The Naming Of The Dead (2006) by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin [Rankin, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

SIDE THREE

No Gods, No Masters

Wednesday, July 6, 2005

16

Most of the G8 leaders touched down at Prestwick Airport, southwest of Glasgow. In all, nearly one hundred and fifty aircraft would land in the course of the day. The leaders, their spouses, and their closest personnel would then be transferred to Gleneagles by helicopter, while fleets of chauffeured cars conveyed other members of the various delegations to their eventual destinations. George Bush’s sniffer dog had its own car. Today was Bush’s fifty-ninth birthday. Jack McConnell, first minister of the Scottish parliament, was on the tarmac to greet the world leaders. There were no visible protests or disruptions.

Not at Prestwick.

But in Stirling, morning TV news showed masked protesters hitting out at cars and vans, smashing the windows of a Burger King, blocking the A9, attacking gas stations. In Edinburgh, demonstrators halted all traffic on Queensferry Road. Lothian Road was lined with police vans, a chain of uniformed officers protecting the Sheraton Hotel and its several hundred delegates. Police horses paraded down streets usually busy with the morning rush hour, but today devoid of traffic. Buses lined the length of Waterloo Place, ready to convey marchers north to Auchterarder. But there were mixed signals, no one very sure that the official route had been sanctioned. The march was off, then on, then off again. Police ordered the bus drivers not to move their vehicles until the situation could be verified one way or the other.

And it was raining; looked like the Final Push concert that evening might be a washout. The musicians and celebrities were at Murrayfield Stadium, busy with sound checks and rehearsals. Bob Geldof was at the Balmoral Hotel, but preparing to visit Gleneagles with his friend Bono, always supposing the various protests would let them through. The queen was on her way north, too, and would host a dinner for the delegates.

The news journalists sounded breathless, wired on doses of caffeine. Siobhan, having spent a night in her car, was getting by on watery coffee from a local baker’s. The other customers had been more interested in the events unfolding on the wall-mounted TV set behind the counter.

“That’s Bannockburn,” one of them had said. “And there’s Springkerse. They’re everywhere!”

“Circle the wagons,” her friend had advised, to a few smiles. The protesters had left Camp Horizon as early as two in the morning, literally catching the police napping.

“Can’t understand how those bloody politicians can tell us this is good for Scotland,” a man in painter’s overalls had muttered, waiting for his bacon roll to arrive. “I’ve got jobs in Dunblane and Crieff today. Christ knows how I’m supposed to get there.”

Back in her car, Siobhan was soon warmed by the heater, though her spine remained creaky, her neck tight. She’d stayed in Stirling because going home would have meant coming back this morning, with the same security rigmarole—maybe even worse. She washed down two aspirin and headed for the A9. She hadn’t made much progress along the two-lane highway when the flashers on a car ahead told her both lanes were at a dead stop.

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