Beauty & Brutality

Beauty And Brutality Claire-Frances Steele 26/09/2011
It had not stopped raining all day. The constant grey sky mirrored the dreary city below. A city of crime, of drugs, of gangs. Yet, it was beautiful. Such a majestic metropolitan that could not be matched anywhere in the world. Glasgow. My last thoughts before I left this earth will be of the city I loved, and of the city that killed me.
I was going to miss my train if I didn’t get a move on, my boyfriend warned me. I was pulling on my wellies in preparation for the rain storm that we had been suffering through for two days now. I was not in the mood to be running around the town in this weather, but it would be worth it. As I scrapped a brush through my hair, Scott appeared behind my in the mirror, making me jump with fright.
“Take my jacket,” he said holding it out for me, “It’ll keep you warm. Don’t want you to catch a cold.” I took his jacket and slipped it on over the two jumpers I already had on and gave him a quick kiss of thanks.
“What would I do without you?” I smiled.
By the time I had taken the short walk to the train station, I was drenched. I sent a quick text to Liz, telling her I was on my way into town. Just as I hit send, the train trundled to a stop at the station. I hopped on and tried to shake some of the water off me. The carriage was almost empty, a figure sat at the far end with his hood up, all his interest totally focused on his mobile. I took a seat close to the door, knowing I would only be on for a few minutes.
My phone beeped, and Liz’s message told me she would be about half an hour yet. I sighed. She was cutting it fine, but we should still make it. I pulled the leaflet out of my bag. Sharmanka Kinetic Theatre at Trongate 103. This would be my second visit, and my friend Liz’s first. The previous weekend, over a bottle of wine, I had tried my best to describe this wonder I had stumbled across after wandering into the Russian café downstairs from it. After faltering over a few unjustifying adjectives, I decided that she had to experience it first-hand. So we made a date to meet the following Sunday, not accounting for the freak rainstorm. The beauty of the Sharmanka is that you get so lost in its haunting music, and the story that every piece tells, that you tune out the outside world. So much so, I was almost surprised so find myself on Trongate when I left the building on my first visit. We won’t care about the rain once we are there.
The train pulled into High Street Station and I pulled my hood back up. The weather was getting worse as the wind picked up. I had little relief walking through the small station building and back out on to High Street. I decided to walk down Ingram Street and on to Albion Street. I usually walk down here to look in all the weird and wonderful restaurants, but tonight, I realised, it was more sellf torture, watching Glaswegians enjoying a warm meal and a bottle of wine in comfort. As I turned onto the Tron, the rain hit me worse than ever.
I checked my watch, still another half an hour before the performance starts. It was dark now, the winter is coming in and bringing shorter days with it. I positioned myself outside the front doors of Trongate 103 and waited. It was so bright inside, so welcoming- but Liz had no idea where she was going, and no doubt would get lost. It was better if I was visible to her. There wasn’t much street traffic, just the odd person running past with their jackets over their head, or an umbrella turned inside out. I was quite cosy in Scott’s jacket and my wellies, watching the world storm by. I considered lighting a cigarette, but there was no point. My mind drifted upstairs to the gallery. Thoughts of the warmth and wonder filled my mind. I tried to remember some of the more protuberant sculptures, but I was beginning to feel the cold on my legs, seeping through my jeans, and it was hard to concentrate. I leaned against the stone wall, my feet were getting tired. I was beginning to resent Liz for not being early for once, and we could have gone for a drink. It was hard to think happy thoughts in this weather. I wished I wasn’t here. I started fantasying about my sofa and hot cup of tea. I looked at my watch again, just over ten minutes until it starts, I had a very bad feeling we were going to miss it.
Until I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“About bloody ti-“ I cut off. It wasn’t Liz with her hand on my shoulder. Thunder roared in the distance as, from the light of the Trongate 103, I saw his haggard face, his bloodshot eyes and rain matted hair. The sudden smell of stale alcohol made me swoon. I tried to jerk my shoulder out of his grip, but he grabbed my forearm instead. I had been hassled by junkies plenty of times in this city, so at first, I wasn’t so much alarmed, as I was annoyed. The funny thing is about junkies in Glasgow, is that they are usually all so polite.
“Let me go.” I told him sternly. He never said a word. His eyes never left my face, staring so intently, like he knew me. I struggled to pull my arm from him grasp, but the more I pulled away the tighter his grip became. But he never said a word, just kept staring at me. Then he started to pull, dragging me along with him. I knew it was pointless to try and hit him, I had no strength behind a punch. I put all the strength I had into resisting him.
“Let me go!” I shouted it this time, fear was boiling up, but so was anger. “Let go, you junkie scum!” I kept shouting. “You fucking bastard!” I prayed someone would hear me shout, but in this city, hearing profanity does not make people come running. “Help!” I screamed. He was winning this tug-of-war, and to my horror, I was being dragged away from the light if the Trongate 103. There was no one around, at all. I tried to think fast of a way out. He was stronger than me, and no one could help me. Even in this storm, it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front, and the thunder was rolling in, drowning out my screams. What about Liz, she could turn up at any moment, what if he tries to hurt her too.
I could roughly make out and alleyway between the buildings. He was pulling me down there, no lights, no people. No Witnesses. He still hadn’t said a word to me, he wasn’t even looking at me now, he was staring straight ahead, concentrating on where he wants to go. I fought him with every step, and lost my balance. I was on the ground, with my arm in the air. I felt his hand relax and I pulled my arm away. I was lying in the rubble-strewn ally, covered in dirt and the coldness was in my bones. He forced me onto my back, but didn’t make me get back on my feet again. I felt his weight crush my pelvis as he sat on top of me, and a sharp pain in my neck where he was pushing the knife in. My eyes widened with fear, I was going to die now.
He sat on top of me the whole time, and watched the life slowly drain out from me. I felt it, I felt the warm blood leave me, I watched as it mixed with the dirt and the rain. I felt colder than I have ever felt before. I thought of Liz, and prayed that she would go home when she seen I wasn’t there. I thought of Scott, and how he had been worried I would catch a cold. The tears slid silently onto the ground now. I thought of those beautiful contraptions telling the story of life and death not so far away. And I thought of my city. Of my beautiful and brutal Glasgow. I took one last look into his face and he grinned, “Sleep now, Angel- let Glasgow claim you for her own.”.