14

DOWANHILL WAS a prosperous middle class area in the heart of Glasgow’s West End, populated by professionals, students and the elderly, who, immersed in its cosmopolitan make-up, would not leave until death did them part with their neighbourhood.

At precisely 9.30am Charles Rose kissed his wife Melissa goodbye, delighting in the delicious impact of the white musk that had been her preferred scent ever since he had met her. It had always been their ambition to own one of the imposing Victorian flats that topped the Dowanhill, and although their union had not been blessed by offspring, they were as happy as any couple they knew.

Charles left their sandstone flat in Crown Circus, crossing the road onto the slightly crumbling steps that would start his descent of Dowanhill Road. He took care to maintain the static position of The Herald jammed between his right arm and his side, still in a state of shock at what had happened the previous day.A suicide bomber blowing himself up at Braehead shopping centre, and a body count close to 150. It was truly shocking and Charles wondered what the ride in the Underground would be like this morning. People would either be in a state of shock or unable to stop talking about the atrocity.

His Saturday morning sessions in the office were something that Charles had had to become used to as he paved the way for what he hoped would be an eventual takeover bid by one of the big boys. Really, when you worked five days a week there literally weren’t enough hours in the working day.

He stopped for a second and swept his eyes over the vista that spanned the West End and took in the imposing buildings of Glasgow University where, in the Uni chapel, he had been married all those years back. The thought swept through his mind, as it always did at this stage of his journey to work, that there was nowhere in the world he would rather live. As he walked, he followed the route he had been travelling for the last 15 years; to Hillhead underground and the journey that would take him to his insurance company in the city centre.

A hundred yards further down he stopped to pat the black and white cat who waited for him at this stage of his route every day. Almost as if it had some mystic power to predict the precise time of his passing. The tom purred and wrapped itself around his ankles and he smiled.

“Hey Jasper, how’d you do it?” He hunkered down and rubbed his index finger under the cat’s chin. “Time for me to go, old pal. See you same time tomorrow, no doubt!”

Marching down the hill, his mind focusing on the claims and complaints that would be awaiting him, Charles smiled the appreciation of a man satisfied with his lot.

As he reached the bottom of the hill about 100 yards from its junction with Byres Road, a crack snapped out across the street and Charles half turned to his right. A window must have been smashed.

Lorna Welsh and Gordy Johnson had been together for just over a year, having met at the beginning of their Politics and English degree course at Glasgow University. Twelve months later they were inseparable and, against their families’ wishes, sharing a rented studio flat in Crown Terrace. Unusually for a Saturday they had a 10am lecture in the Boyd Orr building. As they turned into Dowanhill Road on their way to the Uni arm in arm they exuded young love.

“What do you think the old ranter will have in store for us today, Lorn? My head’s throbbing after the do last night. I hope he doesn’t go off on one. No wonder people needed a bevvy after that business at Braehead.”

Lorna, a lithe brunette with a smile that hinted at mischief, gave her boyfriend a playful punch in the ribs. “Yeah it’s wild, a suicide bomber here in Glasgow, I can’t believe it. But before you start blaming me for how many glasses of red you had, just remember you are ‘an autonomous individual with extraneous interests’. Or have you forgotten your Ordinary Moral Philosophy ‘B’ from first year?”

Gordy laughed then groaned in mock pain at the dig in the ribs. “Fair enough, but what about we give the lecture a miss and you get Julie Brown to take the notes and maybe we could spend our afternoon doing something far more interesting?” he said.

As they approached the road’s junction with Byres Road a sharp crack rang out and they both jumped in fright. “Jesus, where’s the sniper?” asked Gordy, laughing.

Frank Harris finished his tea with a slurp then belched as he attempted to extricate himself from the armchair in his sitting room. He stood and turned to look at the photograph of his beloved Elsie on the imposing marble mantle piece. She had been dead for five years and yet he still missed her so much. He couldn’t stop the tears welling.

He took his glasses off and, wiping them with a handkerchief, gave a snort and said to himself “C’mon Frank, Elsie would expect better of you than a load of pathetic sniffling.”

Replacing his glasses, he took a deep breath and picked up the fading photo which had been taken on their honeymoon in Florence some 38 years back. The memories of the view from their room sweeping out and over the Florentine hills weaved through his mind; the afternoon they made love on the balcony and Elsie’s red and white polka dotted dress that he’d almost ripped in the passion of the moment.

He groaned out loud at the memory. Life for Frank, 74 and alone, was all about memories. He wanted to remember his girl in her prime and not racked and ravaged by the cancer that had killed her after a long drawn out illness. He had prayed every night for the lord to end her torment.

He kissed the photograph. “Well girl I better go and water the plants, I don’t want you getting angry with me now!”

Alone in his huge four bedroom ground floor Dowanhill flat, Frank’s plant pots and the twin hanging baskets outside his door had become a panacea for the pain that had tormented him every day since Elsie’s departure. The aroma of his prized pansies drew a smile from his gnarled features. He went through to the kitchen to fill his watering can then made his way through the hall. He opened the imposing green wooden door and walked to the top of the steps down to the pavement.

“C’mon me beauties it’s time for your morning drink.”

Suddenly Frank was startled by a crack that sounded like an exhaust backfiring. Something wasn’t right. The former Argyle Highlander RSM drew on his military experience from Northern Ireland: That was no exhaust. The horror of his realisation dawning on him, Frank looked up the hill.

Charles Rose, immaculate in his black pinstriped suit, strode down the hill, the smile from his morning encounter with Jasper still on his face and the lingering traces of Melissa’s White Musk in his nostrils. They were the last pleasures of the insurance broker’s life.

The bullet smashed into his head, impacting square on the temple and throwing his body across the pavement into the black wrought iron railings 100 yards up from Frank Harris’s flat. He was dead before he hit the concrete. The blood from his head wound pumped out onto the ground and ran down the pavement.

Walking 15 feet behind him, the student couple stopped in their tracks, shock spreading across their features as the implication of the noise they had joked about smashed home.

Lorna screamed “Oh my God! He’s been shot!”

Gordy immediately grabbed her, pulling her over to the cover of a car parked at the side of the street. Just then a second bullet smashed off the railings to their left, where they had been walking a split second previously. Lorna screamed again and this time she could not stop.

Frank Harris took in the carnage and dropped his watering can. He had to get to the phone to alert the police. But, as he turned to go in, the chorus of screams in the background multiplying, a third crack smashed out. Frank felt the impact of the projectile in his right hip and dropped down onto the landing.

“Bastard!” the old soldier screeched, “Where are you, you dirty bastard?” Frank knew exactly what he was dealing with. He’d seen it all too often during his tours. “Fuckin’ sniper!” He tried to drag himself up onto the first step but the sniper had other ideas.

The second bullet smashed into his back and he screamed out in agony, rage and realisation that his time was finally up. “Elsie, my darling …” he murmured as the third and final bullet exploded into his head.

Dowanhill was bedlam. The screaming was endless as pedestrians dived for cover from the bullets raining down on them, from where nobody knew.

Suddenly another noise filled the air: the screeching of wheels as a black Volkswagen burst out from the line of parked cars that split the centre of the road. The vehicle squealed to a rubber burning halt next to the Vauxhall Astra behind which Gordy and Lorna were sheltering. Two boiler-suited figures jumped out. Both wore plastic masks, one depicting Tony Blair the other George W. Bush.

They walked in opposite directions around the Astra until they stood a foot away on either side of the terrified couple. The taller of the two, ‘Tony Blair’, took charge. “Le tet-Harak.”1 He levelled a gun at Gordy’s head while his companion did likewise at Lorna’s.

1 “Do not move.”

“La it-qa makanak. WaHid waHid.”2 The students stared uncomprehending at the two figures .

2 “Stay where you are. One at a time.”

Gordy made eye contact with Lorna as he tried to communicate some kind of reassurance to his girlfriend, but a warm, wet sensation spreading down the inside of his trouser leg revealed his true feelings.

Gordy underwent another strange experience as suddenly his throat seared with a burning sensation. He felt his breath going and froth built in his throat as though he was drowning from within. As jets of blood burst in front of his eyes he realised his throat had been cut.

His eyes remained locked with Lorna’s for one last time. ‘Blair’ took the glinting steel that had replaced the gun in his hand and ripped it across her neck. As Gordy started to collapse he felt warm jets of liquid on his face as the spray of his girlfriend’s blood drenched him.

The masked figures dragged the lifeless bodies to the pavement and laid them out for all to see, an open mausoleum.

Their killers jumped into the Volkswagen and it surged 100 yards down the road before one jumped out to pin a piece of paper to Charles Rose’s inert body. Then he climbed back into the passenger seat and the car screeched off as the sound of sirens filled the air at last.

No-one knew where the next bullet was coming from or who the next victim in the sniper’s sights would be.