Iain Kelly

Frankie stood waiting in the dark gloom. He pulled his jacket collar up as the cold air bit into his face. Looking across the black river there was a concert on at the new hall which was lit up in luminous red, pink and orange. The sweeping lights cast colourful shadows that reflected on the water and the tall glass-panelled hotel that towered into the sky.

A strong gust of wind made him turn away from the river and face the large science museum and cinema complex and media buildings behind him. He thought back to his first memory of this area of the city, when none of these buildings had existed – a boy of seven, walking hand-in-hand with his mother and father around the freshly landscaped architecture and horticulture of the Glasgow Garden Festival.

It was always sunny and warm in his memory, but he was sure there must have been days when it rained, it was Glasgow after all. They had a family season ticket and he lost count of how many times they had visited. Every time they rode the old city trams, resurrected to carry passengers along the dockside. The glass-panelled hotel, scheduled to be completed months earlier, was still under construction. He could remember vividly the giant observation tower, the rollercoaster, the glass pyramid, the clock bandstand and his favourite café, the Milk Bar, with its delicious strawberry tarts.

Under the temporary lights by the riverside the forensic officers worked on. Finally Frankie was called over. He approached and stared down at the bloated, pale body.

‘Well?’ asked the Detective Inspector.

Frankie nodded. He looked down at the body of his daughter. He saw the stab wounds around her chest and stomach, and a jagged red slash across her neck. The red colour reminded him of the strawberry tarts. His life in the city had come full circle. His past had finally caught up with him as he knew it would.

Written as part of a writing course I’m currently taking. The assignment was to write a 300-word story or introduction to a story, based on an event or moment from your own life and experience. In case you’re wondering, I’m the 7-year-old boy in the story, that memory is real, the rest is fiction. I see this as the start of a longer story, what do you think? Let me know.