The snipers rifle hung from the parapet still warm, cordite drifted from the business end.
It resembled a cigarette, dangling in the groove of an ashtray which was given to you as a souvenir from a place you had no desire to go.
And you had no desire to go there as you had read stories of donkey cruelty and the militiasβ refusal to accept Greenwich as the centre of time.
Their struggle against the meridian has been well documented in film and prose.
Stories and rumours filtered in from the hinterland, carried home in economy flights from different time zones arriving at the terminal, milling around the carousel.
****** victim 4 lay in a forensic scene, white tapped surrounded by duty free bags, and the secret dossiers exposing the militias plans drifted, blood stained in the breeze.