AT first it seems like the timing couldn't be better: a play about the emotional aftermath of Lockerbie, opening days after the publication of a biography of the only man found guilty of the atrocity.

However, this isn't a play about conspiracy, corruption or Megrahi. Indeed, the safety of his conviction is mentioned only briefly, in a single line that feels shoehorned in. It's the same with much of the clunky exposition in JC Marshall's drama of emotional fall-out, which tests the patience with its contrivances.

It starts off engagingly enough, with the introduction of a very unusual narrator pondering ontological riddles. Scraps of story and fragments of exploded luggage allude to the disaster at the heart of the matter. However, the play's philosophical musings aren't as weighty as it seems to think they are, and the most interesting questions posed – can a nation be collectively merciful, and can one show mercy to an innocent party? – would only become knotty ones if the question marks surrounding the conviction at Camp Zeist were properly addressed.

As it is, the central character of former teacher Mr Peters is not of a merciful bent, but enraged by the compassionate release of the man he believes killed his son. Sylvester McCoy is obliged to deliver a one-note performance that never achieves any real emotional resonance. Circumstances surrounding his blinkered quest for some version of justice lead him to a Glasgow Travel Lodge, and a chance reunion with a former pupil with a troubled past. Gemma McElhinney does a heroic job with this role, which is as lacking in subtlety as that clichéd description suggests.

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