Death Watch

This is the end, beautiful friend.

This is the end, my only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end

Of everything that stands, the end

No safety or surprise, the end

I’ll never look in your eyes again.

The Doors, The end.

Here She was in Glasgow, Scotland. She had run all that way to escape the unavoidable. She could no longer hide from disaster. Darkness would not conceal her. No doors of perception would open and protect her from the ice storm. Bubbles of happiness were exploding in the entire town. Painted people dressed in strange attires had gathered on the common lawn. Young people were chanting, raving, frantic with pleasure. The blue skies, the mildness of the air, the joyful surge of the City were to her only a lure. Here one young man out of two felt that rape was a way of life and that hitting women justifiable. Violence was lurking in the crowd, ready to find a victim. The document Living without Fear published a few years ago was of no use to her nor would be the discourses of the Glasgow University authorities on the 25^th of November. In fact the university had decided to talk not of women but of children corporal punishment! V day was supposed to commemorate the brutal assassination of the Mirabal sisters in the Dominican Republic but She could not prevent herself from thinking of Glasgow born Ian Brady who insisted that «Rape is not a crime, it is a state of mind. Murder is a hobby and a supreme pleasure» How many Moors murderers were today on the square? She felt isolated from everyone, alienated from life. For her all earth was one thought and that was death. Death just hovering and wanting to claim his prey.

She had once entertained the idea of spending time in different pubs. She had hummed her way to the closest whisky bar, but now She did not know why. Drinking would in fact impair her vigilance, leave her open for trouble. So She decided to seek solace in the normality of daily chores. No ordinary person would be attacked, punished for living the most ordinary life. One had to be special, to do extraordinary deeds to be chosen. Doing the same thing every day at the same time would allow her to detect minute changes. She walked the same itinerary every day, took the same bus at the exact same time, kept an eye on everyone. She took refuge in a dusty, drab and cold office high on a tower. Safe for a while, She could gather strange and beautiful fruits to concoct her famous recipes. From the upper level. Sister Ann would be able to tell if the path was becoming bloody or if one could still see the lush greenery of the primal forest.

When she had made her choice on Scotland she reckoned that it would be impossible to be in danger there. It was such an exotic place, with its haunted castles, its supernatural lakes, its moors, its seas that She, an anonymous person, could but be unnoticed. She had established her quarters in a quiet neighbourhood, close to the Botanical Gardens. From her window She could see the Kibble Palace where everything was order and beauty, voluptuousness and luxury. But She knew it was a bad omen when She learnt that the Palace had been closed for repair and that the rose garden was out of season. Walking into the garden could not bring back the splendour in the grass, the glory in the flowers.

Plus there was that wandering path leading down to the Kelvin River, its nightly crowds, its bizarre incidents. At night She could hear the raucous voices, the cracks and growls, the roars and howling. Screams were lost in the darkness of the night. Red was then the river’s colour.

Her hope to go unnoticed was crushed the day she was to go to Edinburgh. She knew before opening the door. It was as if she had been attacked by thousands of glass particles, her whole body was frigid with fear and pain. She was being stalked by the unknown. On her way to Central Station, she could not recognize the people riding on bus 90. She was being followed. She could hear the clinging of boots behind her. Her follower wanted her to know someone was there, not far away from her, able to hurt her anytime. She could smell the odour of death, could hear a rasping breathing like a child crying, but every time She bolted around she could not make sense of what she saw. There were flashes of red, of blood. Would She be able to prevent mayhem?

She could not go to the police nor to the department of Forensic sciences with her story of red cape and iron boots. Sherlock Holmes himself would have found her weird and unbelievable, not to mention Inspector Puzzle from Edinburgh or whatever his name was. Any detective would pronounce her hysterical, histrionic. She could not rely on the authorities to find the right solutions.

She walked in the streets seeing so many deaths. The business and shopping streets were the place of all dangers. She had been warned not to carry her money with her but that was the least of her worries. She could see all those women attacked, raped and murdered. She heard their names and a date whispered in her ear : Diane McInally (1991), Karen Mc Gregar (1993), Leona McGovern (1995), Marjorie Robers (1995), Jackie Gallacher (1996), Tracy Wylde (1997), Margo Lafferty (1998). What would She have in common with these women? Why did someone recite those names to her as if it was a poem, a litany? She was also told about Bloody Mary and her husband Darnley who died in an explosion plotted by his wife in 1567. People talked about missing girls kidnapped, raped killed with the complicity of their teacher, of improprieties by members of the royal families. All this was supposed to have a personal meaning but all those names made too much noise in her head for her to function properly.

Came the time she did not dare to wander in the town anymore. She would go to her tower, spend the day buried in her books. She would take a bus back to her lodging early in the afternoon, stopped at the Botanical Gardens and go the nearest supermarket to buy herself the same salad bowl, the same sandwich and the same dessert. She would eat her daily treats in her room drinking piping-hot tea and watching the Easterners. She knew the threat was real but could not fathom why she was the only one to see it, to understand the dangers.

Unable to unravel the mysteries by herself She called her friend Suzanne to the rescue. It was for her friend the perfect occasion to drop work, husband and family obligations. Suzanne packed a suitcase. Without hesitation, she left Switzerland and the beloved mountains to take a plane in Geneva, land in London and arrive by the last flight at Glasgow airport. Suzanne was no Doctor Scarpetta, no Kathy Reichs but she knew a lot about human nature and understood her friend to be in troubled waters.

The next day, a phone call was made. They were to see in the late evening two fat ladies who would feed them information. The odd hour, the dreary weather send them back to the Bid Sleep. The streets were shiny with rain. The lights were bleak. They hopped into a cruising taxi on Great Western Road and asked the chauffeur to take them to Dumbarton Street. They entered number eighty eight. It was a small, dim and smoky place. A place where you expected gangsters, spies to do their business unnoticed but it was full of families and happy looking couples. Had they made a mistake? Misunderstood the instructions? They were told that nobody was expecting them, that no phone call had ever been made. They should try their luck somewhere else as they were not welcome there. Suzanne could not believe it, she had been in the room with her friend at the time of the phone call and knew what She had said. She thought of the different possibilities : the phone call had been misplaced. Was a wrong number. A joke. A more mysterious charade. A ploy to get them out. A sinister omen. She’s conduct showed she was stressed and frightened but it did not look like the beginning of a depression, she showed no sign of paranoia. But who would want to harm her? She was unknown in Glasgow, hadn’t had time to make friends or enemies. Tomorrow Suzanne would slip out to go to the police but now was time to leave the place as she, too, could feel the hostility, the malevolence of the people there.

Out they went again in the dark street of town. No taxi, only the sound of iron boots on the pavement. Run, said the wind. Run , said the moon. The two friends started to run but Suzanne could not keep up the pace. They ran up Argyle Street into Kelvingrove park where each tree seemed to reach its limbs to hang them, each shrub to attack them. Out of breath, Suzanne begged her friend to slow down, to keep things in perspective. They had run without thinking and they were going around and around Park Circus. If She read the street signs She would see that they entered Park Terrace to go into Woodlands Terrace into Lynedoch Place, Park Quadrant and around again. So they stopped and wandered through Woodlands Road, Gibson Street to arrive per chance in Ashton Lane. There hungry and cold, they found a place to restore themselves. Sitting in a courtyard the mist of a hanging garden, they regaled themselves with luscious Orkney Organic Salmon, Lime and Vanilla Mash, an Intense Red Pepper and Vermouth Sauce and Salmon Beignet. After such a dinner they were ready to taste the local water. Suzanne was an adept of soft, almost tasteless water while She like the smoky or salty taste of local waters. They decided to try the Lagalvulin, the Ardbeg and the Laphroaig recommended by one of their informants. Strangely, this break in their inquest did not bring the disorder She had expected and they were able to walk back to their place without being followed by the Red Cape or his acolytes. So was it a vision or a waking dream?

Her confidence strengthened by the quietness of the night, Suzanne pleaded for a walking tour but She, still full of all the noise and fury of her precedent escapades, said that there was too much danger in the west of town. They had to solve the mysteries before Suzanne went back to work or else…They embarked on the 90 bus and went to the end of the line. They passed the violent shopping and business streets, George Square and its Christmas village, the University of Strathclyde and its hill to go beyond the city. Violence surely resided in the suburbs. They arrived in a place where all the clock worked orange. Streets were deserted, clone houses lining street after street. Death was living there but its violence was not the kind threatening She. This was a violence of hoodlum, drunks and skins. This was no future and despair. It was not the violence that was to invade her world. Glasgow had long been a breeding grounds for gangs of criminal. Decades of poverty, unemployment, poor housing and macho culture cultivated in the pubs and shipyards had given a bad reputation to Glasgow so the authorities moved its trouble making population out of the city in camp like housing. Glasgow gangs, be ice cream gang or other, attacked people near to them or those they disliked because they had foreign names or darker skin such Iram Kahna who was murdered outside a chip shop or Kishwar Noor who was attacked by three white thuds. They were two white women, middle aged going on older , they looked respectable but not rich and anyway they were not getting out of the bus in the middle of nowhere.

There was nothing else to do but go back into the heart of town, in the centre of violence. They stopped at George Square, not to admire the Christmas spirit of the scenery but to enter a one time bank turned into a pub. Chatting with the natives, understanding the mood of the city, finding out if She’s fears were founded would be easier in such a place. Strangers to local customs it took them a while to have a table, order a pint of beer and some food. They were sat next to two fat ladies. They rejoiced thinking that they had introverted the day and time of the rendezvous the night before. They struck conversation with the two women to soon discover that they were not the two fat ladies in question. Nobody could tell them if and when death was going to strike. Maybe death was watching everyone but She was more sensitive to it than other. Maybe She was sick and should consult. Nobody else was hearing in their head names of murdered prostitutes.. She reminded them of people was thrive on thrillers: her fear was a decoy, a screen for a too real violence.

But Suzanne’s mind was not put at rest by those soothing words. She knew of The Nighthawk and his breaking in, of Peter Manuel who shot six people in two years, of the legendary Bible John, of Helen Puttock killed next to Dumbarton Road , not far away from their missed rendezvous. They had talked of Marion Watt, Margaret Brown and their niece Vivienne, of Isabelle Cooke, of the Smart family. But most of all She had told her her reasons for not going to the police. She could not forget that Constable James Robertson had been arrested for the murder of his girlfriend. He had run over her several times with a stolen vehicle in Prospect Hill Road. Nor could she forget that Howard Wilson was an ex constable turned murderer.

She begged Suzanne to be careful: they had not been able to identify the enemy, to describe the threat; a bad move could bring more danger to them. Suzanne should go back home as planned to give the change to whoever was stalking She. Once Suzanne gone, She would travel and try to lose her follower. She had plan a train trip to Bangor and was certain that nobody could keep up with her elaborate plan and complicated itinerary. Some officials knew she was in trouble and had given her instructions on how to reach them on their cell phone in time of dire need.

Suzanne was unhappy with this plan but she agreed to leave the next day. She had to go back to her work, her demanding husband, her never ending obligations. Suzanne also had trust in universal justice, knew that there was somewhere a master plan and a benevolent creature. Work would be the best therapy to take away her friend’s mind from all those morbid events. The same advice was given at dinner by the friendly couple who had invited them. Suzanne asked them to keep an eye on She and to phone her if anything unusual happened.

Suzanne left the next morning trying to reassure herself that She would get better soon and that by the time She came back to Switzerland all her fears would have alleviated. Could Bangor be as dangerous for her state of mind that Scotland had been or would she find a haven from her fears?.

She went to Bangor, where the earth and the ocean meet. She did a lot of walking there, wandering in the town and near the sound, she knew that, despite what everyone said she was being stalked, she was on death watch. She shook the dream from herself. There would be no beginning, no end, no red inferno. She would be transported to a world from which the bright sun would be extinguished. A black rain would fall fall, ice would be all around.

Nobody would strangle her, nobody would shoot her, cut her throat with a dagger. Life would slowly ebb from her. She would walk into a large poll of dark clouds which were fated to smother her. She would pass a woman with the West in her eyes who would bring the unreal world too strangely near her.