always had to look respectable.
Despite the damp weather the fire had not been set, nor were there any ashes to be seen.
So, why the black crust?
The constable opened the bunker and gazed inside. Coal, to be sure, filled it halfway up; of the lowest quality, crumbling and powdery, just perfect for getting under the fingernails.
Which Mulholland was about to experience as he reached in and searched amongst the brittle fragments.
As his fingers probed further, he came across a sharp edge that was certainly not a lump of cheap coal.
Both hands in now, to lift it out into the light.
A smallish box. He blew the coal dust off it towards the fire grating, no point in making a mess.
A thin wooden box with a marking on it which stirred a vague memory, then when he opened it up and sniffed the contents, the memory sharpened.
A smile spread across his face.
A smile of triumph that promised retribution but took little account of the vagaries of Fate.
At that moment Mary awoke to see the constable and what he held in his hands.
She bowed her head, and Mulholland moved in for the kill.
18
Revenge is a kind of wild justice.
FRANCIS BACON,
Essay
Leith, 1836
Herkie Dunbar tried to keep the fear at bay as he limped down the sharp cobbles, and turned into the alley that led to the wynd where he lived.
He was big for his age, raw-boned, hard-knuckled and king of the gang, but at this moment in mortal dread because of the following set of circumstances.
Along with the wild straggle of boys who terrorised all the smaller, younger children in the wynds, with particular attention paid to any pretty girl with fair hair who would be surrounded and spat upon until she was covered from head to foot with saliva and in hysterics, tears and spittle running down her face in equal measure, it was his custom to bathe every Saturday morning in the nudie, bare scud, under the hot summer sun, in Puddocky Burn, their name for the Water of Leith.
This water rose twenty miles away in the Pentland Firth, meandered through the countryside and then dipped sharply all the way down towards the Leith docks.
There was a secluded spot near to where Great Junction Street branched over the river, where the boys would throw off all their clothes and dare each other to feats of derring-do, Herkie taking particular pleasure in hurling others into the water and listening to their howls of fear as the fast-moving current almost dragged them to the bottom.
He was a good swimmer, naked body gleaming in the water like a fish as he held someone under until they begged for mercy and promised him anything he asked.
This usually involved ritual humiliation or even sexual favour for, as has been already noted, Herkie was big for his age.
Therefore, though he was king, he was not beloved by his subjects.
So when his boots disappeared, the gang did as well, leaving him searching alone by the riverbank.
He had left a neat pile of his clothes, the heavy boots on top in case of strong wind, but when he returned dripping and boisterous, they were gone.
One of the smaller boys was supposed to stand guard but he had become distracted, pitching a hail of stones at some swans upstream who were disputing the tenancy of the running water.
Herkie would have given him a good kicking but he did not have the implements.
No one had seen anything untoward; no one had noticed a figure, which had crept out from the reeds, made a lift, then back behind the rushes to hide like Moses in a basket.
Herkie had eventually given up the search and now was on his reluctant way homewards.
The sharp cobblestones hurt the boy’s bare feet but that was nothing to the pain he would suffer when his father found out the loss.
Dirkie Dunbar was known as the Iron Man, part because of his skill shaping that metal in the foundry, part because of the heavy cutting edge of his fists and the cold implacable intent with which he crashed them down like a heavy hammer. He had three sons who lived in abject fear of his anger. Herkie was the youngest and his bowels were already loose at the prospect of those fists.
What could he tell his father?
Nothing that would make any difference.
The frightened boy could feel the bruises already.
And then he saw them. His boots. At the other end of the narrow alley, on the cobbles, neatly arranged with the toes pointing off as if waiting for him to slip them on and rampage his fill.
A pale shaft of sunlight shone into the passage and illuminated the leather, glinting off the metal toecaps as if guiding him to their side and Herkie was full of rejoicing not caring how they got there.
A gift from a Protestant God perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
As Herkie rushed forward to claim his prize, a figure stepped out and stood between him and his property.
He blinked in disbelief. It was the wee porker, the boy he had not long ago battered and kicked till he had spewed up all over him. A dirty Papish vomiter.
Then the penny dropped. The wee bastard, he must have stolen the boots.
What did not occur to Herkie was that the reason the boots were now on show might be part of a larger picture, no; his only thought was how come the wee porker knew where to make the theft? How come he knew?
Then the big boy remembered some time ago, he and some others had held the porker’s head under the water till he was near drowned. He was feart o’ the water, couldnae swim a stroke, they had dipped him up and down like a witch, that was great fun.
They had left him sprawled out on his face with the slime pouring out of his nose and mouth. Great fun.
But it had been by the Water of Leith and would explain why the porker had known the prime location.
The wee bastard.
‘You stole my boots!’ The big boy fairly howled.
The other’s slate-grey eyes were unmoving.
‘Ye can have them back.’
‘I’ll murder ye!’
‘Ye can have them back.’
‘Bring me.’
‘Come and get so,’ said Jamie McLevy.
Herkie was at least a head taller than his opposite, stronger, and older, a hard dirty fighter, but
