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.

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.

Mikey and Pammy Polis

Part 6 of the Miserable Bastards Series

Mikey’s back, somehow looking worse than when he left.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

He’s bleeding from his lip and rubbing his eye. He looks like he’s been under police questioning for an hour.

“The polis found my hedgehog, called me a clatty bastard. I told her to get to fuck… so, er, she hit me.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” says Frank as Bam comes round the bar and takes him by the hand over to a booth.

We all follow, and as I stand I feel a little unsteady on my feet. I’m getting a decent buzz from this whisky; let’s see what the fuck is going on.

I get there and Mikey’s cleaning himself up as Bam gives him another cross-examination.

“So, where is the hedgehog now?” she asks.

“Never mind that,” snaps Frank. “Where are the polis?”

Mikey is turning pale.

“Mikey?”

“Oh fuck, I just ran.” he says, looking over at the door.

“Christ, you, oot the back. Take some smokes, and we’ll shout you when it’s clear. Right, everyone else, back to where you were.”

Fuck’s sake.

We’re back to our seats, back to our places, trying to look innocent. This is one of those moments where it would be good to be drinking in a bar with windows.

It was an old rule of mine: don’t drink in a bar without windows or one with pool cues but no pool table.

“Fucking hell,” shouts Bam. “We’re sitting in here like a guilty party,” she turns up the music and starts moving, boogying, getting down.

And we’re all up. Even Pat is doing some kind of robot move.

Suddenly the door bursts open, and in walks a police woman, shorter than Bam. Face red, sweaty. This is Mikey’s attacker.

This.

She’s shouting.

“Where the fuck is he, where the fuck is he? Nae one, nae one. Nae one does this to Pam Wilson. PC Pam Wilson.”

I’m trying not to laugh. I look at Bam; she’s trying not to laugh. Frank’s going for the Oscar, straight-faced and smooth.

“What appears to be the trouble, officer?” he says in a radio DJ voice.

“Frank McTavish, I should’ve known that I’d find you in a shite hole like this. Where is he? I’m going to leather that wee arsehole.”

“No idea what you mean, Pam. How about a drink for old time’s sake?”

“A drink? I wouldn’t drink in here. Probably catch something. And it’s PC Wilson to the likes of you, alright.”

They are looking at each other, but no one says a word.

Suddenly the door swings open again, and a red-faced, puffed-up policeman bursts in.

“Pammy, Pammy, what the fuck…”

He stops as he sees this little standoff.

Pammy looks embarrassed. “I told you to wait outside, PC Findlay.”

“Come on, you. I’ve got reports of an aggressive mime threatening someone with an end of the world board on Sauchiehall Street.”

PC Wilson looks around the bar at everyone.

“I’ll be back,” she says and turns on her heels and storms outside. PC Findlay looks apologetic and leaves.

The door swings closed, and we all burst out laughing.

Bam : Part 5 of the Miserable Bastards Series

“Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

I check the clock on my old phone; you can still make out the time despite the crack on the screen. 11:58. Near noon. Bam time.

“Another drink, please, pal,” I motion to Frank.

He brings me one over, and I slide him a couple of coins.

“You expecting Bam today?”

“I’m always expecting Bam.”

I take a sip of my drink; there is a moment’s silence, and the door opens. A chink of daylight, then the full effect with Bam standing in the door. Shadow cast across the bar.

“Alright boys?” She smiles.

I blink and squint out to the door.

“You’re fucking late,” says Frank.

“Aye alright, I’m here now, eh?”

The door closes, and she walks across the floor and around the back of the bar. Black hair cropped, black jeans, not a classic beauty, but beautiful nonetheless. Five foot five of dynamite.

And she knows it.

“Al, fancy seeing you here,” she laughs and smiles as she walks by. “Christ, it’s like a fucking funeral in here. Put some fucking songs on.” she announces.

She’s behind the bar and suddenly Angel of Harlem starts blasting from the speakers.

“Fuck’s sake,” she moans. “Old guy music.”

There’s a brief pause, and suddenly Taylor Swift is blasting out. She’s making some moves and pulling some shapes before Frank appears behind her, and they have a little sidestep tango before he leans over and turns the music down.

She gives him a grumpy look.

“Okay, let’s compromise,” and she puts on some Rocket from the Crypt.

“On a rope, on a rope…”

I smile. “That’s some music I can drink to.”

Bam’s laughing and turns to Frank. “Careful, there’s maybe life in this place yet.”

Some Kind of Salvation

I don’t drink.
I think about drinking some times.
I think about disappearing into the city,
Into the night.

Into a rock and roll song.

The music.
The crowd.
The passion.

Sparks.

I’ve been lost.
I’ve been a fool.
But the music,
Is me.
And
I am the music.

Like a map,
Back to myself.

A pawn shop guitar man,
But a guitar man none the less.

Turn up the guitar.
Make it loud.

Connections

Lit up.

Me.
You.
Everybody.
Together.

Sometimes I forget myself.
Who I am.
Where I’ve been.

But in the moment.
Flick the switch.
The amps hum.
Fret Buzz.

Count it off.

1, 2, 3, 4.

I close my eyes,
And I’m flying,

I am alive.

© Paul Andrew Sneddon