by RJ Mitchell
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.
15
THE PHOTO shoot had gone better than expected. George Square had been transformed for one morning only into a Saint Tropez beach and for once the sun had shone.
It was Vanessa Velvet’s crowning glory. The former model and reality TV show star turned lingerie tyco
on had just launched her most seductive line ever under the new brand name Bitch. The brand’s byline was ‘for the woman who doesn’t give a damn’.
Using her contacts in Glasgow City Council, in conjunction with the Evening Times, which had recently named her Glasgow’s ‘Businesswoman of the Year’, she had known she would be able to persuade Council Leader Jim Fraser that her launch would bring a deluge of publicity the city’s way. The hard part had been convincing Fraser that it was all going to be positive publicity.
But Vanessa knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. The promise of a lunch date within the discreet confines of Glasgow’s most famous celebrity hotel, with the hint of something more on the menu for afters, had persuaded Fraser to sanction shutting off George Square, despite the indignation and moral rapprochement expressed by some of the council fathers.
Her idea, Vanessa thought, was brilliantly simple. With Glasgow hoping to host the Commonwealth Games in 2014, and beach volley ball potentially to be included as a core sport for the first time, Vanessa planned for her models to hijack the campaign for its inclusion with an exclusive photo shoot based on an artificial beach volleyball court created in the centre of George Square.
She knew it would create maximum impact both in terms of interest and outrage, because that was what she had specialised in all her life.
She watched the shoot wind up, taking in the elaborate set and smug in the knowledge that the pictures would soon be hitting the pages of glossy magazines around the UK and indeed the globe.
She picked up her mobile from the chaise longue on which she had been observing her models cavorting on the artificial sand. Knowing that her following of 10,000 were hanging on her every word, she tweeted; Well, I never knew how sexy beach volleyball could be. Hope they put it in the games! She finished with her trademark sign-off. Life’s a Bitch. V.V.
The models trekked past and Vanessa watched the sand drop off their lithe, tanned bodies as the growing crowd cheered and catcalled. The cabbies who had parked up at their rank for most of the morning honked their horns, while cameras clicked and flashed constantly. Vanessa felt a stab of envy.
At 39, with two failed marriages behind her, one to a pop star and the other to an industrial entrepreneur, she had two kids but very little happiness in her personal life. Still, her alimony had funded her start-up in the business world and her feminine wiles and fame had made the rest easy. She had enjoyed almost every minute of it. The self-obsession that had blighted her showbiz career and almost led to its destruction had receded as she realised she enjoyed manipulating the media as much as she had enjoyed being the subject of their scrutiny.
It had taken her three years to extricate herself from her doomed second marriage. He had proven to be particularly spiteful after he had discovered that she had been enjoying a double life with a Premiership footballer. But look at her now – the unofficial Queen of Glasgow. Delicious in a pink silk blouse with a cream skirt that reached just above her knees, she played with her trademark blonde mane and her golden necklace. She was still a beauty and she knew it.
Yet … she was haunted by a now almost constant fear over the fading of her beauty’s light. The pictures snapped at a myriad of award dinners, charity functions and Bitch publicity shoots would soon be marred by wrinkles. She dismissed the thought once more as the photographer approached her. Her personal snapper, Pete Johnson, was one of the most important members of her entourage, entrusted as he was with her priceless image.
“Hi Vanessa, how about a quick picture of you and the girls on a chaise longue? We’ve got one set up on the court.”
Vanessa purred “Hey Pete, you know I’d never turn you down.”
Over his shoulder she sawJim Fraser smiling wolfishly at her. He approached and took her hand warmly but delicately in his.
“Vanessa, another triumph for you and some fine PR for the Commonwealth Games bid too. I'm sure we’ll have the beach volleyball in the games and sold out in 2014.” Fraser leant forward to kiss either cheek, making her cringe inwardly.
He whispered “I hope I'll see more of your Bitch lingerie this afternoon,” then pulled away, flashing his politician’s trademark, a drippingly false smile with a full set of gleaming teeth. He underlined his growing anticipation with a wink.
Their Saturday lunch date was timed for 1pm and he was apparently ravenous.
Vanessa engaged first gear in her white Mercedes Sports, famous for its VVX1 plates, the roof already peeling off at the flick of a switch. She loved to drive open-topped through the city with her blonde mane flying behind her, the speakers blasting out classics from her favourite eighties bands. She didn’t give a damn; she was the Bitch.
She looked for some musical accompaniment to help psyche her up for a wine and dine that would put the leader of Glasgow City Council firmly in her pocket.
It was all a game to Vanessa, and she was proud that no one played it better than her. She selected Duran Duran’s Astronaut, slipped the disc in and waited for Simon Le Bon’s smooth tones to open up with Finest Hour. She felt the shiver of excitement that always ran down her spine when the game was afoot.
Driving along Great Western Road she noticed that the carriageway was quiet for early Saturday afternoon. Vanessa didn’t care; it allowed her to floor the accelerator giving a burst of power that enhanced the moment. As One of those days blasted out, she allowed herself a mischievous thought which transmitted into a wicked smile. ‘How appropriate!’
She drove past Byres Road and noticed it had been closed off. The area was awash with police. Vanessa dismissed it as probably being caused by a traffic incident and floored the accelerator once more as the lights turned green.
She pulled up outside the hotel to the cool synth intro of Point of No Return and remained in the car, closing her eyes to listen and revelling in the music and the memories it set off in her mind.
As the song finished she opened her eyes and found the doorman standing next to her car. “Miss Velvet, can I take anything in for you this afternoon?” he asked in the slightly accented voice she could never place but could never be bothered to enquire about.
“No, I’m travelling light, Victor. Good to see you.”
As she swept throughthe foyer she was met by the manager, Novak, who she knew was Serbian.
“Mr Fraser is in the bar if you care to make your way through, Madam.”
Fraser was waiting on one of the comfortable settees, cradling his customary gin and tonic and surveying the lunch menu with an avid interest that soon transferred itself to Vanessa as she made her grand entrance.
He rose a shade too quickly, she thought, hinting at an impatience to get straight to the main course on the after-dinner menu. As she reached him he leant forward and kissed her on the lips lightly.
As they ordered, Fraser’s hands seemed to take on a life of their own. One found itself on Vanessa’s left knee which was crossed over her right leg in a provocative position that had brought Fraser’s lust to the boil. She looked down at his hand and, just as he was expecting a scathing stare, she smiled. Her smile made him forget all about his wife and children and the party faithful who saw him ultimately as the next Scottish Labour leader and the man to bring to an end the growing SNP threat.
They made their way through to the tasteful oak-panelled tartan-trimmed dining room that provided such a classic understated backdrop to their sordid tryst. Fortified by their aperitifs neither cared about the need for discretion any longer. Fraser’s hand playfully swept over her wondrous figure on its way to her waist and he was rewarded with another spine tingling smile.
They skipped straight to the main course, both going for the rack of lamb in a rosemary and blackcurrant jus, and washing it down with a bottle of the house reserve Rioja. By this time Fraser’s minimal pretence at propriety had been dropped. His hand slipped across the fine linen table cloth and entwined itself around Vanessa’s.
She knew she had him right where she wanted him. Now she could tea
se and how she could tease. “My, Mr Fraser, we are impatient and you haven’t even had your dessert yet.”
His smile almost dripped saliva. “I think I’ve been a very good boy Miss Velvet! As my dear old grandmother always said, every good boy deserves his reward!”
She smiled and playfully ran her hand through her blonde tresses. “Mmmm,” she murmured seductively. Her leg moved under the table and slipping her stiletto off she ran her foot up his leg. Fraser reached for his Rioja and threw the remainder down his throat to distract himself from the thunderstorm of anticipation welling inside his body.
Vanessa rose, pushing her chair back slowly in perfect co-ordination, and walked round behind him teasing a hand across his shoulders and causing him to half-turn round in his chair like some love sick puppy dog. She walked out of the dining room and began to climb the stairs with the city’s most powerful politician in tasteless hot pursuit.
Vanessa unlocked the door with the security card she had arranged to be discreetly placed on their table with the wine list. She entered the bathroom immediately and within seconds there was a knock on the door and Fraser’s voice whispered “Room Service for Miss Velvet!”
She opened the door and Fraser stared. There she stood, resplendent in the most exotic Bitch lingerie. The last vestige of Fraser’s control went and he almost knocked her off her feet with the intensity of the desire that poured out of him.
They landed on the bed and their bodies intertwined, living for the moment and caring nothing for the consequences.
Having lost all track of time and now satiated, Fraser propped himself up against a pillow and looked down at Vanessa. “Sweet Jesus, I’ve never met a woman like you!”
Vanessa purred her answer. “I know.” And his blood rose again.
A knock sounded at the door and a voice said, in an accent Vanessa recognised as similar to Victor’s, “Room service for Miss Velvet with the compliments of the hotel.”