Allan Martin

An iScot Short Story

THE TARGET EMERGED, not long after 6.15 pm, from the edifice whose faded splendour recalled a Glasgow whose buildings once proclaimed its prosperity and its pride. At least that was during the day; in the damp winter darkness the upper stories receded discreetly into the gloom, well above the sphere of vision of the wageslaves scurrying homeward on a cold Thursday night.

He had the photo he’d been supplied with on the screen of his phone, and was able to compare it with the man as he paused in the doorway to light a cigarette. Somewhat under six feet, well-built, fleshy rather than muscular, with a bland face you’d not notice in a crowd, clean-shaven, no glasses, and receding brown hair cut fairly short. He had a green rucksack on his back. There was no doubt, this was target number 53. He knew some people gave them names – Adolf, Vlad, Rasputin, Jack the Ripper, and so on – but he preferred a number. Even a pantomime name could give the target a personality, and once they started becoming human, the job got harder.

Number 53 looked worried. He looked around suspiciously as he sucked on his cigarette. He threw it down halfsmoked, and dashed across the road as a gap appeared in the traffic. Gregor followed discreetly as he hurried through the thin drizzle that hung in the street. In five minutes they were in the Central Station. His target ignored the giant announcement board looming over the main concourse, and headed for the smaller board at the far end of the station, pausing to study it briefly. He must have a ticket already, probably a season ticket, since he’s going home. Gregor’s instructions told him that was in Rothesay, and he already had his ticket to Wemyss Bay in his pocket.

There was always the chance that number 53 would suddenly decide to do something different. If that were the case, he’d simply do the job tomorrow, and the target would have one more day to live. But number 53 didn’t look the sort who’d do something on a whim, and so it proved.

In a few minutes he headed for the ticket barrier and on towards platform 15, where plenty people were already waiting. Five minutes later the train slid alongside the platform. The crowd swarmed to the doors, so that the few people getting off had to push their way through to get away. Gregor found a seat where he could keep an eye on number 53, and took a newspaper from his rucksack.

If that were the case, he’d simply do the job tomorrow, and the target would have one more day to live

Sure enough, the target stayed on until the terminus, and strode determinedly down the wide passage, floored by wooden beams, that led from the station down to the pier. As Gregor walked with the crowd down towards the pier, he noticed the ironwork above and the glistening newlypainted wall panels – he could even smell the paint. He bought a return to Rothesay at the counter in the Calmac waiting room, then joined the queue. The boat had arrived, and the foot passengers were already filing into the ugly grey structure forming an enclosed gangway.