Looking down on the water. My car parked by the wall.
Two weeks since I moved into this hotel down by the shore. It’s seen better days, but it’s still standing.
Kind of like me.
Swanky resorts are for accountants and bloodless retreats. Here, I’m meeting ghosts.
The guy smoking on the step with his pal. Or the lassie playing guitar in the bar.
I talk to them in the hallway. I hear them crying in the night. You are not forgotten.
I wonder if they say the same about me.
The breeze drifting through the open window.
I’ve got pages and time.
So far, I’ve scratched out a poem like a map back home. Hangovers and rolling stones. The place where rock and soul and country tear up the town.
Saturday nights. Sunday mornings.
The water rolls in. The water rolls out.
Life.
It doesn't give a fuck for plans. Or my hangover.
But fuck it.
What are you going to do?
I’ve seen saint Christopher this morning. Asked if I was leaving today. Wished me well and disappeared down to the the bar playing pool, or out the back with the woman from room 402.
Its time to be travelling on.
But when I go to hand in my key. Something changes my mind.
I hear the piano player, sounds like he was in a drinking competition with the piano and lost.
I walk through. A little crowd is watching.
His woman sitting beside him on the piano stool. Two alley cats singing about a street fight. But when they get their shit together the lights are blinding and it sounds like the angels sing along.
Sing one. One for me. For you. For the ghosts. The ones who didn't have a chance.
Until we fall from the light. And back to earth.
The crowd roars. We’re all standing.
The piano player and his lady nod. And smile
I wonder why they are here and not playing to a sold out concert hall.
So, I’m stepping through the door. Different now. Out to the street.
The sun disappearing behind the horizon. The beach cast in purple and orange and blue.
The sand smooth, like ice. The water breaking at the shore and the tide going out.
Like the day is in retreat.
The night is coming on. Put some music on.
The drums. The beat. The heart.
I'm travelling.
Away from the coast. Up over the hill, the rain starts and I see the city before me, where the night comes falling.
Rain. Rain. The endless rain. I couldn’t sleep for the rain.
Falling on the window, on the door. Leaking through the roof, dripping in pots in the hallway. I had to move the bed, cos it was below a leak.
The water mark on the ceiling getting bigger as the days run on, and sleep doesn’t come, and the whole world feels tilted.
Sit up and watch the rain. Watch the people walking up the street, waiting to see someone go by in a homemade boat, or a duck in an upside‑down umbrella sailing down the street.
Did I see that?
Pull the curtains and let it be. Sitting in the bedroom, with an orchestra of dripping water into pots.
A crash. Like the house giving up. And the sound of rushing water.
The ceiling in the hallway is gone. Water flooding down, like at Rouken Glen.
Grab my hat and the suitcase. Jump into the raging torrent. And I’m down the hall, sitting in the suitcase.
Through the doorway, past the postie, and down the hill with a hatful of rain.
Feet soaked, wind in my hair.
Under the railway bridge and into town.
Finally stopped outside the local, and I went in for a beer.
I’ve been practicing all week: pen and paper, sitting at the little desk in the back room with a window out onto the garden and the bins. I sat listening to the rain on the glass. I’d been watching some of those YouTube videos with comedians doing their hour. I’m trying to do five or ten minutes and not make an arse of myself. I don’t fancy my chances, but I’m tired of sitting about here watching my belly expand. The missus says, “Why don’t you take up the bowls or hill walking or get a cocaine habit? That’ll give you something to think about.” I considered combining all three.
I’m on a mission.
I get down there early for the Tuesday night open mic at Eddie’s. He’s gone all out on the decorations and has got one miniature tree on the bar. Gus is behind the bar and he gets me a beer. He’s in good form and has got some Christmas songs on. He’s wearing an elf hat and one of those bright green jumpers that has “Kiss My Baubles” in lights across the front.
“Eddie says we can’t decorate, so I thought I’d bring some cheer myself,” he laughs.
I take a seat at the bar as a crowd starts drifting in. I sip a bottle of beer to settle the nerves. Laura walks in and looks surprised to see me. “Wow, Ally, it’s good to see you. What are you doing here? You’re not going up, are you?”
“Aye… maybe,” I say, trying to bluff out some confidence.
She chuckles and smiles. “You’re full of surprises.”
Ian comes in through a cloud of strawberry vape like a force of nature: all energy and movement. He loves the strawberry vape. “Sorry I’m late, guys!” He’s on the little stage getting the mic and a stool set up, and then he’s around the room in a blur, meeting and greeting people like old friends.
He stops by. “Ally, I’m glad you fucking came, mate. Great to see you. Listen, if you want to go up, just give me a shout.”
He steps up and kicks things off. A couple of young guys go up after him and absolutely fucking kill it. I’m laughing so hard I nearly forget my mission. Somewhere along the way, a guy comes stumbling in wearing a full Santa suit.
The woman on the stage mutters, “Oh, that’s my date arrived. You got something in your sack for me, Santa?”
“Aye, arsenic,” he mutters. He takes a seat at the back of the bar and shouts, “Is this a bar or a fucking slaughterhouse? Whisky please, Gus. Make it a double!”
Ian looks over and makes a writing sign over a piece of paper as he mouths, “You want to do it?” Assuming he is talking about the stand-up and not something else, I nod. Fuck it, let’s do it.
He introduces me and we are off. I look out at the little crowd and, to be honest, I can’t remember a fucking thing I prepared. There’s a moment’s pause. I need to say something; I need to say something.
“Erm… it’s not easy being single in your 40s. You meet some… interesting people. This woman I used to go out with, she was a bit much. All ropes, knives, and candle wax. She said she was patriotic. Fuck it, never date a girl who owns her own St. Andrew’s cross. Or actually, maybe only date a girl with a St. Andrew’s cross.”
Santa is shouting, “Come on, get Kevin Connolly or Billy Bridges out here!” People are looking around at him, telling him to keep the noise down. He’s telling them to fuck off. I look at him and he looks right at me.
“This fucking Santa has just arrived here from another dimension. What’s up? Can’t get it up for Mrs. Claus anymore? She banging two elves at a time?”
Suddenly the big red wido is in charge of the smoke machine and I look like I’m in a 1980s pop video. I can still hear him shouting manically, “More smoke! More smoke!” Fucking hell. I can barely see the crowd now. Gus is behind the bar arguing with him. I can hear raised voices. Someone shouts, “Get that fucker out of here!”
Ian shouts, “Everyone out please, until we get this smoke clear!”
I step off the stage and I’m feeling my way through the room when, from the smoke, I’m aware of movement to my left. Then there he is: my nemesis. Santa throws a right that catches my chin and I stumble back. My head feels like a smashed pint glass. What the fuck? He’s still moving, so I step quickly to the left and he tumbles past me. I hear a crash, but I keep moving.
I get outside and Ian is shaking. “Sorry about that, pal. That guy is fucking mental. Still, at least you get a story out of your first stand-up.”
Suddenly, there is a commotion at the front door. We turn around. Santa is standing there, leaning with one hand on the door frame. His beard is at a jaunty angle, his hat is halfway off his head, and there is a tear in his suit.
“Christmas is over for you, you cunt,” he snarls.
“Oh, fuck off.”
This story is available as part of “Getaway Claus and other Stories” by Paul Andrew Sneddon on Kindle.
The General leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair. A loud voice was playing from his old CD player.
‘You are a great leader.’
‘You are cool under pressure.’
‘You are decisive.’
‘I am Alexander the Great,’ he muttered.
He sighed.
He looked round the cramped office. Alexander the Great never had to deal with this.
He was wondering what to do. It was a big responsibility for him, and he had to get this just right. He’d been mulling it over for an hour now. In fact, it had taken up most of the morning, and he wasn’t too sure if he’d got it right. He looked out the window at a parade ground sitting empty.
Should he order turkey or steak pie for the officers’ Christmas lunch?
Suddenly, there was an awful commotion. The door flew open. Percy entered belly-first, and then, moments later, the rest of him followed. His face was bright red, and he was sweating heavily.
‘Just a moment, just a moment,’ gasped Percy, trying to catch his breath. ‘Sorry. Sorry, but you’ve got to see this. I can’t believe it,’ Percy exclaimed.
He stopped the CD player.
‘What is it, Percy? What is it?’ bellowed the General, his eyes wild.
‘He’s coming. He’s coming here today. Today, sir!’ stammered a breathless Percy.
‘Who’s coming? Spit it out, man!’
Percy looked the General straight in the eyes.
‘The King.’
The General’s moustache bounced with excited energy.
He walked to the CD player and switched out the CD. A techno version of the national anthem started to play. Percy looked confused.
‘It was free with the newspaper,’ muttered the General.
He was looking up at his framed picture of the King. His eyes had a far-off look, and suddenly he looked like he was going to cry.
‘It’s finally happening. He’s coming to visit,’ the General’s voice boomed. ‘You know, Percy, for generations my family served this country. My great-uncle Albert used to sell pies to the King’s half-sister. Now, finally, all those years of service are going to be rewarded. I tell you, by God, headquarters must have forgiven me.’
The moustache dropped.
He had been in the bad books with HQ since the Sunday school party. He thought it would be good to get one of his pals from the Air Force to fly over in one of their new jets, but he had flown too low and the sonic boom had caused mayhem, putting twelve of the kids and two adults in the hospital overnight.
He had been in the bad books ever since.
‘We’ve got to get ready!’ he exclaimed.
He grabbed his coat and said to Percy, ‘Come on, let’s go.’
They went out of the office and onto the parade ground. A couple of crisp wrappers blew across the ground.
‘We’ve got to get this place polished up. It’s got to be just right. If only Papa was here to see me now.’
He looked far away for a moment. ‘Oh Papa, you said I wouldn’t amount to anything but a second-rate flim-flammer, but look at me now.’
‘He’d be very proud, Sir,’ beamed Percy.
They turned the corner and bumped into Private Jackson. They saluted.
‘Jackson, you’re from Scotland, aren’t you? Listen, the King is coming today. Do you think you could do a Highland dance for him?’ encouraged the General.
‘A Highland dance, sir? Listen, I’m fae Edinburgh,’ glared Jackson.
‘Alright, Private, carry on… what’s his problem?’ muttered the General as they headed over to the firing range.
Percy huffed and puffed, trying to keep up. His face was turning red.
At the shooting range, Sergeant Smith was holding court.
‘And that’s how I won the medal.’
‘Sergeant Smith, this isn’t the time for this. The King is coming to see me. Back to work!’ demanded the General.
Smith looked confused.
‘Go on and clear up, all of you!’ commanded the General.
‘Sir, yes Sir!’ said the little group of soldiers as they fell out for their tasks, walking back across the parade ground. One of them chased after the crisp wrappers.
The General looked left and right, glancing to make sure that the area was clear.
He looked straight at Percy. ‘Listen, Percy, this barracks is a dangerous place. Lots of guns at the barracks… and a few people with some loose screws. I think you should have a gun. Extra protection for our royal visitors. What do you want? M16? Bazooka?’
Percy looked confused. He stumbled over; his phone was ringing. He answered it next to the General.
‘Oh really? Oh, okay. Thanks for letting me know,’ he muttered.
He looked at the General. ‘You might want to sit down for this, Sir.’
‘What’s going on, Percy?’ he said quietly, almost as a whisper.
Percy said, seriously and with as much dignity as he could muster, ‘He’s not coming, Sir. They’re going to an alpaca farm over the other side of town.’
The General slowly sat down at the picnic table and gave a sad, lonely toot on his party popper.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 