Witness the Dead

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They called it the City of the Dead. The sprawling Gothic land scape that perched over Glasgow and contained the remains of fifty thousand lost souls. Now it held fifty thousand and one.

The flash from Tony Winter’s camera lit up the Necropolis and threw fleeting shadows across the nearby gravestones and the twisted figure of the young woman who lay broken below them.

Along with the dark-blonde hair that was wetly plastered across her ashen face was a look of terror fitting for someone seeing their last in a Victorian graveyard. Winter shut out the angry buzz from the throng around him and saw only the girl, her skirt pulled obscenely above her waist, her arms and legs splayed wide across the flat top of the raised gravestone that she had been laid out on.

Her bare feet, streaked with dirt, hung stiffly from either side of the tomb and were being tickled by rogue blades of grass that grew tall by the grave’s edge. But the grass couldn’t cause her to shiver any more than the dank morning air or the chill wind that whirled and whistled round the Necropolis. She was as cold as the stone slab she lay on.

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