Paul Andrew Sneddon

Escape

This is some of the writing from my story ‘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.

Best Days

This is part one of my story ‘Best Days’

Blue sky high above as the last shadows of night fade away.
The ﬁrst warm rays of the sun.

Two birds in a dance of life.
Together.

One moves in front, then the other.
Sweeping low down over the shared garden behind the ﬂats,
past last night’s BBQ and wine bottle.
It had been a good party.

Then they soar higher into the endless blue sky.
High above the little town.
Beyond the reach of daily life.

Eddy smiles.
They watch from the window.
Holding hands.
Everything vivid and alive.

Eyes wide open.

Together.

They sing a song.
A simple melody.
Together.

She picks up the high notes, her voice taking ﬂight. He looks at
her with adoring eyes as he meets her voice, picking up the bass
notes.

Like unspoken magic.

It works.

His chest swells. The air crackles with electricity. She looks up
at him and smiles.

“This could be the best day…”

He replies,
“This could be the best day…”

She throws her head back and lets the melody soar.
“This could be the very best day of our lives.”

They sing together,
“Of our lives.”

They stop singing and face each other, looking into each other’s eyes.

“I can’t believe you wrote that,” she says.

“It’s for you, babe. Best days. I can’t wait to see your painting.”
They kiss. Softly at ﬁrst. And then wrapped in each other’s arms.

She takes his hand, and he follows her through to the bedroom.

Election Season

Ah, fuck.

It’s election season.

That means our lesser-spotted representatives will be turning up in the neighbourhood. Only time you see them.

I’ve put the old boy’s socialist sign back in the window.

There’s a knock at the door.

I look through the blinds. There is a guy standing there. All flash. New suit. Hair short and neat.

He spots me.

Ah, fuck.

Does he not know there is a football game on?

I go to the door.

“I’m no wanting to talk, alright?”

He starts talking. And he barely stops for a breath.

Christ, he’s still talking on and on.

Fuck’s sake.

Does he not know I’m watching the football?

“…I’m nae like those other politicians. I’m on your side. In fact, I wouldnae even call myself a politician. I’m more like your local pal or helper.”

He flashes a toothy grin, like he is just back from Turkey.

He’s drawing back another breath like a fucking helium balloon about to take off. I go to speak but that’s when I notice her. Opening up the garden gate and walking up the path. She’s gone for what the Yanks call a pant suit. A Hillary special.

Looks a little out of place on the streets of Kirkentoun.

She’s waving a hand.

“Douglas! Douglas, honestly!”

A clipped, brisk voice that cuts through the air.

He looks a little embarrassed.

“Douglas, we’re due at the community hall in five minutes. The Kirkentoun Herald are already there and I’m not standing about like a spare part.”

“Two minutes love, I’m just talking to… er… oh… it was Brian, yes?”

“Davey.”

“Oh, of course. So, if you plan to vote this time, can I count on your vote, Brian?”

I hear a roar from the living room.

Fuck’s sake, is that a goal?

I close the door right in his face.

Back into the living room. Replays. 2-1 to them. Them. Fucking hell.

I hear a knocking at the door and raised voices.

I look out the window and the wife is dragging Dougie down the path. There’s a couple of photographers taking his picture. Not exactly the best photo opportunity. He looks over at me at the window and I flick him the V’s.

I point to the socialist party sign in the window.

Fuck off, Dougie.

I sit back down. Open a can of Tennent’s and take a sip. Right, let’s fucking go.

2-1. 25 minutes to go. Long enough for a comeback.

I’m just getting comfy when there’s a loud thud. Something hits off the window. And again. I run to the window. Look out through the blinds. It’s his Mrs. She’s got the suit jacket off and she is launching clods of earth at the windae.

What the actual fuck.

I grab the socialist party sign on my way to the front door. As I open it, another clod of earth lands right in front of me.

I look over at her. Her face is turning red. Redder.

“Bloody socialists!” she is shouting.

A small group of neighbours and passers-by are gathering round. Watching her absolutely lose it.

The photographers are still here.

Every clod of earth she launches gets a cheer. I raise the sign for the socialists and start batting them back at her. This only makes her more angry.

She seems to be shouting something at no one in particular.

“This is ridiculous! We came here in good faith and you’re behaving like absolute children!”

She grabs another clod of earth.

“Douglas, do something! These people don’t even want to be helped!”

“I told the party this area would be a waste of time, but no one listens to me!”

I pick up the hose from the path and turn on the tap.

She starts shouting,“Don’t be ridiculous. Put that down right now.”

The crowd is cheering, voices swelling. “Do it, do it!”

I switch on the hose but I point it at the ground.

“Last chance. Get the fuck out of my garden.”

“Fine! Fine. Enjoy yourselves. Honestly, I’ve never met a street so determined to stay exactly where it is.”

I bring the hose up and the water hits her right on the stomach.

The crowd cheers, the press snaps. Dougie is halfway up the garden path, pointing a finger at me like, “Ho, you!”

I give him a quick shot, right between the eyes, and then I turn it off.

The place is going mental, the crowd is cheering.

I go back inside, sit down and watch the football.

Two Doors Down

‘Two Doors Down’ is a song I wrote a few years ago now. I was thinking about the song when I wrote this story the other day.

Content note: This story includes mild violence, crime themes, and adult references.

I check the street behind me. So many faces, but none I recognise. The city has its own rhythm. People are spilling out of the bars onto the streets. The restaurants are packed. On the street, there’s an easy vibe, but there is something bubbling beneath the surface. Always is.

I cross the alley and duck into the side door of the hotel. Someone has used a fire extinguisher to jam the door open. I duck through the door and along a dusty corridor past the kitchen, where someone is listening to the radio. Weather Report. No end to the hot spell.

I climb the stairs and into my room. Room 135.

It’s not the same room I had before, but I bet they are all the same. It hasn’t changed much. Same furniture. Same places we stashed the cash. Still in need of a paint job and some new carpet.

I didn’t pay a lot, but it still feels like too much. I lay the guitar case down on the bed and place the bottle of whisky and my wallet on the table. I walk over to the window. It’s open, but you would never guess. The hot air stands.

Eight p.m., but the mercury must be pushing 30. It’s the same heat out there as it is here. I can hear the hotel’s neon light hum.

Looking out the window, the streets are still busy. Groups of people on a night out. Couples, hand in hand, arm in arm, kissing in the corner in the headlights. Some people scatter as a police car tears up the road, sirens loud and lights flashing.

I remember her.

She waited in the car, usually with some takeaway while I went in. Grab the money and we’re out of there. She could drive. Fast.

She didn’t say much apart from, “Shut up and let me drive.” Talking about her brother. Or: “When’s the next job?” “Let’s go steal a car.”

I can see her there by the bed, sleeping in that old Rancid t-shirt. Said she always had a thing for Tim Armstrong. Bundle of cash like a pillow. Irritable in the summer heat, drawing on a cigarette.

I pour a drink. Cheap whisky. Burns on the way down. Just what I need. I can almost hear her voice. “Christ, you pour whisky like my grandmother. Just drink the damn thing.”

I remember she whispered, “I’ve got the truth,” as she had poured it over her chest.

The locks click as I open the guitar case. I lift it out and hold it in my arms, sitting at the end of the bed.

Fifth string. Slide from E to D. And back again. Down the scale to the low E.

Blues. Steady. Pulse. Sings. Two doors down. Two doors down. Singing my blues.

I grab the receipt for the room. Scribble it down on the back. I can see it. Like an old movie. The money. Banknotes all over the bed. The bathtub.

Her whispers. “Hey now, babe, won’t you stay a little while?” The wall. She kept her boots on.

I breathe out, slow. I took the money. Left her the bill. Guess her brother isn’t getting that operation.

There’s a knock at the door. Her perfume drifting in like a ghost. “Tell me that you’ll be here… when it all comes down.”

I open the door. She smiles. “I knew you’d be back.”

A shot rings out. Gunsmoke curls up. An acrid chemical smell.

She walks away in those boots. Doesn’t look back. She’s muttering the lyrics to Roots Radicals, I can hear the sound of her boots, and the sound of the street.

Fading out.

This is the song, recorded at home on an old tascam 4 track I’ve still got somewhere.

Moments

This is the companion to ‘Shelter.’
Music breaks the silence.

I sit for a while and just listen to the music,

They are playing a blues in A. Bobby points to another guitar
and to me. I pick up and put the guitar strap over my shoulder.I touch the strings; it’s mic’d up. Through a little distortion
pedal.

I’ll be where the music is playing.

This is no game.

No joke.

Fuck that.

Buried beneath the city,
Buried beneath the ground.
Buried inside us.

The world steals.
Dignity.
Hope.

Life.

Fuck that.
Fuck off.
Fuck you.
Fuck.
Fuck.

Bobby nods at me, and I play that guitar with every ounce of life that I ever had.

I run up from the G on the E string, up to the high string… I feel
them… the strings… every note.

We’re in a moment.

The world stops.

The noise stops.

And we are alive.

I hit the strings till my ﬁngers bleed.

I remember the little room where I ﬁrst picked up a guitar.

Nights alone.
Playing.

John Lee Hooker
Springsteen
Steve Earle
Rancid

To here:

Life.
Love.
Connection.

I nod at Bobby, and I play the chords as he takes a turn, and he
can really play. A blizzard of notes and then nothing but soulful,
bluesy bends.

Then Rachel comes back in.

We can take a place.
A moment.
These guitars,
And make a place of our own.

The little crowd cheers. Someone shouts from the bar.

“Here, yous can fucking play!”

I thank Bobby and Rachel.

They invite me down to the open mic and I of course say I
will be there. I get back to my seat and for a moment I just
breathe.

I ﬁnish my drink and walk outside.

It’s fucking raining.

Of course it is.