The Goldfish Bowl
Laurence Gough
© Laurence Gough 1987
Laurence Gough has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1987 by Victor Gollancz.
This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For Dr Ian Rose
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
I
THE SNIPER LIVED in a corner apartment on the twelfth floor of an anonymous grey highrise in the middle of the city’s West End. From the balcony it was possible to glimpse a narrow wedge of the dark, choppy waters of English Bay, the lights of the downtown core, and, almost directly below, the gaudy stained-glass figures in the windows of St Paul’s.
In front of the church stood a Japanese plum, its pink buds charred black by the incandescent streetlight on the corner. In the sparse shadow of the tree a prostitute smoked a cigarette down to the filter, idly flicked the butt into the gutter.
The air was cold and damp, heavy with the threat of rain. The hooker glanced up, looking for stars, but the lights of the surrounding buildings dominated the night sky and all she saw was the vague outline of a man peering down at her from a narrow slab of balcony made even smaller by the distance between them.
The man, looking down, saw the hooker lean back and then wave up at him. He immediately turned his back to her, and disappeared from view.
Inside, the apartment was warm, spotlessly clean, and smelled faintly of latex paint and of varnish from the freshly sanded floors.
There was very little in the way of furniture. A bright orange plastic basket-chair and a rough pine table with folding steel legs stood directly beneath the ceiling fixture, and a foam-rubber slab and rumpled blue and green plaid sleeping bag lay against one of the bare white walls. But otherwise, the apartment was empty.
A Winchester .460 Magnum rifle equipped with a Redfield variable-power scope lay diagonally across one end of the pine table. The blued metal and rich burled walnut of the stock gleamed under the light cast from a chrome-plated goose-neck lamp. Next to the Winchester stood a small can of cleaning fluid, a jointed brass cleaning rod, and a litter of cloth patches stained yellow with machine oil.
The sniper sat in the orange plastic chair, hunched over a Lyman ‘All American’ turret press. His hands were large and strong. The thick blunt fingers, nails carefully painted with a glossy red polish, moved with precision and grace as he assembled the shiny brass cartridges, primers, powder and fat 500-grain copper-jacketed slugs. Pulling firmly on the handle of the Lyman, he forced lead into brass and, all in one easy motion, crimped the fully assembled bullet.
Behind him, in the kitchenette, an open bottle of Scotch stood on the counter next to a stack of paper cups and half a loaf of crumbly French bread. Next to the bread was a portable radio, and from the tiny speaker Willie Nelson sung softly and persuasively of love. The sniper hummed along for a few bars, and then, concentrating on his task, lost track of the tune. The results of many weeks of intense labour were now only a few hours away. He had worked hard, fussed interminably over every last detail, no matter how small or insignificant. And now, finally, he was sure he had done everything he could to ensure that his plan would be successful. Still, he was more than a little nervous. Luck was the one factor that no amount of planning could eliminate. If luck wasn’t on his side tonight, all his careful plans would be for nothing.
A drop of sweat trickled down his cheek, followed the line of his jaw to his chin and then dropped between his thighs and splattered in miniscule beads on the gleaming hardwood floor. The sniper wiped his face with the back of his hand. He inserted the freshly-made bullet into one of the Winchester’s spare magazines, pushed away from the table and moved purposefully towards the bottle of Scotch.
On the radio, Willie had finished and Johnny Cash was singing in a voice like a rasp about the tedium of life behind bars. The sniper turned the volume down just a little. He got ice from the fridge and poured an inch of Scotch into one of the paper cups, screwed the cap back on the bottle. He carried his drink from the kitchen to the sliding glass door fronting the balcony, and went outside. The rain had stopped for a little while but now it had begun again. The prostitute had vanished.
The sniper was standing in the middle of one of the most densely populated square miles in all of North America. He was surrounded on all sides by tens of thousands of people. And yet he felt completely alone.
It was a nice feeling.
He downed the Scotch and, as the ice rattled against his teeth, decided to pour himself a refill. But just one, only the one. He had a very demanding and dangerous night ahead of him, and if he hoped to get through it in one piece he was going to have to stay stone-cold sober.
*
Alice Palm sat at the head of the oak gate-leg table her mother had forcibly wedged into the tiny eating nook, which from then on had always, with no undercurrent of irony, been referred to as the dining room. The remains of a baked potato and a congealing lamb chop lay in front of Alice on a pink and white Spode plate. She used her knife and fork to separate delicately a last sliver of meat from the bone, chewed unhurriedly, and swallowed. Putting the utensils down side by side on the plate, she patted her lips with a napkin of brilliant white linen.
Alice lived in apartment 104 of The Berkely, a squat building three storeys high, with a red-brick façade marred by recently installed aluminium windows. She had shared the apartment with her mother for almost thirty years, lived there alone for the past decade. The Berkely was ideally situated. It was only a fifteen-minute bus ride from the downtown office where she worked as a secretary, only a short walk from the beaches and the thousand green acres of Stanley Park, and less than two blocks from her church, St Paul’s.
After her mother died, Alice had toyed with the idea of moving, but had eventually and inevitably decided against it. She felt comfortable with the old apartment, the dim, high-ceilinged rooms, the faded and ornately patterned wallpaper, the familiar sights and sounds and smells of the neighbourhood.
Alice stood up, collected the dishes and stacked them in her antiquated sink. Then she crossed the narrow hallway to the bathroom and ran the water full blast into the huge, claw-footed enamel tub. As the tub filled with water and the bathroom filled with steam, Alice washed and dried the dinner dishes and put them away in the small leaded glass cabinets above the countertop of square yellow tiles.
By the time she’d finished with the dishes, the tub was nearly full. She turned off the taps, tested the temperature of the water, and mixed in a packet of lilac bath gel. The room filled with the delicate scent of flowers. She undressed and stepped gingerly into the tub.
An hour later and much refreshed, she sat in front of the bow-front dresser mirror in her bedroom. Her hair was wrapped in a thick pink towel, and there were still a few drops of lilac-scented water scattered across her shoulders and the smooth white skin of her back. Except for a pair of black lace panties she was naked. Behind her, a Dici bra, freshly pressed blouse, pale green V-neck sweater and dark green pleated skirt lay folded across the wooden footboard of her double bed.
She leaned a little closer to the mirror, her breasts swaying, and carefully examined her face. There appeared to be neither more nor fewer lines than
had existed a week ago. She smiled softly, forgiving herself her small vanities, and then began to apply the makeup that was still more of a celebration than a necessity. A touch of powder to accent her cheekbones, a trace of liner around her pale green eyes. Lipstick that was darker and glossier than she’d ever have dared wear to work, and that somehow made her mouth seem wider and vaguely carnal.
Alice pouted into the mirror, licked her lips with the tip of her tongue, took the weight of her breasts in her hands. Watching the reflected nipples distend, she pressed her thighs together and tried to imagine the evening that lay ahead.
It was Friday night, and, as usual, Alice Palm was going out on the town.
*
Of all the amenities afforded by his new apartment, the one the sniper appreciated the most was the secured underground parking. The stolen bright yellow Honda Civic with the crumpled right rear fender was exactly as he had left it, in one of the half-dozen parking spots reserved for tenants’ guests. He opened the driver’s door, laid the soft leather gun case across the back seat, and climbed awkwardly behind the wheel. Leaning forward, he reached under the dashboard and crossed the red and blue ignition wires. The little four-cylinder engine caught immediately.
While the engine warmed, the sniper examined himself in the rearview mirror. Like Alice, he had dressed carefully for the evening. He was wearing a shiny mauve plastic raincoat, a white party dress with a scoop neckline, white high-heeled shoes and white cotton gardening gloves. He’d applied generous amounts of pancake makeup and eye shadow, and his Chinese Red lipstick was a perfect match for the polish on his fingernails. Unfortunately the overall effect was spoiled for the moment by his shoulder-length platinum wig, which had been knocked askew as he’d climbed into the car.
Pursing his lips, the sniper angrily straightened the wig, taking pains to get it exactly right. When he was satisfied with his appearance he put the Honda in gear, brutally revved the engine, and then pulled out of the parking slot with a squeal of rubber. Accelerating fast, shifting into second, he drove hard towards the exit ramp, past the automatic sensor.
Clanking, the metal door of the garage rose like a stage curtain on a world washed grey with rain.
As the little car bounced over the curb and turned left on to Pendrell, the sniper leaned forward to switch on the windshield wipers and headlights. Through the rain-streaked side window he looked like one of those nearsighted old women with unsteady hands and a penchant for primary colours; the excessive amount of makeup and bright red lipstick suggestive of the face of a clown.
*
Due to the inclement weather and unusually sluggish Friday night traffic, the no. 3 bus arrived at the corner of Davie and Bute almost two minutes behind schedule. The front doors opened with an urgent hiss of compressed air, and Alice, furling her umbrella, stepped on board. Depositing her fare in the glass box next to the bearded driver, she asked for and received a transfer and then made her way slowly down the aisle.
There were less than a dozen passengers on the bus. Confronted with a wealth of choices, Alice hesitated and then sat down in the window seat opposite the rear exit. Hooking her umbrella over the chrome handrail in front of her, she unbuttoned her raincoat and took a well-thumbed paperback out of her purse. The oval face of the woman on the cover, framed by the hood of her dark green cloak, was delicate and pale. But her eyes were steady and her posture suggested an inner strength that Alice found appealing. She flipped through the book until she found her place, and began to read in the strong white glare of the overhead lights.
*
The yellow Honda bucked and lurched as it sped down the pothole-strewn lane that parallels the 1100 block West Broadway. As the car neared the end of the block it slowed sharply, and then swerved to pull up tight against the rear of an abandoned Shell station on the corner. The sniper switched off the lights and windscreen wipers, but left the motor running. With the black gun case cradled in his arms, he ran crouching through the rain towards the side door which provided access to the service bays. There was a fat brass padlock fastened to the door, but it was useless — the hasp had been violently torn from the wooden frame.
The sniper slipped into the empty building and stood with his head cocked to one side, listening. After a moment he walked cautiously but rapidly across the oil-slicked concrete floor towards the office at the front of the building.
Sheets of plywood put up to protect the plate glass windows had proved nothing more than a provocation to vandals. Broken glass crunched underfoot as the sniper made his way to a triangular gap between the overlapping sheets of wood. It was tough going in his high heels. He used the gun case as a balancing wand, and moved slowly.
From the window, the intersection of Broadway and Alder was no more than fifty metres away. Where the gas pumps had once stood there were now only a few rusty bolts thrusting up from the concrete island. The sniper’s field of fire was clear and unobstructed. He saw that the traffic on Broadway was, as he had expected, not very heavy.
He turned away from the window towards the low counter that had once held the cash register. Having swept away a few shards of glass with his gloved hand, he gently put down the black leather case.
Out on the street the lights changed and the traffic suddenly pulled away, tires hissing anxiously on the wet asphalt.
The sniper unfastened two brass catches and opened the rifle case. The case was lined with red plush, and there were fitted spaces for the gun and telescopic sight, an extra pair of magazines. He dropped one of the magazines into a pocket of his raincoat, picked up the rifle and drew the bolt part way back. There was a cartridge in the chamber — brass gleamed in the dim light. There were two more rounds in the magazine; that gave him three shots before he would have to reload. Three would be more than enough. He slammed home the bolt, laid the rifle back down on the counter, and checked his watch.
It was twenty-eight minutes to nine. He was running a little late.
With a growing sense of urgency, he quickly pulled off his gloves and took a small clear plastic box out of an inner pocket of his raincoat. From it he removed one of a pair of earplugs made of soft pink wax. This he massaged between index finger and thumb until it was warm and soft, and then screwed it into his ear. Fumbling with the second piece of wax, he dropped the plastic box. He cursed softly, knelt to pick it up, stuffed it back into his pocket.
The wig got in his way as he tried to insert the second piece of wax. Furiously he brushed aside the coarse artificial hair, jammed the earplug in place. Now his watch showed that he had somehow fallen almost three minutes behind schedule. Rattled, he tried to force the gloves back on the wrong hands. He was sweating heavily. The wig made his scalp itch. He didn’t know what he’d do if he missed her. He couldn’t imagine waiting another week to try again.
Finally, without realizing quite how he had done it, he managed to get the gloves turned around and right side up. Under the white party dress he could feel his heart thumping rapidly. He was hyperventilating, his breathing was fast and shallow and he felt on the edge of panic, ready to fall apart. There was something else he had to do, but he couldn’t think what it was. He wiped the sweat from his eyes, forced himself to calm down, to concentrate. After a long moment, he sighed deeply and then put on a pair of untinted Bausch & Lomb shooting glasses. Ready now, he picked up the Winchester and went back to the gap in the hoarding.
He was almost four full minutes behind schedule, but because of the traffic and the rain, so was the no. 3 bus.
The Redfield scope had been specifically designed for use under conditions of low light. Alice Palm’s head, bisected by the cross hairs, was so crisp and clear that the sniper could see the detailing in the tiny gold cross dangling from her left ear. He flicked off the safety catch and pressed his cheek firmly against the walnut stock. At 2,150 feet per second, the muzzle velocity of the .460 Magnum is relatively slow for a modern weapon. But the bus was decelerating for the traffic light, and in any case the lead requi
red at such short range was negligible.
The sniper sighted on the tip of Alice’s nose, elevated the barrel a fraction of an inch, and gently squeezed the trigger. The rubber recoil pad slammed into his shoulder. The barrel jumped. Tendrils of dust drifted down from the ceiling. And despite the considerable protection offered by the earplugs, the thunderclap of the shot in that confined space was loud enough to make him wince with pain.
At the exact moment that the sniper fired, the traffic light turned from red to green. The bus driver, anticipating the change and anxious to get back on schedule, put his foot down on the gas pedal just in time to save Alice’s life. The bullet punched a hole in the window no more than a quarter of an inch behind her head and on a level with her temple, instantly enveloping her in a fine cloud of safety glass. Glass sparkled on her shoulders, in her hair, across the pages of her book and on the empty seat beside her, on the floor. Startled and bewildered, she turned and peered out the window, into the soggy blackness of the night.
Half-blinded by the muzzle flash, the sniper worked the Winchester’s bolt and pumped another round into the chamber.
Alice had just managed to work out what the hole in the window might mean when the second bullet smashed through the glass and struck her in the collarbone. The force of impact broke her neck, killing her instantly and tumbling her sideways off the seat and into the dirty wet aisle. She lay face down on the rubber mat, her body twisted awkwardly, the paperback still clutched tightly in her hand. Except for the bright red blood spouting energetically from a shredded aorta, she lay absolutely still.
The bus driver heard the thump of the body hitting the floor. He glanced in his rearview mirror, saw Alice and jumped on the brakes. The bus skidded to a halt in the middle of the intersection. The driver was halfway out of his seat when the vehicle lurched forward, throwing him against the windscreen. From the rear of the bus there was the sound of metal collapsing, and then the blare of a horn.
The Goldfish Bowl Page 1