A steady drizzle fell from low clouds that echoed the slate roof of Dryfesdale parish church and leached colour from the red sandstone walls. The world was monochrome with grief.
Good intro, Allie Burns thought, hating herself even as the idea crossed her mind. She’d come to the church before dawn, knowing she’d have to beat the rest of the world’s press to the Lockerbie bombing memorial service if she was going to stand any chance of a decent exclusive that would hold till the Sunday paper. The main door of the church was still locked but she’d lurked among the worn sandstone grave markers until a florist’s van turned into the access road. She sidled through the headstones to the front of the church. A middle-aged woman in a nylon overall under a rain jacket was struggling with an impressive load of floral tributes.
‘Let me give you a hand,’ Allie said, not waiting for a reply to get stuck in to unloading the flowers.
‘Thank goodness. Are you with the church?’ the woman asked.
The correct answer would have been, ‘No, I’m the north- ern news editor of the Sunday Globe.’ Allie opted for the less problematic, ‘I couldn’t see you struggling by yourself.’
Between them, they unloaded the van and carried the flowers in through an unobtrusive side door. Allie quickly took in the typical Church of Scotland spartan interior, the simple wood pews, the plain communion table and the pulpit built from blocks of local stone. The gallery above boasted a barrel roof, its panels painted a surprising pink in contrast to the white ribs. Towards the rear of the church, a young boy sat with bowed head.
Leave a Reply