The Shape at the Finnieston Crane

an unusual tale from J.S. Apsley

Let’s set the scene: Covid was upon us, and with it the lockdown. The world was strange. Now in the midst of all that strangeness, what if you saw… something? Read on and discover the shape at the Finnieston crane.

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Photo by Christopher Baumeister on Unsplash

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The Shape at the Finnieston Crane

by J.S. Apsley

I took retirement in 2023. After lockdown, I was ready. I’d done thirty odd years in the police, a proper tour of duty. I was there with Strathclyde Police back in the good-old-bad-old days. I survived the transition to the new Police Scotland, and served under the new bosses too.

Most coppers will tell you the crap they’ve seen will fill a book. I don’t want to fill a book. Too busy reading them. I suppose that’s my plan for retirement, to be left alone to read, in peace. I stay away from the crime stuff. Had my fill of that, thank you very much. I like a Patrick O’Brian or Alistair MacLean, but mostly I enjoy reading about the natural world and how it continually surprises.

But… there is this one peculiar case—just one—I can’t explain. I need to get it out of my head. I’m going to tell you about the shape at the Finnieston crane.

Lockdown was a nightmare for the police.

The Government changed the rules daily. How the hell could we enforce the law, when even Sturgeon & Co didn’t really know what the law was? It was all airy-fairy guidance. It was nonsense. I got it in the neck from some so-called friends; as if it was my fault we were living through science-fiction. Let me tell you, I did not enjoy it one bit. We were the enforcers of dystopia.

Out of all the mad fantasy and crackpot conspiracies, one interview I conducted was different. It would be my last.

The suspect was called Douglas Charity.

He was picked up by a couple of officers responding to a 999 call, acting strange around the Finnieston crane next to the River Clyde. Just another junkie, I bet they thought, some clown, maybe full of the drink and letting off some steam. The Government had shuttled folk into hotels around that area in those first few weeks, travelers becoming de facto prisoners. They may have thought this guy was one of those punters, gone a bit mad from being cooped up.

No one was supposed to be outside at all. This was April 2020: full-on lockdown.

The cops arrived around midnight, to find him pacing the hotel car park at the bottom of the crane, distressed and howling. He was pointing to the steel beams at the very top of the crane, agitated, pulling at his hair. He was very close to the river. I guess the officers thought he was a possible suicide.

The paperwork they filed said he shouted the same thing repeatedly, incredulous.

“Don’t you see the shape?”

“The shape!”

They arrested him for breach. Breach of the peace, I mean. Breach is a charge the police love. No one really knows what a breach of the peace is. The legal eagles who train the young cadets tell you, “You’ll know it when you see it”. It could really be anything, and that’s the beauty of it. A marvelously-fluid concept for a young police officer who just needs to lift some eejit off the street, for the good of us all.

The officers calmed the man, and took his name and details. One ran a radio-check, and they discovered there was a warrant for assault, so they brought him in for a night in the cells to be processed.

That was how Douglas Charity came to me.

By the time I interviewed him, I expected him to be in a mean mood. It was the wee hours. He had refused to wear a mask inside the station. No point in getting into an argument about that, I thought. He was already getting the jail. I, of course, had my mask on and as per protocol I laced my hands with alcohol rub before entering the interview room. The chairs and desk had been moved so that we were as far from each other as possible. “Social distancing” they called it. Reminds me of Orwell, even now. War is peace, and all that.

I had spoken, briefly, with the two cops who were glad to dump him on me. I knew Mr. Charity had a bit of a tale to tell, crying blue murder about some mysterious shape at the top of the Finnieston Crane.

I took notes, but I’ve no access to them now. It matters not; I’ll never forget the interview.

Never.

“Mister Charity.”

“Good evening officer. I realise I’m in a bit of hot water here, but could I trouble you for a cup of tea, or even a sandwich? I’ve not eaten all day.”

He was surprisingly well-spoken.

“Let me get some details first, Mister Charity, and I’ll see if I can get you something.”

“Fair enough.”

I looked him over. He was a relatively squat little fellow with fading red hair, that straw-like colour before the white sets in. He was wearing an orange-striped polo-shirt under a blue blazer. His hands looked immaculate, and nails were well-kept. He confirmed his basic details calmly and politely.

“You know there is a warrant for your arrest? For assault?”

“Yes, yes of course.”

“And now you have a breach of the peace charge for this carry-on at the Finnieston Crane.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ventured.

“Do you have a big house, officer?”

It was an odd question. He’d been polite, so I gave him a little rope.

“A four-bed in Shawlands.”

“Good for you, good for you. What about a garden?”

“Front and back. The front garden’s wee, but the back garden’s a fair space.”

With people banned from visiting each other indoors, gardens were a hot topic. I guessed that was where he was headed: a rant. I was wrong.

“Ah, good show, good show. Where do you keep your bins?”

I looked at him cross the wide space of interview room.

“Mister Charity, I’m here to have a chat about what was going on at the Finnieston crane. We’re not here to talk about my bins.”

He chortled, and lifted his glasses off his nose, rubbing the indents.

“Forgive me officer, I don’t mean to sound obtuse. It’s just that I know you’ll be asking me what I saw at the top of the crane. You’ll want to ask me about my fight with that obnoxious and odious gentleman which led to the assault charge. It’s all linked. Do you see?”

“Mister Charity, I don’t see, but I’ll happily listen to you explain why my bins are relevant to your assault charge.”

He put his glasses back on and stared at me with a serious intent. He placed his hands flat on the desk and smacked his chops. He had his audience. I allowed it: the night shift was dull. What else did I have to do but allow myself a little entertainment?

“The rats,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ll have had problems with the rats since this carry on.” He pointed at a social distancing poster behind him on the wall.

It was true. Rats had reclaimed swathes of Glasgow. This was hardly a surprise. After all, the pubs and restaurants were shuttered, the rats had looked for alternative dinner service. I had set some traps myself.

The rats weren’t the only animals reclaiming the empty streets. We’d all seen the social media videos of sheep in empty villages and cows in town squares. Then there was that famous video of a deer sauntering up and down Buchanan Street, as if going for a wee afternoon shopping spree on the Style Mile. There were some altogether more dangerous visitors in cities elsewhere in the world, with human activity defunct.

Strange days.

“It’ll help you understand what I have to say if you understand the rat problem.”

“Aye, I understand.” My acknowledgment of his point made him very happy. His chubby face lit up.

“So, you do see! Guys like you and I, officer, we appreciate that the natural world is changing. It’s adapting. To the lack of human activity, I mean.”

“Okay, Mister Charity, I’ll bite.”

I put down my pen, resting it diagonally across the paperwork. I leaned back in my chair and stared at him across the space of the room. He was positively delighted to have my attentions, and he was really a likeable fellow. I was enjoying myself.

“Tell me what you want to tell me.”

“Well officer, I will tell you. You seem a sensible sort.”

“I’m delighted you think so. Let’s hear it.”

“Mother nature is reacting. It’s like she’s had a shot in the arm. Don’t you think it’s amazing how quickly our environment has changed since we were forced into our present hibernation? Nature is changing. We’re seeing animal behaviours that humankind has perhaps never witnessed. And we are watching it as we cower from this so-called virus.”

“Okay … so what has this mother-nature theory to do with you acting the loon at the Finnieston crane?”

“The shape I saw, at the top of the crane. It was some kind of creature.”

He stopped at this point. He was rubbing his thumbs up and down, inside clenched fists. He was gauging my reaction.

“It was hanging from the top of the Crane, all the way up there. I could see it swaying gently.”

“So, this shape was an animal? A hungry bat perhaps?”

“It was no bat, officer. It was an animal I think not yet described by science.”

“Okay, Mister Charity, let’s cut to the chase. Tell me exactly what you thought you were hollering at.”

“I am, officer, I am. It was the same creature Freddie had pointed out earlier that day. She seems to like it near water, though I can’t say why. When I saw her for the first time, I did wonder if she was figment of weary eyes. It wasn’t until later the penny dropped—she liked it near the water. That was what made me think of the Finnieston Crane, do you see?”

I had enjoyed his chat, but it was time to behave.

“Mister Charity, I’m going to draw a line under this nonsense.”

I lifted his paperwork but the name of his victim leered at me, Freddie McCool. I looked up at my guest. He seemed disappointed I had given up on him. I allowed myself a small smirk underneath my mask. What the hell, this will make a good story for Lexi when I get home, I thought. I allowed a further dalliance.

“You mentioned Freddie there, Mister Charity. Is that Freddie McCool?”

“Yes, yes, of course. My client.”

“He’s your client?”

“Yes, officer, I’m an accountant. I had arranged to meet him. He runs cafes. His business was in the doldrums before all this”—and at this he pointed to the posters on the wall—“corona garbage.”

“He wanted help with his bounce-back loans. Form-filling, do you see?”

“How did you end up assaulting your client, Mister Charity?”

“Because he’s a bloody idiot, and I lost my cool. He was trying to convince me the pandemic was some sort of new world order thought-experiment. That was when he said he could show me the glitch in the matrix.”

“The glitch?”

“My first thought was he’s lost the plot. He was pointing behind me at the river, saying just look, just look. So, I looked. That’s when I saw her hanging from the Arc bridge.”

“Mister Charity, you speak well. You seem an educated man. Are you really asking me to believe you saw some… spook?”

“She was no ghost, officer, no glitch in the machine. She was a creature, an animal. She was hanging from the bridge, practically invisible. Had a beautiful shimmer. You could just about see through her. But she was there. I could see two distinct ribbons down each side, which coiled and spooled. Like fins, perhaps. Like a cuttlefish.”

“An invisible cuttlefish. Hanging from the Clyde Arc.”

I could hear the disdain dripping in my tone. It didn’t put him off.

“That’s the closest image I have in my mind. You’ve seen the videos of them changing colour, officer? I didn’t say she was invisible: she was mostly invisible. Poor old Freddie. His brain couldn’t process what his eyes were seeing. He was convinced it was a sign we were all in some sort of simulation.”

“So, you’re asking me to believe that you and your client fell out over whether this was a nearly invisible animal, or a virtual reality glitch?”

“Precisely. I believe now they’ve always been with us. Something we haven’t been able to classify. She must have been a very shy creature. It was the emptiness that attracted her, do you see? The emptiness of the city. She wanted to explore.”

“How did you end up fighting Mister McCool?”

“Dear Freddie was gone the whole road, the way of the roses, as my mother used to say. He thought the shimmer was a portal, to escape the simulation. He ran out on the bridge. I managed to trip him up. As he tumbled, I saw her dart up into the air through the rain. The rain helped me to see her. It was like… how shall I put this? An awareness of absence. She hovered above the Clyde for a few moments, then dove below. I was so enraptured by her, I didn’t see Freddie take a swipe at me. He cracked me on the back of the neck.”

At this, he bowed down, head on the table. I could see from across the room there was a peach-of-a bruise at the base of his straw-coloured hairline.

“That’s why I gave him a well-timed skelp. I was defending myself. He ran, gibbering, back to his cafe. I stayed on the bridge a while, hoping to catch a glimpse of my flying Cuttlefish friend.”

I had taken the most basic of notes. I knew my colleagues would be reading it, tittering.

“My tea and sandwich, officer?” he asked politely.

“Soon. What has all this to do with you carrying on at the Finnieston crane?”

“Well, simply that I went back to the Clyde later, to see if I could spot my little friend. I had to be certain. Once you get home and draw the curtains and listen to Sturgeon and her daily deathwatch on the telly, you start to doubt yourself. Do you see? So, I went out again at night. I know I wasn’t supposed to be leaving the house, but when you’ve seen a rare creature like that, well … you just must, mustn’t you?”

“I hate to break it to you, but we don’t have invisible squids flying around Glasgow, Mister Charity,” I said.

“As far as you know, officer. As far as you know.”

I smiled. Yes, he was a likeable fellow alright. “So you got to the crane. Then what?”

“Well, I had walked up and down the Clydeside, looking for signs of her. Nothing. Hee-haw. I remembered she had hung on the Arc bridge. She had shimmered and swayed, perhaps enjoying the breeze. I thought she might like to hang somewhere higher to catch the wind. That’s when I looked up.”

He paused and gazed at me again. Figuring me out, I suppose.

“I know you don’t believe me officer. But we’ll come to that. You’ll want me to finish my statement first.”

“Aye. Let’s get on with it. Fill your boots, Mister Charity.”

“Well, I looked up. And of course, I saw her. The shape of her. It was like seeing a painter making use of void space, the empty whites of his canvas. She was beautiful. I think she was looking at me. I was delirious. I guess I must have gotten away with myself, shouting and so forth. Then your colleagues came.”

“Well, that’s a tale and half, Mister Charity.”

“It is what it is, officer. It is what it is. I’d like to have that sandwich and cup of tea now. Would that be agreeable?”

I nodded. I couldn’t help myself; he was a charmer. Clearly, a mental defective, but a nice chap nonetheless.

I came back with a hot mug of soup from a packet I knew belonged to Constable MacDuff. MacDuff would be raging someone had half-inched his precious soup, and I allowed myself a smile at the thought of his annoyance.

“This’ll have to do. It’s all I have,” I said, presenting the purloined soup to my guest.

“Bravo, bravo,” he said. He had it all swallowed in no time.

“Before we finish, I must come back to that last point,” he said, using a handkerchief to wipe his lips.

“What point is that Mister Charity?”

“About whether you believe me or not.”

“Of course I don’t believe you. You’re telling me you’ve seen some unknown life-form which can change colour, fly, and likes to hang about the River Clyde.”

“That is precisely what I am saying.”

“We have an acronym for that in the police.”

“Oh, what’s that officer?”

“LSD.”

He laughed. It was a naughty sort of chortle.

“Ah, yes, the infamous wit of the Glasgow polis. Good. Good for you. But to come to the point,” he said.

“Please do.”

“I don’t need you to believe. I know what I saw. I’ll happily submit to a drug test. I suspect if we are all consigned to quarters with this Chinese flu for much longer, we’ll see more of them. They’re shy, you see. Very shy. But I don’t want you to take my word for it. Go and have a look yourself. Go have a nice evening stroll along the Clyde. You’re a polis, no one will question you.”

“And you want me to watch out for flying squid whilst I’m there.”

“You’ve got it, big boy, you’ve got it!”

He nudged his glasses up his face. He was incredibly impressed with himself. He looked less impressed when I led him into a cell, and I almost felt sorry for him.

“Mister Charity, you’ve just hit me with the biggest load of bollocks I’ve heard in 30 years of the police. And I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. You have a good night.”

He smiled and offered his hand. I took it, and he clasped both hands around my own. It was a warm, genuine shake.

“Then we are agreed,” he said. “I hope you see her. You’ll know when you do.”

After my shift ended, I found myself parked at the Finnieston Crane.

Driving through the city was eerie. It was like life had moved on, and left Glasgow behind. There was the odd light from a hotel room around the Hydro and SEC. Even the Clyde seemed to slumber.

Out of my car, I looked up at the crane. I hadn’t been this close to it before. The girders were impressive. But there was no evidence of strange creatures. I walked down to the front of the Crowne Plaza hotel for a gander. No invisible squid there either.

As I walked back to my car and glanced at the waves of the river, I cackled: realisation lapped like the ebb of the water on the stonework below.

“What a total idiot!” I exclaimed.

I had been well and truly done. Done up like a kipper. I remember I put both my hands to my face, my jaw was hurting so much. Wait till I tell Lexi what a fool I’ve been, I thought.

“Flying squid!” I laughed aloud. I walked on, shaking my head.

As I neared my car, I realised something was wrong. The windscreen had been shattered. My first thought was that some bastard had thrown a stone, but I hadn’t heard anything, and the city was empty. And then the strangest thing happened.

The shatter rippled.

I stopped in my tracks. I’m not ashamed to say I was petrified. The shatter was not on the glass at all. It was a pattern on the—(should I say body?)—on the body of something resting on top of the windscreen. It was… swaying.

I had my heart in my mouth. I fumbled for my phone to try and get a photo. The object shimmered and raised into the air. I lost it at first, but then I saw what I thought looked like a rippling motion, down either side. The fins. He said it had fins. It arced into the air, and disappeared under the waves of the Clyde.

You’ll know it when you see it.

Mister Charity’s words came into my mind like the beam from an island lighthouse.

You’ll know it when you see it. A bit like breach of the peace.

I approached my car with tentative steps. The windscreen was wet; yet there had been no rain. The first couple of months of lockdown had been joyously sunny. I ran my fingers over the windscreen. The liquid felt viscous. It reminded me of the alcohol gel Lexi had all over the house. Using that stuff made my hands look like my fathers.

I leaned over and recoiled.

There was a strong, bleachy smell. It burned my nostrils, and I caught my breath. I noticed my hand had started to sting. I retrieved an old towel from the boot which we used for the dog and rubbed my hands with it. I opened the passenger door and plucked out a little bottle of the alcohol rub Lexi kept. I washed my hands and took a good whiff of it, to clear the pungent stink.

I ambled over to the handrail and peered at the river, looking for any sign.

No shape. No glitch in the matrix. But I knew I had seen it, resting on my car bold as brass. Those shimmering fins were unmistakable.

My only companion now was the slumbering River Clyde, ebbing away, and keeping secrets as any deep river should.

I never saw Douglas Charity again. I was benched by my bosses after they read my report, so that was the end of active duty for me.

When retirement landed, I spent some time looking at the reports of strange animals in the empty cities of the world. Lexi was happy, it gave me a project to focus my spare time. She believed I saw something. I spent months trawling through online news. I started in Scotland the UK. I tried the American and Canadian stuff. I even worked out how to translate news pages from other places too. Germany, Argentina, South Africa.

There was no mention of my beautiful, shimmering shape. I was pleased.

She wouldn’t like the attention.

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Photo by elliott on Unsplash

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Meet the Author:

JS Apsley is an aspiring author based in Glasgow, Scotland. He won the Ringwood Short Story prize 2024 for ‘Immersion’ and has a number of other short stories he hopes to be published in 2025 and beyond, perhaps unveiling more of ‘the underside’. See www.jsapsley.com for more.

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