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.
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.
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.
‘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.
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.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 