Paul Andrew Sneddon

Blue Train #46

The train cuts through the countryside, over the high bridge over the river. Got that funny feeling in my stomach as I look over the edge.

Down, down, down.

All the way down to the river below.

Check the time on my phone.
Man out of time.
Or just in time.
Just about.

The sun setting down behind the town, the sky all oranges and blues. I look over at her, blonde hair tumbling down, headphones on, eyes closed, a little smile across her face.

Music.
Life.
A little hint of mystery.

I can hear the drums, electric guitar, the voice.

I look back out the window.

The light is fading and I find that I am looking back at my reflection in the window. My hair has grown out a bit. I don’t think I am ever going to be bald. At the hotel last night she laughed at me when I said I was worried I’d go bald if I got it cut.

But fuck it, if I went bald I would embrace it. Total bald head, Michael Jordan style. I’m sure he used to shave his head courtside. I told the missus I’d polish my head up so it shone in the lights. Just, why the fuck not.

But as it stands, I’m more like Robert Smith with a bird’s nest on my head. I don’t think I’m going to grow old like a Dapper Don. I don’t think I’m going to go out quiet. She told me I spend too much time in my own head.

A couple stumble by, smelling of booze. She’s calling him an arsehole. He’s trying to placate her.

“Donna, babe, Donna, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean anything.”

“You told her she had the best arse you’ve seen all day, Doug. I mean, fuck sake. I mean, first fucking question: How many arses have you been looking at all day?”

He stumbles on his words as they move up the carriage and out of earshot.

The old couple across from us are having a chuckle. The old fella looks over and nods his head and says:

“He’s sleeping on the couch the night..”

His wife perks up:

“If he’s lucky”

They both crack up laughing.

The ticket man wanders through. He looks distracted and just walks right past us.

I sit back. Pull on my headphones. Close my eyes and the band bring it home.

Inspired in part by this Johnny Cash song.

The Getaway Claus

A Christmas crime caper. Santa’s had a rough shift.

This story contains violence and strong language.

“Hey Mum, what the hell is Santa doing in Kirkentoun?” shouted Jimmy to his mum.

She was standing across the floor at the counter for the fish and chip shop. “Oh, what have I told you about that swearing, wee man? Keep the noise down, for fuck’s sake. I’m talking to Davey here.”

She looked back to him and smiled, just a little. “Sorry about him, he just gets a bit enthusiastic.”

“Nae problem, doll,” he said as she wrote down her number.

Jimmy sighed and looked back out the window. It looked like Santa, but as if he had been at one of those parties with Uncle Ian where he disappears for a few days. The suit didn’t look crisp and clean like he saw on the TV, or when Santa had come to visit at the school. It looked dirty and muddy, just like his beard. He didn’t look right, like he was struggling to breathe. His face was a deep red and he was bent over with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to breathe.

Come on, Santa, thought Jimmy.

Suddenly, Santa jumped up and looked back over his shoulder. Jimmy wondered where the reindeer were and why Santa had a dirty-looking sports bag that he pulled back over his shoulder. As he did so, a few notes of paper seemed to waft out onto the street.

Santa legged it as two burly looking men in suits ran down the street. Were they after Santa?

“Jimmy, come away from that window!” called his mum.

He looked round and she was looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Just sit at peace, eh son?”

She looked back to Davey and wrote something down on a bit of paper. She slid it across to him and he smiled. She then said in a loud voice, “That’s a bag of chips, and chicken nuggets and chips for the wee guy.”

“Thanks, Doll.”

She paid and shouted over to Jimmy. “I’m going to the ladies. You behave, wee fella, alright?”

Davey took a knife and fork over to Jimmy and rubbed his hair as he gave him a lollipop. “There you are, wee man. I’ll cook you up a right feast, alright?”

He looked out the window. “Christ, Santa’s had a rough shift, eh? Don’t worry wee man, he’ll be alright by Christmas.”

He laughed as he walked away.

Jimmy looked back out the window. He could just about see down the alley, just in time to see Santa taking a right hand to the jaw from one of the big guys. Down he went and they were stomping him.

Jimmy gasped, “Oh, Santa.”

A short man appeared down the alley, wearing an elf suit with the little hat. He climbed on top of one of the bins and smacked one of the men over the back of the head with something shiny. The man slumped to the ground.

Then he jumped off the top of the bin and landed on top of the other man. They both went down. Jimmy stood and watched as the Elf man pulled Santa back to his feet. Santa grabbed the shiny object. It looked like a bat, and he slammed it down.

Jimmy couldn’t see what he was hitting, but the bat seemed red when he brought it back up. It looked like Santa was shouting at the elf. The elf disappeared and came back with the sports bag.

A car pulled up and as they went to get in, Santa looked across the street at Jimmy. Right at Jimmy. Through the window to the chip shop and right into his eyes. He threw a dirty hand up, blood-red, and gave a big thumbs up.

Jimmy broke into a smile and gave the thumbs up back.

And Santa was gone.

Drinking with Frankie

Part 2: Dinner

I’m off the bus and walking down to the station. I got off a stop
early just so I could walk down the street, get a feel for the city
and feel the energy. It’s a different place from home, that’s for
sure, but it’s like slipping into an old pair of shoes. Down past
the bars, restaurants, takeaways.

The street is getting busier.
You can just feel the rhythm.

The sun is sinking down behind the tall buildings, shadows
stretching across the pavement. Couples, groups of women
and men, all ready for the night.

And I’m there. Phone goes.

“Alright, Frankie, what’s up?”

“We meeting at the clock, eh? I’m here,” he says.

“Aye, well, it’s 18:13, pal. I got a couple of minutes. I’m outside
actually. See you in a moment or two.”

Cheeky fucker. Gets there early and then phones to see where
I am. As I’m walking into the station, I walk by some bemused
tourists. You can tell some of them a mile off that they’re not
from here.

They look at me hopefully.

The guy’s got slicked-back hair and a beer belly, but the woman
is a knockout with a beautiful smile.

“Taxi Rank. Taxi Rank?”

She speaks with a strong Italian accent.

“Aye, doll, just through there,” I point and direct them out to
Gordon Street.

I watch them go, and I’m heading over to the clock.

“There he is, still a bawbag,” I say.

“Oh here he comes, motormouth.”

Frankie’s laughing and we shake hands and embrace. Well, as
much as West Coast of Scotland fellas do.

“How the fuck are you pal?” I say.

“Brother, it’s good to fucking see you. I have had one hell of a
day. I’m ready for this.”

“A bite and then some pints?” I offer.

“Fucking absolutely.”

We had talked about going to the wee Chinese place outside the
station, and I’d been looking forward to a few beers from out
that way too, but it seems he’s got other plans.

That’s how we ended up here. In a bar in the corner of one of
those attempts at an upmarket shopping centre.

There’s no other customers here, just us.

I’m looking around the bar.

“Frankie, mate, what the fuck is this? There is naebody here. No
eye candy whatsoever.”

He snorts.

“Thought this would be a good place to start, you know, catch
up before we get into it,” he says.

“Alright, pal, seeing as it’s you.”

I have a look at him. Hair still as white as can be. I think he has
had white hair since he was 18 or something. He looks different,
though. Underneath that coat, he’s gone suit and booted.
He looks different.

“You’re looking good, big man. Smartening up these days.
Congrats on the job, man. How’s it going?” I ask.

“It’s tough. I got promoted, mate. I’m coining it in, man. I’m
just wanting to look the part, but it’s tough.”

A waitress brings over the menus and we order beers. The
chicken burgers are £35.

This must be the most expensive shitehole in town.

“In the last month, I’ve been in more uptown bars, trying to
impress clients. Honestly, pal. I’m fucking fried.”

“Christ, man, you should have said. Just be yourself, eh? C’mon,
let’s get out of here. Let’s go ﬁnd some soul.”

Drinking with Frankie

Part One: Bus

Waiting in the queue at the bus station. Headphones in. Flicking
through some songs.

Everyday People.

That’ll do nicely.

Sly and the Family Stone.

A classic. You’re shaking your head. It is. No. I know it is.

The queue’s full of people heading up to the city for a night out. The smell of perfume and aftershave ﬁlls the air. Groups of lads and lassies. Couples too.

The bus pulls in, one of those big double-deckers. I take a seat in the middle, nearer the back but not too far. Watch through the window as we go from the town centre, through the streets, into the county.

The ﬁelds and streams running by.
I close my eyes.
Listen to the music.

Nathaniel Rateliff.
Guitar cutting through.

I’m going to meet Frankie.

I remember the day we met. Sitting at a desk. Cracking jokes
about Nutﬁeld City Limits. You know, you meet some people
and it’s like you know them forever.

He is like a brother to me.

We were sitting there, in some forsaken pub in Glasgow. I was
falling through the ﬂoor. He saw me, where I was, and he told
me.

“This’ll pass, mate. You’ll be alright. You’re a good man.”

There has been time and distance between us.

But I don’t think it matters.

When I open my eyes, we are in the city. The motorway carving
its way through the southside.

Pollok.
Ibrox.

The Kingston Bridge, and we are off the motorway and onto the
city streets.

‘Follow the Light’

This is the first chapter of my story ‘Follow the Light’. You can download the full story by clicking on the picture below or it’s also available on Kindle. Thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoy.

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.
Follow the light.

Part 1: Life, Death and a Drunk Piano

The rain fell softly as the minister continued his sermon.
I hadn’t spoken to my dad for six months and here I was burying
him.

I looked around at the scene. A good crowd had turned out for
the old man, dressed in traditional black. A few umbrellas going
up.

There was his girlfriend, the boys from the club, and some
of the neighbours.

The minister seemed to be ﬁnishing up and stood back as we
were called from the crowd.

Me.
My brother.
My cousin.
Wull from the shop.
Pete.

We each held a rope under the coffin. The man pulled away the
planks of wood. Someone was sobbing from the crowd.

We lowered him down,
into the grave,
Into the earth.

Back at the bowling club after, we bought drinks.
Shook hands.
Everyone said he was a good man.
I wished I believed them.
People were lovely.
And then they were gone.

I sat at the bar, just sipping on a drink. They told me they had to
clear up. The darts club started at seven.

In the hotel bar, there was a band playing. Well, more like a guy
playing piano and singing old songs.

The woman behind the bar kept chatting away.

About everything.
Nothing.

She was putting her money away, moving somewhere, anywhere.
She said she knew my wife. I told her we were separated. They
had gone to school together.

They had never got along.

She poured a drink.
One for me and one for her.

Cheers.

I told her about my books.

Listened to the piano player.
I looked up.
But she wasn’t there.
A guy came over.

Explained her shift was ﬁnished; she was away home to her
husband and their kids. The guy poured a drink but he didn’t
want to talk. He was all thumbs on the phone.

I listened to the piano player as he murdered ‘The Piano has
been Drinking.’

I ﬁnished my drink and took two indigestion tablets.

Walking outside, I could hear the sea.

The cold breeze cutting across the car park. I walked down the
gravel path, heard it scrunching under my feet. It was harder to
walk in the sand.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the sheets of paper.

Stories I wrote, a letter to my father. I dug a little hollow in the
sand, between the dunes and the sea.

I could hear the surf.
I took the lighter to the paper.
I watched the ﬂames.

Burn.
Burn everything.
Start over.

The sea and the sand beneath me. The clouds above.
I walked home.
The place was cold.
I fell into bed.

Read the full story. Download ‘Follow the Light’ here