him irritated enough that he knew the crowd he could see gathered down the street would mean his anger level going up another notch. It meant a street entertainer.
He hated them. The escape artists, fire-eaters and magicians were bad enough but even worse were the living statues. He’d always wondered what kind of way that was for a grown man or woman to make a living. Getting yourself tarted up with paint and standing still for a while was not a talent. He walked on, past Diesel, Tiso’s and the White Company, past a statue decked out in black and with make-up, perched on a bicycle with a basket in front of him. Winter had the sudden but not unfamiliar urge to kick him off to see if he managed to stay still when he hit the ground. However he guessed the rest of the people in the street, some of whom actually seemed to be impressed by this crap, might not have understood so he let it go. Another barely living statue had got off his perch and was having a fag while making a call on his mobile. That was more like it.
Winter knew he could be bad-tempered and intolerant but he spent most of his time on the dark edges of the city where most of these people never ventured and it meant he could get annoyed at them simply for living normal lives. His temperament wasn’t quite up to photographing a suicide or a fatal pile-up or the victim of a drug overdose then watching halfwits gawping in wonder at a man who could stand still for five minutes. He’d stare through a lens at a fifteen-year-old kid stabbed through the heart then see people staring in shop windows at shoes costing three hundred quid and dresses going for a grand a time. So far he’d always resisted the urge to smack their heads against the window.
He’d passed the huge Vodafone store, with Princes Square, Hugo Boss and Frasers up ahead. He managed a laugh at a Hare Krishna with a crazy smile and a ponytail, asking some bewildered granny if she was a rocker. He guessed the answer was no. He had to be more tolerant of these muppets, it really wasn’t doing him any good to . . .
The noise hit him as he came to the corner of Gordon Street. He realized that until then it must have been drowned out by the towering high walls of shops and flats but it smacked him as soon as he reached the gap. Sirens. Both cops and ambulances. Shouting. Something big was going down. Winter bolted in the direction of the noise, driven by the itch to see what was happening. Judging by the number of 999s on scene it was major and he didn’t want to miss it. Fuck! He didn’t have his gear with him. He had a decent camera on his mobile but that was it. Everything else was in the boot of his car in Cambridge Street.
There was nothing he could do about that though, nothing else but run. The corner of Buchanan stayed pedestrianized till it reached the point where the road hit West Nile Street and Winter charged along it, dodging between two cars and onto Gordon Street. Ahead was Central Station and he knew that was where the clamour and the blaring were coming from.
The crowds grew thicker as he got nearer and he had to barge his way through, hearing swearing at his back and taking a couple of swipes for his trouble. The throng was even thicker at the sandblasted corner of the Central where Gordon Street ran out and Union Street started. Winter could see that four cop cars had cut off access points and were only allowing emergency vehicles through. What the hell had happened? There was already police tape up creating a cordon but he got the impression no one had been there too long.
Winter shouted ‘Police’ as he shoved his way through the undergrowth of the human jungle, cutting a swathe through the swearing till he was just a couple of ranks back from a front-row seat. There were uniforms forcing the crowd back as best they could and beyond them a no-man’s-land before there was another ring of cops shielding detectives and white-togged forensics. Two of them, Paul Burke and Caro
He hated them. The escape artists, fire-eaters and magicians were bad enough but even worse were the living statues. He’d always wondered what kind of way that was for a grown man or woman to make a living. Getting yourself tarted up with paint and standing still for a while was not a talent. He walked on, past Diesel, Tiso’s and the White Company, past a statue decked out in black and with make-up, perched on a bicycle with a basket in front of him. Winter had the sudden but not unfamiliar urge to kick him off to see if he managed to stay still when he hit the ground. However he guessed the rest of the people in the street, some of whom actually seemed to be impressed by this crap, might not have understood so he let it go. Another barely living statue had got off his perch and was having a fag while making a call on his mobile. That was more like it.
Winter knew he could be bad-tempered and intolerant but he spent most of his time on the dark edges of the city where most of these people never ventured and it meant he could get annoyed at them simply for living normal lives. His temperament wasn’t quite up to photographing a suicide or a fatal pile-up or the victim of a drug overdose then watching halfwits gawping in wonder at a man who could stand still for five minutes. He’d stare through a lens at a fifteen-year-old kid stabbed through the heart then see people staring in shop windows at shoes costing three hundred quid and dresses going for a grand a time. So far he’d always resisted the urge to smack their heads against the window.
He’d passed the huge Vodafone store, with Princes Square, Hugo Boss and Frasers up ahead. He managed a laugh at a Hare Krishna with a crazy smile and a ponytail, asking some bewildered granny if she was a rocker. He guessed the answer was no. He had to be more tolerant of these muppets, it really wasn’t doing him any good to . . .
The noise hit him as he came to the corner of Gordon Street. He realized that until then it must have been drowned out by the towering high walls of shops and flats but it smacked him as soon as he reached the gap. Sirens. Both cops and ambulances. Shouting. Something big was going down. Winter bolted in the direction of the noise, driven by the itch to see what was happening. Judging by the number of 999s on scene it was major and he didn’t want to miss it. Fuck! He didn’t have his gear with him. He had a decent camera on his mobile but that was it. Everything else was in the boot of his car in Cambridge Street.
There was nothing he could do about that though, nothing else but run. The corner of Buchanan stayed pedestrianized till it reached the point where the road hit West Nile Street and Winter charged along it, dodging between two cars and onto Gordon Street. Ahead was Central Station and he knew that was where the clamour and the blaring were coming from.
The crowds grew thicker as he got nearer and he had to barge his way through, hearing swearing at his back and taking a couple of swipes for his trouble. The throng was even thicker at the sandblasted corner of the Central where Gordon Street ran out and Union Street started. Winter could see that four cop cars had cut off access points and were only allowing emergency vehicles through. What the hell had happened? There was already police tape up creating a cordon but he got the impression no one had been there too long.
Winter shouted ‘Police’ as he shoved his way through the undergrowth of the human jungle, cutting a swathe through the swearing till he was just a couple of ranks back from a front-row seat. There were uniforms forcing the crowd back as best they could and beyond them a no-man’s-land before there was another ring of cops shielding detectives and white-togged forensics. Two of them, Paul Burke and Caro
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