Come close, and I’ll tell you— roll up; put your money down.
We got all the cash? Okay. Put it out back by the door. Be ready to go.
Here we go, everyone— listen close: all will be revealed.
The meaning of life is… Ahem: the meaning of life is…
Do you know it? What is it? No, really—what is it?
I’ve not worked it out yet; I’m going to get there. But if you could give me a clue, or, better yet, just tell me the truth— ’Cause I’ve got to tell you:
I’ve been searching under the couch, in the kitchen, at the pub. It’s an odyssey. I’m close to giving up. I’ve been to more places than Johnny Cash— some places where you’re not meant to come back.
I’ve subscribed to the top podcasts, followed all the right people; the further I went, the more lost I got. Couldn’t help but feel like I got robbed.
So if you let me know, it would be a real time‑saver. I’d be grateful.
Anyone? Anyone at all? No?
“Stevie! They’re getting angry!” Stevie! Curtain! Quick—grab the cash! Run! Run! Keep working on it.
The last of the drinkers and the clubbers had made their way home and the rest of the world hadn’t woken up yet. The occasional taxi roared past, breaking the early morning quiet, its lights reflecting on the wet ground as a slow cold December rain was falling, discouraging anyone else from the street.
I looked over my shoulder and kept moving, stealing glances across the street. My body ached, a broken rib maybe?
Fuck. I can’t believe this is happening. Someone, somewhere talked.
It should have been easy. We had so much money, we could have retired. Someone got greedy.
The wind blew cold, cutting through me as I stuck my hands deeper into my pockets, feeling the mix of sweat and blood on my coat. A night bus pulled up at the lights as I turned away quickly escaping its bright lights spilling across the pavement. You don’t see me. I was never here.
I moved down the alley, it looked deserted except for piles of rubbish stacked high. It smelt like the end of the world. I heard a voice moaning from the shadows but I kept moving. I glanced at my watch and felt a sharp pain in my shoulder, a small groan escaping from my lips as I pushed myself forward.
The other end of the alley broke onto Woodland Street. I looked down the hill and could make out the welcome lights of the train station. It was now or never.
200 metres
200 metres between me and freedom. Between life and death. Between a future and death on the streets of my hometown. 19.19 seconds for Usain Bolt. It would take me a little bit longer.
A shout echoed down the alley, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.
I turned.
Fuck.
They had found me.
“Stay there Miller, we just want to talk” the voice cut through the alley like a knife.
My pulse raced, the street was deserted but for a few parked cars.
I glanced down the street again. The station looked like a mirage.
Suddenly the air went out of my lungs as I fell below an avalanche of fists. My shoulder screamed in pain as heavy boots followed the fists. I felt like I was floating above the scene, watching this happen to someone else.
I felt two huge hands grab me and hold me up, voices talking, quickly, hands in my pockets, searching.
I broke into a gummy, bloody smile.
A gut punch robbed my lungs of air.
I spat out blood.
“Where is it?” he demanded
“You’re too late,” I laughed, blood spilling down my chin.
I drew myself up as tall as I could muster.
“She’s gone. She’s taken the evidence. You’ll never find her. I don’t know where she is going. Anything happens to me and those pictures will find their way to the press” I spat.
Another gut punch.
I was pulled back up. I saw two figures in front of me, kinda blurry. I was swaying, the hands holding me up more than anything else.
Suddenly I felt something cold and metal press against my forehead. A click.
Lying awake in bed before my alarm. Thinking of the day.
Got to get up. Got to get going. The floor cold beneath my feet. I sat down at the table. The surface cold to my touch.
The old wooden chair — one of the most basic you can buy. Zero percent comfort.
I had intended to buy a more comfortable chair — maybe one of those office ones with back support and a headrest — but I never quite got around to it.
So every morning, I took my seat at the old table, before anyone else was up. I loved the silence. Well, apart from the low hum of the fridge.
The feeling that I was here before most of the rest of the world had stirred.
I couldn’t rest. I could barely dream. I had to get downstairs and write.
A good day for a last stand.
I like that Steve Earle line: “If I knew I was going to live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself.”
I felt it — in my backache, in this belly I’ve never been able to shift.
Coffee is a cliché, but it was better than a can of Pepsi Max. I love the smell of coffee. Sometimes I could make a cup and just sit it there.
Black coffee. You put milk in it, marshmallows, or whatever the fuck — and you’ve ruined it. Black coffee.
When I wrote songs, I always handwrote the lyrics into a notebook. I’ve got a little laptop here, but I often find myself just writing straight onto my phone.
You pick it up — and the words start pouring.
Sometimes joy. Sometimes mindfulness, or music, or hope.
Sometimes it goes the other way — into the grey — depression, or the type of anxiety that keeps you up at night.
Both real. Both valid. Both life.
And if I can find something — in those early hours, or on the bus, or the front step, or wherever.
Then, for a while, I find a little peace. A little hope. A little understanding.
Like when you hear a song that changes your world. Or read something that lets a little light in.
Some days you hit. Most days you miss. But every day, you are searching.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 