48
I had only one way to get some answers. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.
I took a long walk, tried to figure things out. At Holyrood Park the sky turned grey, shot through with red. The queen’s wee bit hoosie provided just the dark overtones my mood needed. The royals used to hold court up the road at the castle. Legend has it they moved down to Holyroodhouse because it was less draughty. In the gardens is Mary Queen of Scot’s bathhouse, where she used to bathe in goat’s milk and white wine. Every time I pass I see it as a nice reminder that the upper classes of this city have always been first with their snouts in the trough.
As I crossed the road to Arthur’s Seat, a swan sat on the tarmac.
‘Off… come on, move yourself,’ I told it. I waved my arms about, but it wouldn’t take me seriously. Stamped my foot at it, jumped in the air. It took the hint, waddled off.
‘Nice work, Gus,’ I thought. And not a broken arm in sight.
I followed the tourist trail, even on a day like today with the wind sharp enough to cut glass, they were out in force. You want to practise your French, or German, Italian — Japanese even, this is the place. All nationalities brave the elements to get a view of the city from on high. It didn’t seem much of a way to spend your vacation, but then this place did have some undertones for me.
At the top, I lit up. Straightforward Benson and Hedges this time.
I scanned the skyline. Picked out Calton Hill, the parliament, the schemie eyesore of Dumbiedykes. I knew, from where I stood, any one of these sights could have been Billy’s last.
I was close to the spot where he’d met his end.
I felt no ghosts here. Maybe my own demons held them at bay. Maybe there’s just too many fighting for attention. It is, after all, where they found the Murder Dolls.
Seventeen minute figures in their own coffins. Eerie artefacts. Two schoolboys out rabbiting found them in 1836. At first the authorities thought they belonged to some sick practitioner of the black arts. Then someone pointed out that the grave robbers, Burke and Hare, murdered exactly seventeen people.
To this day, the Murder Dolls remain one of the city’s mysteries. One of the many. To take a stroll down the Mile and see the ghost tour guides grabbing punters, you’d think the streets perpetually ran with blood.
‘And some of that blood would have been Billy’s,’ I whispered to the hills.
The wind picked up, threatened rain. I looked at the tourist trail, they still streamed all the way up to the summit.
‘Come on, Billy, give me a hand here. Do right by Milo and those girls.’
I put up my collar, stuck my hands in my pockets. Inside I felt the Glock I’d taken from Mac. A 10mm auto, it felt unusually light.
I’d seen Bruce Willis with a Glock in Die Hard 2, he called it a porcelain gun made in Germany, said: ‘It doesn’t show up on your airport X-ray machines, and it costs more than you make in a month.’
I’d asked Mac if this was true. He’d said, ‘No. It shows up on X-ray and it costs more than you make in a year.’
I told him I’d give him it back in one piece, hopefully unfired. But I couldn’t promise anything.
49
The robotics dancer on Princes Street began to pack up his Gary Numan tapes as I passed. A Goth with black lipstick and platform trainers put a camera-phone on him, asked, ‘How about a few moves for the camera?’
A single-digit salute, then another. ‘How’s that?’ said the robotics guy.
‘No need to get aggressive.’
‘No offence, your get-up just brings out the worst in me.’
The Goth put the camera away, slunk off. I thought, ‘When a guy who wouldn’t look out of place in Woody Allen’s Sleeper slams your dress sense, it’s time to pick another look.’
I needed courage to put my plan into action, stepped into a new superpub that had opened on George Street.
‘Today’s special, sir, Strawberry Blonde,’ said a Geordie girl in a two-sizes too small T-shirt. She handed me a piece of card, smiled like she had my night all planned out.
‘Sorry?’
That smile again.
‘Strawberry Blonde!’
I’d got this bit, but something seemed to be missing, she was blonde all right, but looked like she’d been dying her roots black, said, ‘I like the collars to match the cuffs.’
Inside the barman tried to take the card. ‘Strawberry Blonde, sir?’
‘Christ, not you too.’
‘Is it a pint, sir?’
‘Yeah, Guinness. No Strawberry Blonde. Got me?’
He nodded, backed off to the pumps.
I shouted out, ‘And a Dewar’s to chase it. Double.’
When the drinks came, the barman knew better than to try and sell me anything else. I took my pint and chaser and sat in the corner. Speakers above my head blasted out KT Tunstall. It seemed to fit the place. I’d tanned my pint before KT had got through telling us about her ‘Black Horse and the Cherry Tree’.
The Dewar’s I sipped slower.
Thought some things through, wondered if I’d been asleep at the wheel.
It all began to look so straightforward. Sure, I needed Nadja to fill in the blanks, but could that be so hard?
I knew it could. She was smart, wily. Cocking the Glock in her phiz wasn’t going to cut it.
The words of Vyvyan Basterd, of The Young Ones, didn’t seem out of place here: ‘Now this is going to require a subtle blend of psychology and extreme violence…’
I’d tried the violence bit already. It was time to play Nadja at her own game.
‘Yeah, good luck with that, Gus,’ I heard myself thinking, ‘like you’re such a great success at second-guessing women.’
The example of Debs sprang to mind again. Could I even make a comparison?
Scottish women, it must be said, are unlike any others. Impossible to impress, for starters. There’s a bullshit detector built into every one of them. In my youth they had a phrase, ‘Do you think I came up the Clyde on a banana boat?’ Subsequent generations refined this to a look. If it comes with a nod, you’ve crossed the line and should expect to be told so.
The other thing is they’re all plain speakers. You find yourself on the end of one of their tongue lashings you might expect to learn more about yourself than perhaps you’d ever really wanted to.
I’ve a past littered with blastings from Scottish women. Usually delivered in a nightclub after the last dance. Any later, say in the taxi rank, we’re talking hell cat. Guaranteed, an experience not to be repeated.
I returned to the bar.
‘Same again.’
Barman thought a moment. ‘Right away.’
For some reason, all this introspection began to latch on to my conscience. Thoughts of Debs and the impending threat to my mortality made me reach for my phone. Always a bad move when a drink’s been taken.
Debs’s number went straight to voicemail.
‘Aw, shite!’
I toyed with hanging up, then the beep.
‘Hi, Debs… me again. Look, I just wanted to say, sorry, you know, I’ve been a bit on edge lately.’
I struggled to pad out the message.
