Sitting in the back booth, the smell of coffee rolling through the place.
I’ve been here for a while. In the silence.
The jukebox is playing softly, the piano has been drinking, not me.
Do they have jukeboxes anymore? Is this a dream?
Suddenly a figure appears. Haunted, hands bloody. Checking its watch.
“Times short.”
Then he’s gone.
I hear a sound at the bar, the barman has a face I recognise though I can’t quite place. Kind of like looking in the mirror. He is laying a whisky down on the old horseshoe-shaped bar. The wood worn and faded.
“Here’s to the grey” he says, and takes a drink.
I lift my glass and take a sip.
11 a.m. I think.
Feels like time stopped a while ago.
The sun is creeping in through the windows, casting shadows across the bar.
No one else here but her. Talking to some guy. He’s interested but she is not.
I can overhear their conversation.
He’s telling her he’s got a Roller outside, a good pension lined up, and all his own teeth. They could be eating lunch at the club in an hour. She takes a drag on her cigarette and lets the smoke drift out.
Her blonde hair in a bob, blue dress unmissable in the grey.
She tells him to give her regards to Muff and Uncle Skip.
She sits at my table. She’s still got that cigarette. No words spoken, just a look of mischief in her eyes.
Have I seen her on the big screen before?
I know her. I have seen her everyday for 20 years.
I offer her an ashtray and tell her, “Take my advice — run away.” She smiles, sips her drink.
She brings a box up onto the table and she’s chuckling at my CD collection until she gets to John Lee Hooker.
“I’m in the mood,” she says.
For love. For life.
She sparks a match.
She stands up and offers her hand. Her beauty, her smile, her bluey-green eyes strike me.
“I want to show you something.” she offers.
I finish my drink. Stand and take her hand. We walk across the old wooden floor.
The bartender is drying glasses, he nods as we walk by.
It went from a yellow alert to an amber alert to a red alert.
Danger to life. A little too quickly.
The fearless one is away to work. Healthcare. You don’t really have a choice.
I'm sitting here and the wind is howling down the chimney. I hear a crash and a bash. Pulling back the curtain.
Oh, it's just part of the roof.
Part of the roof.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It's 8.15am. Check the app. Worst expected to hit between 11 and 3.
Ah jeezo, it sounds like the chimney is coming down.
Sitting down. Trying to work.
Checking an email: "Can you help me with my bill?"
Hold on big yin, I'm just trying to survive the morning.
Sounds like the house is playing Jenga. Or Tetris.
Start to lose my nerve and take my computer through to the front room. By the window.
What could possibly go wrong?
I take a look out the window.
The bins have blown over. Should I run out and put bin bags back before they get blown over the neighbourhood?
Standing at the door.
Waiting for a lull.
Watching clods of earth, branches, and a couple of unidentified flying objects roar by.
Is this the stupidest thing I've ever done?
"Hey dumbass in the tank."
Ok, fuck it. I’ve had a good life. I’ve seen some things, done some things. I’ve raised a family. Lived, loved, and all that stuff.
I’m having flashbacks to my whole life as the bin bags start to blow around the neighbourhood.
It’s not that bad, I tell myself. Is that a cloud or a low flying sheep going by?
I run out, a bit self-consciously, hoping no one sees me, hoping no one is filming me.
What was that show the kids used to watch?
"Stupid deaths, oh stupid deaths..."
I take a clod of earth to the face as I start picking up the rubbish. The wee man comes to the door for a laugh. I’m scooping a half-eaten packet of Wotsits, bin bags, cans.
I pick up the last bin bag and its contents fall through all over the garden. Brilliant.
Howls of laughter from the front step.
I find myself subconsciously trying to make myself smaller.
We’d been to see Twister a few months before and I find myself wondering if there is a barn with a basement nearby.
Or a flyover... drainage dip? Any shelter will do at this point
I scoop everything up randomly, push the bin down on its side as another gust comes through and I'm nearly knocked off my feet.
I run back over, sliding through the door. Wee man jumping out the way.
He runs over to me as I'm leaning against the wall, catching my breath. He comes over, I’m thinking he's going to give me a high five, but he says:
"You forgot to close the bin."
Aw fuck.
Later I'm pulling the curtains. I'm not going back out there. Out there doesn’t exist for now.
Aftermath
The next day after the storm clears.
I took a walk through the woods.
It looked like a T-Rex had appeared and rumbled through the woods, sending the trees flying and cutting a way through like a Godzilla through downtown Tokyo.
Or at least some Jurassic Park CGI effects from the 90s..
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.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 