Writing lists: Top 5 songs. Top 5 taxi rides. Top 5 bars. Top 5 boozy nights I can remember…
Top 5 places I woke up.
At the bar: As the light stole in, Like a thief. Her smiling, We need to get out of here.
In her bed: Ayrshire Rain at the window, Our bodies tangled. Under the covers. Never want to leave. I have to leave now.
On a bench outside the station: With the rain coming down. And a note in my pocket. And a ticket home. And a hangover. Like an old friend. And the ticket inspector looking confused, Did you sleep here last night?
Aye pal, with a guitar case for a pillow.
Now I just need to hear the rhythm of the train tracks, Like a steady snare.
On the beach: First rays of an Ayrshire morning Guitar next to me, Notebook filled with songs. Dreams. Early walker looking at me like, What the fuck?
Here with you: I’m older now, I was younger then. I’ve learned a little, Just enough. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.
Sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a volcano.
The silence of the night. Weighs you down. Sometimes it makes it hard to breathe.
I felt like if you whispered then the whole world would hear.
But you knew it couldn’t be true. Could it?
I watched the cold, steady rain fall through the early hours.
The light reflected on the puddles and cracked pavements as daylight bled in.
The streets were empty, the silence broken by an occasional ambulance as it sped up the street . Its lights flashing, siren howling at the crossroads.
Life and death. In a moment.
I sat by the window. I’d been up most of the night.
Sleep had become like a fugitive lover you could no longer depend on. Here and then gone, with no guarantees when it would be back.
My brain was running ragged, worrying about everything and nothing all at once. In an exhausting battle with itself.
I’d given up trying to sleep and got myself a coffee. It sat untouched on the window frame. That smell used to give me comfort.
Now, like so much of life, it just drifted past.
A little mountain of silver packaging sat next to the coffee cup, my constant companions. Pills to slow a racing heart, antidepressants, and sleeping pills. The doctor had scared me off the sleeping pills. They were very addictive, so I should take one or two and then stop.
How bad could it be?
Bad.
It felt like I was back at the volcano’s edge again.
I was already hung up on insomnia and everything else. I really didn’t want an addiction to pills to go with it. But I’m not a doctor. Maybe I should have just gone for it.
The room was cold, and I noticed my breath in front of me.
I picked up my notebook. The page screamed back at me. Empty. Line after line. A song unwritten.
Words unsaid.
I looked out the window and saw a milk float making its way up the street.
Had I slipped some gap in time? Who gets milk delivered these days? It made its way up the street but didn’t stop at any houses.
Just kept going.
Was I dreaming?
I caught my reflection in the window. My beard was a little greyer. A few more lines on my face. But I didn’t recognise my eyes.
The brilliant blue was gone. Just dulled and faded.
A scream built up inside me. My heart raced.
I opened my mouth but no sound came.
Silence.
I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried again. There was a small rumble, which quickly evaporated to nothing as the breath escaped my lungs.
Emptiness. Everywhere.
I wanted to dial 999. Call an ambulance. Call a doctor. Call someone. Anyone.
My words choked me as I looked around desperately, my hands at my throat.
I watched as the number 22 bus made its way up the street. I saw the lights. People setting about their day. Travelling into work.
I tapped on the window. I hit the window as hard as I could, but no one noticed.
I slumped back in my seat, exhausted. My arms fell heavy to my sides as I felt the sweat rolling down my forehead. It felt like my head was melting as I looked into the window. It seemed like the world was shrinking and my face was disappearing.
Into nothing.
I looked around the room.
My guitar stretched out, losing its shape, melting before my eyes.
The room began to bend and stretch, losing all shape. An endless emptiness stretching as far as I could see . In every direction. Forward and back.
“It felt like they wanted to end music with that one—brass, choirs, the whole cathedral job. It kind of did.”
Deak laughed. “You take this so seriously, mate. It’s just music. It’s practically free. Hell, brother, the streaming services own music now.”
“Ach, that just shows you. It isn’t dead. If people want to sell it, it must be worth something.”
“It’s just nostalgia, mate.”
“Ah, mate, that’s an old trap. It’s the moment. It’s the here and now. Somewhere in this town, someone is sitting with a notebook and a guitar, and they’ve got to get something off their chest, something they can’t just say. They’re going to bleed it onto the page. They’re going to shout it into the darkness and, for a moment, even feel the pulse of the universe, feel alive.”
“Shit, brother, I think you just need to have some fucking sex. Go pick up a nice girl.”
“Ha, fuck off, pal. I had a hot time last night with your maw.”
“That’s interesting. She’s been dead for ten years, and we scattered her ashes on some thorn bushes.”
They both burst out laughing.
Even Bring Your Ghost to the Fire couldn’t keep it going, Frankie thought. First album was a classic, but I don’t like their recent stuff. But it sells.
When did Hubie stop giving a shit and write “Boogie Pants”?
There was a burst of static, and Lauren’s voice came over the speakers. “Here’s a song for first kisses.”
The unmistakable sound of Idlewild blasted out across the bar.
They both looked over to the bar, and Lauren gave them a thumbs-up and a smile.
They both grinned back.
“I like her, she’s got the passion, eh?” said Frankie.
“Ach she’s a bit much eh and she’ll not give up that punk band name though,” laughed Frankie.
Hubie lay on the bed, strumming absent-mindedly on an acoustic guitar. He wasn’t sure if he even had the energy to write a new song. He almost felt like if he started Terry would be knocking on the door, wanting to know all about it.
He had the door open to the balcony and a cool breeze was flowing through. From his spot on the bed, he could see across the city. He loved this place. He knew the reputation of Glasgow crowds, hell he had played here many times now and it never failed to be a classic.
He looked at his developing beer belly and wished he was in better shape. He sighed.
The pictures on the TV screen.
Bombings, murder, death.
He remembered the peace marches he had gone on. He flicked through his phone at the pictures. He felt he was just another voice to help.
But those days were gone.
He walked out to the balcony and looked over the city.
One The day fades out like a bleeding man. All oranges and reds behind the tree line. Last gasps of light. Last breathe. Before night. A dog barks in the distance, but otherwise silence. I can’t even hear the main road now. Rush hour must be over. The shift change at the prison must be past now. Not too many have reason to be out this way. The road only runs past Mackie’s and Mackie’s will be shut by now. The staff home, everything backed up before they open for breakfast in the morning. You ever tried finding a late-night diner around here? You’ll be lucky. It’s never been a thing. I guess this town likes its late-night eating deep fried and dripping rather than eggs over easy or some apple pie. I’m sitting here, I can see the streetlights flow like a river back into town. The streets will be quiet now. The regulars at graces will be watching the football, moaning about the council or the young ones. No doubt. A week ago, that would have been me. And I’d have been perfectly happy. But a lot can change in a week. Hell, a lot can change in a day. And so It does
Two The car door open The car, in the middle of the street. Engine running. The door open. Lights flashing. Sirens The body. The body. No longer a person, no longer a life. Just a body. Not moving. Not breathing. Ami. Shopping bags down at her side. Eggs smashed. Milk all over the road. The people, standing, watching. The ambulance got here quick, but it seems to me that they are moving in slow motion. The policemen, holding me back. ‘Mr Douglas, let them work….’ Looking at the paramedic. The shake of the head. Everything changed.
Three The abyss. The void. The day we met, in the warm sunshine, her voice, her laugh, her perfume. The house. Our house. A home. Light, laughter, music. Her playing guitar like Jimi Hendrix. The bad movies that made us laugh. The bench out back that we never got fixed. I sat out there, yesterday. I couldn’t sleep in the bed. Couldn’t sleep on the couch. So, I went outside. I was there when the sun came up. Just me, the leaves falling from the trees and the birds trying to start a chorus. I put my headphones on, couldn’t tell you what it played. Just silence. Like ear plugs. Home isn’t home. I had to touch the wall, to make sure it was real. I phoned her mum; she was living in a retirement home on the coast. She didn’t remember me. She couldn’t remember much. Alzheimer’s.
Four They tell me it’s hit and run. The police took a statement. The detective was all business. Looking tired, drawn. I guess this is just one of his cases. Not much I could say. They had forms for me to sign. They could get me a liaison. Was there anyone I could talk to? I asked them who it was. They didn’t know. There’s CCTV all over this town but it didn’t bring any clues. No witnesses came forward. They would keep looking. They would keep me informed. They left and I was alone. In our house. I walked to the window and watched them go. In the kitchen I boiled the kettle and made a cup of tea. I sat on the couch. I sat on the floor. Heard the old clock ticking. Your picture on the wall. The silence. Pushing down on me. The unbearable silence.
Five I went to town this morning. My brother is coming down from the city. Stay a few days before the funeral. All I’ve got is out of date chicken. I just walked into town. Shades on in in the weak morning sun. Hoody up till I got to the shop. Sympathetic looks, but no-one said much. No-one said much of anything at all. What was there to say? I’m sorry. Not your fault. I planned to buy something for a stew. Comfort food But there’s no comfort food for this. I just got milk, tea and those biscuits mum used to buy when we were kids. As I walked home, I hoped it would rain. Slow and soft and steady. But the sun shone.
Six I woke up in the middle of the night. Sheets soaked with sweat. I called. Ami Before I realised Before I remembered The house just creaked. I thought about going to the fridge. having a beer.
But I didn’t trust myself. So, I sat. on the bench. I watched the day I had feared, dreaded drift in. Funeral.
Seven The whole day was numb. I welcomed it. I knew it wouldn’t last forever. But maybe it could get me through today. I got the plot like we had chatted when all this seemed like some faraway problem. Now here it is. Half the town was there. Your friends from college and work. Your mum came with a carer and your little brother. They were all so kind to me. They played your favourite song. Thunder road in the church Out in the graveyard The earth was open. We laid your body down.
Eight The reception passed. I bought a round of drinks. Spoke to everyone. Don’t remember a thing. What was said? Who I met. Sat out the back of the hotel. Flipping through my phone. Pictures. Your messages.
Nine Everyone started leaving. There were babysitters to pay. Work tomorrow. I didn’t want to go home. Me and Eddie went to the pub. I drank. To you To us I said too little. I said too much. I didn’t say anything. I sat. In silence. The words. Escaping me.
Ten So I’m back here. The sun bleeding out. The light escaping. The silence descending. One more time. The TV is on at home. The lights shine. But the house is empty. I look out to the tree line. And watch a fox dart between the trees
Paul Andrew Sneddon 