there. I look down to the end of the alley. The day rolls on regardless. All these people rushing here and there. So much to do.

I stay where I am.

I’m not sure how long for.

What the fuck was his problem. Fucking arsehole. What the fuck is wrong with people. I’m doing you no harm you fucking idiot. Christ.

I rummage in my jean pocket and pull out a miniature. This will stave off the hangover.

I knock it back in one go.

It doesn’t taste great, but not as bad as the no label whisky. What the fuck am I doing. I throw the bottle against the wall and it smashes.

I drag myself to my feet. I feel a bit like Mikey dusting myself down. Leaning against the wall. I try to steady myself. I run a hand through my hair.

What else are you going to do eh, and I’m back out of the alley and onto the street.

I walk on a few steps. Slowly. By the side of the street. Avoiding the first of the crowds.

I need to eat if I’m not dead yet. And the city is my oyster.

This street alone we have got:

Indian food
Mexican food
German Kebab
Turkish Kebab
Fish and Chips
Sushi
Chinese food
Vietnamese food

And more chippies and burger bars than you would ever need. It’s Glasgow’s own food Epcot.

I know just the place.

I’m into Mo’s Kebab and Curry shop. They had the place done up recently. TV screens, LED lights. He’s arguing with his wife who is through the back, cooking the food.

And she can cook. She is a magician. I’m here for it.

Mo is laughing a little.

‘What in the fuck happened to you, Al?’ He is passing me a bottle of water. ‘Here, get that down you.’

I take a sip and the water feels good. I splash a little on my hand and onto my face.

‘Rough day?’

‘Met some angry guy on the street.’

‘Ah fuck man, here you want the usual?’ he asks.

‘Thanks pal, aye please. I’m well set for this.’

He shouts through to Essie out the back with the order and looks back at me.

‘Perfect timing, mate. We’ve been busy the day, this is the first break we’ve had. Here, grab a seat. He comes around the

counter and joins me at the table.’ He passes me a can of juice.

‘You look like you have had a bit of a day, mate.’

‘Here, I’m alright. This place looks amazing, Mo. You’ve done an amazing job.’ I say looking around.

‘Thanks, pal. Aye, I’m well happy with it and it keeps the Missus from moaning my head off, you know? How about you, how is the writing?’

‘Ah, you know, I’m still working on it. I just like, got stuck, you know.’ I mumble a little.

A few customers come in and Mo gets back to work.

Nothing restores like a chicken kebab and yogurt and good company.

There is a knock on the window. I turn round and it’s Ami from the library. She is smiling and waving. A library assistant and a fan of my book, apparently. We’ve bumped into each other a few times before.

She sticks her head through the door.

‘Hi Al,’ she smiles and she comes over and sits with me.

‘Hi Ami, how are you?’ I smile. She’s a real one Ami.

‘Listen, I love your book. You’ve got to get back to writing some more.’

Her hand runs over mine and I feel something stir.

Her big blue eyes are looking deep into mine. Fuck!

Is this redemption, or a fuck, or a redemptive fuck?

She’s telling me about my book, and what it means to her. She read it in a flat near Largs, avoiding the retirees when she worked down at the Ferry. She has read it twice.

Wow.

She asks if I’ll walk her home and of course, I say, yes.

We stand to leave.

Suddenly Essie appears at our table. Apron and hairnet, smile on her round face.

‘Alan, I know you love our pakora. Here, these are for you.’

She passes me a box.

‘Some of my special pakoras. For you’

I stand and we hug. ‘Thanks Essie, you’re a star’

She laughs and hugs me. She looks me in the eye and back at Mo who nods.

‘Thank you both’

Ami is smiling and we go back out onto the street.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

The Ghost

A tale of blood, shadows, and spite by Paul Andrew Sneddon

Blood on the Pavement

These empty streets. The crowd is gone now. Taste of blood in my mouth. Doors closed. Curtains drawn.

The police car parked down the road.

Siren flashing.

Rain pouring down.

The detective.
Empty Eyes.
My father’s man.
His blade.

Will do what he is told.

Always has. Always will.

Taste of blood in my mouth. Broken teeth.

The wedding ring in the gutter.

Petrol in the rain as smoke stings my eyes.

Lea is gone.

They have taken her to the station.
Last train out of town.

My father's words still ring in my ears.

‘Disgrace’.
‘Traitor’.
‘Fool’.
‘You can’t marry an outsider.’

Her screams,
her cries,
calling my name.

My blood on the pavement.
On the road.

A train cuts through the night.

They called an ambulance.
Sirens rushing from the hospital.

But he told them to cancel it.
Said I was to lay here and die.

I promise you. I won’t die.

Not yet.



The Ghost

And so, I disappear.

Down the road and into town, the bus stop where the rain comes down, you won’t see me.

Outside the pub for a Scottish breakfast, squinting in the sun. You won’t see me.

In the park reading a book, running for a bus on Portland Road.

At the football, in the crowd, standing up, singing the songs.

On the porch with my old guitar.

Playing old songs, new songs, my songs. Till the sun goes down.

You won’t see me.
You won’t hear me.

As the light fades.
The shadows grow.

My spirit runs.
My spirit roams.

You don’t see me.

I must stay alive.



A Little Bullet with Devil Wings

They will kill me.

Figures looking for me.

At the airport, the ferry port.

Searching my house, my possessions.
Talking on burner phones.

Anonymous figures.
People you don’t want to know.

They know the game.
Know how to play.
They enjoy it.

Sit in the club with a drink and a cigar.
‘You remember that one down by the harbour.

Pleading for his life.’

Laughter and another round of drinks.

A conscience they left someplace.

In the backseat of a car.
On a little bullet with devil’s wings.
In a bag of used notes under the floorboards.

They were sent by my brother.
Sent by my family.

To end my life.
To kill my soul.

Give them a job and they’ll do it.

But they won’t find me.

I promise you.



Timeless Rage

Their failure will make him curse me.

My father was a cold man.

Not a 21st-century kind of man.

Barely 20th.

More like a timeless rage.
Since man lived in caves.

Shook his head in disappointment.
Threw a punch.
Broke my bones.
Broke my head.

Said just a matter of time.
Until I’m dead.

His eyes like fire.
For my brother the empire.
All things easy.

For me.
The back of his hand.

I said I didn’t care.

But I lied.

I Am Vengeance

Now you shall see me.

His guards dead.

His shock.

I put the pillow over his head.
I took something.
For me.

I applied the pressure.

Felt him struggle.
Felt his muffled scream.

Pleading for his life.

Until his body stopped struggling.
Until silence returned to the room.

Then I took the money.
The thing he loved the most.

And I disappeared.



Born of Spite

Now you want me.

If you come after me, you better be prepared to die.
You better be prepared to burn your life.

And everything and everyone in it.

You take from me.
I’ll take from you.

Just know.
I’ll be ready.

I’ve had time to remember.
Time to think.
Time to plan.

Looking in my own eyes.

I welcome the fight.
I was born of spite.

All those years you tried to crush the life out of me.

I feel it.
It fuels me.
Energises me.

You want to hurt me.
I will hurt you.

I’m.
Becoming.
More.

More than you thought I could be.



Filling Shoes

More than you.

I see you, brother.
Trying to be dad.
Sitting at his desk.
Taking his seat at the club.
Smoking his cigars.

Fucking his whores.

Trying to convince yourself.
That you are worthy.
That you are cold.
Hard.
Like steel.

Throwing your weight around.
Humiliating your men.

They are laughing at you.
They talk behind your back.

They miss the old man.
The certainty.
The confidence.

You spill your drink.
Your voice cracks.

Your hand shakes as you hold the gun.

You always took after maw.

She was the light.
Until she wasn’t.
Until he buried her.



Brother

I walk through an open door.

Now here I am.
And you too, brother.

Back where we started.

These rain-filled streets.
But different.

Gun to your head.
Years and years.
Things left unsaid.

All I wanted was to be left alone.

But you pushed.
And pushed.

Sent murderers to kill me.
To chase me from my home.
From my life.
Run me down,
Through the towns of our childhoods.

Bury me in the backwoods.
A memory to fade away.

And show you were the one.

Now you can’t atone.
This blood in our veins.
The same.

This rage in our veins.
The same.

We don’t change.

Disguise falls away.
I am not what you thought.

I am a hunter.

You should know.

I was born of spite.

I welcome the fight.

I squeeze the trigger.
Blood.
Brain.
Across the wall.

I do what he thought I could never do.
Would never do.

Goodbye, brother.



Lea

Now they are gone.

Sometimes I think of Lea.
Of the light.

Her laugh.
Her smile.

Walking on the beach.
Sunday mornings in bed.
Records playing.

The smell of her perfume.

Simple days in the sun.

But the light fades fast.
In whisky and blood.

Now.

I have work to do.

Family business.

Bodies to bury.
To disappear.
In the ground.
In the walls.

A world to build.

You all work for me now.



My Father’s Eyes

Sometimes, in the early hours

I see her.
She is with me.

For maybe a moment.
I try to hold her.

She sneers at me.
In disgust.

And contempt.

I count.
Money, more money than you could dream of.

Bodies.
Smashed windows.
Broken bones.

This is my world now.

A mansion at the edge of town.

A wedding ring rusts in the gutter.

She is beautiful, her body naked, her skin soft and hair tumbling down.

She dances like I told her to.

I throw cocaine on her and it falls over her body.

I pull her close and snort it up.

I look in the mirror.

And see my father’s eyes.

They smile back.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Christmas Miracle

Part 7 of the Miserable Bastards series

Mikey is returning like a conquering hero, arms high singing the Rocky theme tune.
This is lost on Bam, she’s never seen it.

“Alright smart arse,” she says.

Frank is serving up another whisky.

Suddenly there is movement at the end of the bar.
Pat stands up.
Wobbles.
Wobbles.
And down he goes.
Straight back and flat out on the floor.

Christ.

Frank is over the bar. “I told you, Patty, for fuck’s sake. You need to stop doing this.”

He’s throwing a pint of something over him. Is that water, or lager?

There’s a pause.
Pat’s up like a resurrected Jesus-Christ-Christmas-miracle.

“That’s the third time this month, Patty. You do that again and you’re barred. The last thing I need is an actual dead body leaving this place.”

He passes Pat some napkins to dry off and Pat’s out the door.
My whisky isn’t tasting any better.
Bam is looking at me.

“Was it like this when you were drinking at the posh end of town, Al?”

“Well, a wee bit different but not that different really. More expensive drinks but people are people, you know.”

“Yeah, I get that. My ex’s family, by the way, they were so up their own arses. I was thinking, you live in a cul-de-sac in East Kilbride. Your parents started out in a two-bedroom flat shared with another family. What do you think you are, the second coming of Jesus? Fuck off.”

I’m laughing.
“Aye, I’ve seen that before.”

“Well, no one’s perfect I guess, but there’s only so much I can handle.”

“Don’t you like people?” I ask.

She looks thoughtful for a moment.
“Aye, but some folks are a bit much, you know. This girl I’m seeing, Al, she’s a total sweetheart but she’s always texting, phoning, sending me pictures. I’m just like fuck’s sake, aye. I see you, but I’ve got a life to live.”

“You still painting?” I ask.

“Oh aye, I’ll never stop that. Got a couple of paintings in a gallery downtown. I sold one, £200. Not bad; the gallery takes a cut but that was the first one.”

“Fucking congratulations, pal. That’s amazing. I always said you were talented.”

I raise a drink to her.

“Thanks, Al.”
“See, I did two: one was about light, redemption, love, and the other about darkness, hurt, pain. Guess which one sold?”

“The darkness?”
“Aye, miserable bastards round here.” She chuckles.

We raise our glasses and toast.
“Miserable Bastards.”
“Just like us.”
“Yeah,” she smiles, “that’s where all the good art comes from.”
“Aye, I’m proud to be a miserable bastard.”

We’re laughing as Mikey comes over.
“Right, I’m offski. I’ll be back later though.”
“See you, pal.”

And with that he’s gone, as a couple of late afternoon day drinkers come in and take a place down the bar. Bam is away to serve them as Frank comes over.

“Right pal, I’m away to see about this bike. I’ll see you later.”

And he’s gone.

I’m sipping on my whisky and the jukebox rolls round to Mr Brightside for about two bars before Bam changes it.
I tell her, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

She laughs and puts on the Spice Girls and starts laughing.
I give her a look and we compromise on The Hold Steady, Constructive Summer.

She tells me, “You are sure stuck on that song, Al.”
“Aye, it’s a favourite.”

I finish my drink just as the last chords and feedback from the guitar fades out.
“Fucking love that song, thanks pal.”
She smiles.
“Nae bother.”

I’m up out of my seat in one smooth motion, then just a bit of a stumble but I’m fine. I laugh as she shouts after me:

“You be careful, you don’t get two miracles in one day.”

I laugh and stumble to the door and open it out to the street and the blinding lights.

Jesus Christ, it’s such a change of scene that I am almost completely disoriented. The working day is finished and the pavement is full of hustle, noise and energy.

And I’m back adrift again.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon